Albania Winter 2000

February 25

   We were seated on the porch of an old woman's house. If ever there was a lady to cast spells, it had to be Eka. With half a smile revealing only seven bottom teeth, she would run her stained fingers through what little hair escaped from under her scarf. She stretched out a crooked hand to help point commands to her young daughter-in-laws trapped under her matriarchal spell. I sobered at their indentured life. 
   It was a lovely setting, quaint with spring smells. The garden was beautifully blooming, new earth turned over stuffed with potential; this was a picture book waiting to tell the whole story. The tale at this home is that beauty and love aren't very deep. Eka was the black rose within this home and surroundings. 
For me conversation is just shared talk and I spent my entire time trying to disarm my fears of this old woman and blaze a trail of progression. She shared little talk with me and therefore revealed little about her life. 
   In umbrella terms, her working and adult life was given to the party. She dug irrigation ditches for the communists, half by shovel, half by hand! Even now like something mechanical, she awakens at three a.m. to milk her cow, to carry the product on a thirteen mile bus ride to market and to return home to begin a long day's work in the field. 
   Never ever reaching a fairly neutral spot in conversation, I'm convinced the natural progression for her will be her death. 
She became nervous and pouring her eyes over the garden, barnyard and daughters-in-law, she jumped from the porch to chase a chicken through warm afternoon sunbeams. Sarah, Alma, Jenny and I went home and the village day came to a sad end.

    Winter 2000 Index