THE THINGS WE DO...: Babusia Nastia from Staryi Kosiv (05/05/02)

THE THINGS WE DO...

by Orysia Paszczak Tracz

Babusia Nastia from Staryi Kosiv

It was all Janet McIntosh's fault. And I am eternally grateful.

If she had not badgered me (nicely) from the time we met at the Toronto airport, to the time the plane landed in Kyiv, and all the way across Ukraine to the Kosiv market, I would have never met the enchanting Babusia Nastia.

Janet is not Ukrainian, but her husband, Steve, is. A few years ago, she and her daughter, Ellen Luchkow, 13 at the time, were coming along on my folk arts and culture tour to Ukraine. But Janet also had an assignment - a major assignment - to take care of while there. As a member of the parents' costume committee of Ellen's Ukrainian dance ensemble back in Alberta, Janet was to bring back 12 identical "kraiky" (sashes) for the group. And they had to be identical. Thus the anxiety about fulfilling her mission.

I kept reassuring Janet that we would eventually find her 12 sashes, but wondered why they had to be identical, since variety in costume should be the norm. At times I was anxious about my reassurance because, just because, what if we could not find 12 of them? But there were still the Carpathian Mountains, where we were sure to find weavers, I kept telling myself.

On this tour, I had planned that we would visit the Kosiv bazaar, which starts on Thursday or Friday, and ends on Saturday at noon. We started out very early Saturday morning for our bus ride to Kosiv, through breathtaking countryside. As we approached Kosiv, we saw the locals going to market. The horse-drawn carts and wagons were loaded with everything from sacks of grain to furniture to lambs and piglets, all headed towards the same place.

To an outsider, the bazaar itself seems to be well-ordered chaos, where you can buy everything from farm animals, to sunflower seeds, to motor parts, to freshly baked sweet buns, to books. You pass through all that, turn right through a wooden arch, and you're in another world. Permanent wooden booths surround the space, with more stands in the middle. Here are folk artists selling what they themselves have created, the potters, woodcarvers, weavers, embroiderers, the gerdan weavers. My first thought was: I have died and gone to heaven!

You can't just go around this place once. To fully take it in, you need to see it, then go around again, this time stopping at the booths that most interest you. The merchants come up to you with their wares, or call out to you to buy this, look at that, or ask what are you looking for, and urge you to come see this!

At one point in this organized delightful mayhem, Janet pulled on my arm, "I found her, come interpret for me!" There she was trying to talk to a little round "babusia" (grandmother) with about five sashes draped on her arm. Just what Janet was looking for, but she needed 12. The babusia replied, "Of course, I have more at home. Come to my house, in Staryi Kosiv. I'm a weaver, a 'narodnyi maister' [a master folk artist recognized by the government]. And you can stay for 'holubtsi'!" The babusia gaves our guide directions on how to get to her place, and we continued with our sightseeing of Kosiv, the small museum, and the College of Folk Arts (not to be missed).

Then, it was on to the weaver's house, with Janet anxiously prodding us on. Our bus, with about 25 to 28 people, pulled up to the gate. By this time, the babusia had changed and was now wearing a new "khustyna" (kerchief), and an embroidered shirt. She greeted us at the gate of her homestead with bread and salt on a "rushnyk" (embroidered ritual cloth) - not just a stage greeting at all, but as you experience all over Ukraine, truly genuine.

We entered through the gate into a yard with kalyna bushes heavy with berries, plum trees with still unripened fruit, the "krynytsia" (well) on the side, flowers all over, a fenced-in garden, chickens and a rooster pecking around, a little shaggy black dog excited at all the new people and two small houses facing each other. Babusia's daughter-in-law and grandsons also greeted us.

The babusia is Nastia Slyvka, a widow in her 70s, spry as anything, and a real ham. Not shy at all. She led us through one of the houses, the special occasion house (the kitchen and work area are in the other house), to her "svitlytsia," the formal living room or parlor. Folks in our group gasped in amazement, and their mouths stayed open for quite a while.

This is a living museum, a burst of color and beauty! Kylymy and rushnyky on the walls, weavings on the beds, and stacks of enormous, very richly embroidered pillows on each bed. The weavings are her work, the embroidery hers and her daughter's-in-law. Family portraits adorned with embroidered and woven rushnyky rim the hallways and the walls of the room high up near the ceiling.

Our group of Canadian and American tourists, Ukrainian and non-Ukrainian, gaped at the beauty all around us. Complying with requests, Babusia Nastia sat down in the middle of the room, posing for our cameras. She loved it, and so did we. She told us about her sons, one working in Kyiv, the other just out of town for a while. She asked if anyone in our group is from Ontario, because she has some family there. Ontario, someplace in Ontario - as if it were a little town, and we're supposed to know everyone there, at least all the Ukrainians.

Once all the photos were taken, of her alone, and her with us, she took us to her bedroom, where she had draped and set out her weaving. There were many sashes (Janet was happy), lovely rushnyky and some hangings. We were thrilled; our Ukrainian guides just shook their heads in amusement - there go those Canadians, shopping again, or still.

