View From the Hammock brought to you by Purple Frog

I was really proud of my Easter letter. I came home with a copy, “Honey, I'm so thrilled:  I've done it all!” My secretary was sick, so I even went to the post office and mailed the letters. My husband read the letter without showing any emotions. “You didn’t send this yet, did you?” “Of course, I did!” “Well, this is how it sounds, ‘Easter isn’t only about Bonnies humping around . ’” “Exactly!” I listened to my writing one more time and was proud of myself even more. It sounded really strong and original. “Honey, do you know what humping is?” “Of course, I do! This is when rabbits jump – they hump.” “Ah, I see. Did you mean, ‘hopping’?” “Oh, my! So what is ‘humping’?” 500 letters were already mailed, and I prayed that all those people never really read those Easter letters anyway. Especially the three old ladies in the church named Bonnie.

I found myself in the retail business after serving a church for many years. Can't resist the temptation to compare the church and the retail worlds! In two short months, I saw plenty of contrasts: a Middle-Eastern woman, who hides her face behind a veil, and a transgender guy, who fearlessly displays his/her new breasts to the public. I was told that money doesn't have gender. Dollars are still dol lars. Gays, lesbians, blacks, greens, immigrants... Does it really matter? The world of retail is more accepting, more encouraging, and more sincere than the church world. How refreshing to be appreciated after being pointed at my accent for way too long. As for me, I still have my accent but, if in the church I was criticized for having it, in the world of retail, I am praised for it. I'm told that people are curious of someone who is different from them. In the church, Christians look down at those who are different. Today, I was told that I have an accent. Here we are again...

“You are so smelyi !” I wanted my husband to know that I am  proud of him. “Excuse me, why I am smelly?” Scott sniffed under his left shoulder, then under his right armpit making the funniest wrinkled grimace, “You think I am smelly?” “Did I say you were smelly?” “Yes, you did. Am I?” Oh, goodness. The international conflict was coming. “No, you are not smelly!” “Yeah, maybe I am. I am stinky because I just held the cat…” Scott managed to catch our asocial cat and placed him into the carrier. The cat’s fur odor was still fresh.  "Love, S-M-E-L-Y-I in Russian means brave, courages, not stinky. Can you trust me?" My husband moved the sofa and it seemed like the right moment to thank my husband for his effort, “Honey, ty takoi silny !” “Silly?!”  Scott paused in amusement. “Not ‘silly,’ SILNY ! It means ‘strong’ in Russian!” My Mother was already laughing at us, getting the meaning out of the Russian words, and of our frustrated faces. “Oh...

Have you ever noticed that your dryer eats your socks? To my horror, I found out that in America it doesn’t matter how many socks you buy - you never have enough of them to pair. My daughter was the first one in our family, who said, “I think the dryer eats them.” Back in school, we had a "Home Ec" class where we were to learn to mend socks, cook and sew. I learned many things, but mending socks was something that required more patience than I ever knew. One morning, I noticed a little hole on the big toe, but, shrugged my shoulders and carelessly put on my new shoes, leaving the house with a smile. Nobody will ever notice. If not for my aunt Fisa, I would have never learned the lesson. In Russia, we always take our shoes off when we enter the house. My aunt looked down first and then up straight at my face and said, “Lida, one day a young boy will take you on a date and will hold your hand, while you are balancing on the rail road rail (in Russia, it is very ...

      When I stand over the watermelon section next to other watermelon lovers at the local grocery store, trying to interpret the decision-making process behind their gestures and facial expressions, I know what they go through. I enjoy their sniffing and squeezing efforts to find the best watermelon. I smile when I see their puzzled looks. A crisp, sugary, meaty watermelon is a taste of paradise on a hot day. Yet, even after you bring it home, a watermelon remains a stranger—until it faces the knife. Here is the moment when two complete strangers finally meet: your watermelon and you. This moment is sacred; you are either a winner or a loser in front of the whole family. You do not want to hear that painfully familiar sigh behind your back—“Awww!”—caused by the sight of a greenish, “unsweetened” fruit, because what you truly anticipate is a “wow!” at the sight of scarlet insides peppered with glossy black seeds. As for me, I place the watermelon eleg...

“We are so b-o-o-o-o-red! The food is disgusting! The smell is horrific!” I didn’t blame our Russian teenagers for their desire to get out of the old American church building. They were having a severe case of cabin fever. They came to see America. Their money burned their fingers. Shopping was the most desirable activity on their to-do list. The local bank employees called me one morning from the bank, “Lydia, are those girls yours?” “What girls?” “I am afraid that those girls on the corner are Russians. We first thought they were local prostitutes that we see on our corner every day, until we saw that those girls were way too young to make money on the corner. We do not want to upset you, but this corner has a dark reputation. We do not want your girls to get hurt.”  I ran outside and I saw my Russian teenage girls from the Summer Camp standing on the corner of 10th and Central, in the heart of downtown Kansas City, Kansas. There they were in the...