Russkaja Farms

“Say pickles!”

That’s what my dad would say to try and make us smile, he would make funny faces and weird noises, and my grandpa would try to always eventually join in; but how? How could they expect us to smile?

My story starts in Kharkiv Ukraine, February 13th, 1949, where I was an only child, Fortune never favored me, and I had learned it didn’t favor our family either. It was tough, living in poverty, fear, but we were far from alone. My parents had no time for anything but work, and time was seemingly not on my grandparents' side. I remember my friends and I would dream of a better life out west of a place called “Canada” a so-called land of freedom and opportunity; vast, unharmed mountains and wilderness, buildings not yet fallen by war, and food not only in stores but you could grow yourself, surely it was too good to be true, children do have quite the imagination after all.

Well, come June that same year we had caught some winds of hope in the form of a bird, a bird that would take us all the way from Ukraine to Canada. I remember asking my parents “how? How is this possible?” They explained that they had saved ₴ 20,000 hryvnias for our whole family to go to Canada! I was so overjoyed I burst into song and cheer, and could not believe that my dreams are coming true, that it’s not just imagination. What they forgot to mention was that our “whole” family apparently didn’t include our grandparents, or so I thought. I shortly learned afterward that it was because they had deemed my grandpa to ill travel. “Go.” He said.

Fortune never favored me, this vision of wealth and opportunity had transitioned into more sadness and loss, life and death felt strung together like the rocky mountains and valleys below; my laughter and song had turned once again back into tears. I didn’t have anything to remember my grandparents other than a little black book my grandfather had given me before we left, but my mind never let me open it; maybe they’ll never understand, maybe I’ll never understand.

We landed in Edmonton, Alberta July 4th, 1949, I remember the green patchy and yellow fields reminded me of home, and there were no mountains to be seen! I was assured they are not far, but getting there is no walk. We took a taxi out to what seemed like the middle of nowhere, but there was a little house in the distant prairies.

“That’s ours!” My father yelled

“That’s our what?” I asked him

“That’s our house!”

I remember his reaction sending that feeling of our dream coming true around the whole taxi, and his humming to his favorite polka sending laughter throughout. We did it, we are free.

But what are we going to do for work? For food?

“The land” My father called it

“Russkaja Farm”

Fast forward a couple of years later and things were finally going our way, we were not only living off the land but profiting off of it too! I was learning how to work on the farm, we visited the mountains many times in our brand new car, as well as the city. We finally had money to “spend” and for once I think my parents thought that we had made it.

Fast forward another couple of years later and forget about everything I just said, my father had passed away from cancer, and my mother and I were still living on the farm. I couldn't even work a gear shift, how am I supposed to drive all of these farm vehicles? We ended up selling the farm and moved into the city. Back to living in fear, this time we were wealthy, but were alone. No more dreams, no more imagination; nobody to “say pickles”.

At least hearing that now makes me smile.

I realize now it didn’t matter where I was in the world or even how wealthy our family was, time is pitiless, and unfortunately there's no way to tell you’re in “the good old days” until they’re a memory. I never did open that little black book, maybe one day.