Motorcycle, Fishing and Poppies

Crimea. Dzhankoy. Summer. I am a little boy having the best time of my life. Fishing trips with grandpa, riding sidecar in his JAVA Motorcycle. Shredded carrot salad sprinkled with sugar, green young walnuts you could forage from any yard. Trips to grandmother’s store — one she used to manage — for the Lion candy bars I begged her for. Playing all day in the yard by the apartment where they used to have a small garden with gooseberries, raspberries, and strawberries. A repurposed green military storage cabin served as garage. And fields full of poppies burning bright red anywhere you go. My grandparents’ apartment was a museum, full of artifacts. Grandpa’s old camera and hundreds of prints, all shot and developed by him. A whole handmade radio station. It looked like a space ship control room. My dad’s only younger brother, who I remember as cool young uncle with a Walkman and his weird collection of rare beer cans and cigarette packs. My uncle Andris. The man I am named after. The last time I saw my grandpa and uncle was in 2002. We had neither seen nor spoken to each other in almost 20 years. Now at 34, I see that the apartment where I spent those happy summer days sits covered in dust. The artifacts I treasured are now either lost or thrown away. I find a few remnants in that green cabin that still stands just as it stood decades earlier. Grandpa has lived with another woman for the last 23 years. Uncle is divorced and drinks to distraction. Dad doesn’t know what to talk about with either of them. I am a spectator to the scene, also not knowing what to say. Only my childhood memories and a few artifacts of the past are helping me feel connected to them. And of course, the fields full of poppies burning bright red on the way to grandmother’s grave.