Babusia Nastia's framed master of folk art certificates and medals from the Ukrainian government hang in this room. Each of her weavings, sash or hanging, has a slip of paper sewn onto the edge, listing her name, village, date, dimensions and fibers of the piece. Babusia Nastia then proudly opened her "skrynia" (carved wooden dowry chest), where her personal treasures are kept, including the "sorochka" (shirt) in which she was married so many decades ago, and some embroidery and weaving done by her mother.

We bought, we admired, we drooled. And then it was time to go. With our arms full of more wonderful stuff, we thanked Babusia Nastia, hugging and kissing her, and we headed towards the bus. Babusia Nastia was upset. She stood in the middle of her yard, hands on her hips, "Nu, a holubtsi scho? Ya vchora pekla, ne znala shcho Vy budete, ale teper proshu do stolu!" [Well, what about the holubtsi (cabbage rolls)? I baked them yesterday. I didn't know you were coming, but now I invite you to the table!] There was no way we could offend her by leaving. We piled back off the bus.

More controlled mayhem. The men in our group helped set up the table and benches outside in the middle of the yard. We helped her daughter-in-law and grandsons with setting the table. That was when serendipity came into play again. Babusia Nastia called out "Orysiu, khody-no siudy!" [Orysia, come here.] I turned to go, but realized that she was calling her daughter-in-law. A while later, she called "Boyantsiu!" I wondered at this, because that is my oldest son's name, Boyan [Boyantsio is a diminutive]. Turns out the grandsons named their little shaggy dog Boyan!

We sat down, close to 30 of us (some of her neighbors also stopped by) at the long table in the middle of this lovely yard, with the fenced vegetable garden on one side, chickens and rooster commenting on the gathering, and the kalyna draped over the roofed well on the other. I have never been to a country wedding, but this made me feel as if I were at one. Of course, we started with a toast from Babusia Nastia, welcoming her dear "hosti" [guests] from across the sea. There were canapés piled high on platters as appetizers, and various pickles and vegetables. And then the famous holubtsi came out. None of us had ever tasted this Hutsul variety before: barley and corn, with garlic, in sour cabbage leaves. Delicious! Somehow there was enough for all. And the food and drink and toasts kept coming. One of the non-Ukrainians in our group (but an honorary Uke, married to a Ukrainian Canadian woman) stopped with his glass in mid-air, and asked, "Do you know this woman?" I replied that, like the rest of us, I had just met her. He could barely believe this hospitality, but then said, "Well, she is Ukrainian!"

Not only is Babusia Nastia a good weaver and a great cook, she can sing, too; she entertained us with kolomyiky (Hutsul ditties), including a few "soleni" [salted, or spicy] ones, where she sort of doesn't complete the verse, but rolls her eyes and says something about forgetting the rest. ... We joined in on the regular folk songs we all knew.

Soon it was time to leave, because ahead of us was a long bus ride back to Ivano-Frankivsk. We sang "Mnohaya Lita" to her, Canadian-style, and presented her with a thank-you gift of what we collected from the group. We said our goodbyes, everyone kissing and hugging her and her family. Many of us held close the weavings we bought from Babusia Nastia.

What a perfect, glorious, wonderful day, so unexpected, I always think of it as a day that dropped down from heaven.

* * *

Every summer since then my group has stopped for a visit with Babusia Nastia. As of last year, she has a telephone, so now we can notify her in advance of our arrival, instead of passing on the message through others. In the last few years, local musicians and singers welcome and perform for us. On two occasions, each of her sons was there, and they joined in the singing and hosting.

Folks from my group have ordered keptaryky to measure (embroidered Hutsul sleeveless vests) from her neighbor, and beautiful long nyzynka-embroidered shirts from one of the singers. Local potters also stop by with their lovely clay necklaces and Hutsul ceramics.

It was only on one of the later visits that I noticed the porcelain china on the table - white, with a "rozpys"-style [folk painting] ornament, and the hammer-and-sickle in the middle. It had been the special occasion china way back in the 1950s, probably when Stalin was still around.

Each time, as we head towards the bus, we continue singing and the musicians keep playing, even as we settle into our seats. Two years ago, it was so hard to say good-bye that we sang and danced not only in the yard, but in the middle of the street. Dancing in the streets of Staryi Kosiv!

An interesting aside for the weavers out there: in the hallway to Babusia Nastia's "svitlytsia" we passed a very old wooden floor loom. Two years ago a few folks in my group were skeptical about her weaving, wondering whether she really does do it herself, and about this loom in particular, because it was so old. This past summer it had the beginnings of a rushnyk warped and ready to go and, when I asked, she proudly said that the loom was over 80 years old. Like most villagers, Babusia Nastia does her weaving during the winter.

A few years after I met her, I was reading a book on folk art masters. To my delight and surprise, there was a chapter on Nastia Slyvka. She is from a family of weavers, and did not think anything of it until she was "discovered" in late middle age by folk art specialists on an expedition to the Kosiv area. They were the ones who nominated her for the numerous official certificates and awards.

I hope to visit Babusia Nastia on each of my trips. She personifies the down-to-earth, spry, industrious, talented Ukrainian women who have just kept on going over the years - no matter what the hardships and the circumstances.

Coming from halfway across the world, I feel right at home in Staryi Kosiv. And, each time, so gratefully, I think of Janet and Ellen from Alberta.

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