dvi silkes

When we purchased our apartment, we had a new, super-duper-secure front door installed. This replaced the two old doors that had been used by a variety of renting tenants, and gave us the security of having a brand new set of keys. It also gave us a big ugly mess of crumbling bricks (mortared with something resembling hay and horse hair) in the doorway. The company that installed the new door had offered to repair the frame for us, but when they told us that it would cost an additional 1000 Litas, we decided that crumbly brick had a certain…charm.

We have often talked about how to repair the door ourselves: whether we would use drywall, or try to mix up concrete. The sight of broken bricks and chipped mortar has often been the subject of my daydreams, and has kept my brain spinning well into the night too many times. So, after much researching and measuring, and with more than a little trepidation, we finally dove into the unfamiliar territory of brickwork, cement, and drywall. It took four days, too many trips to the hardware store, a few leftover chunks of wood, an entire tube of wonder-glue, two sheets of drywall, and half of an apple crate, but we finally have a doorframe. It is still unpainted, and the bottom of the entry will be a piece of drywall until we can figure out what to do with it, but even if this white, square box is lacking in charm, it is fabulous.

Thankfully, the (almost) finished product doesn’t reveal the quirky details that went into its construction: like the finishing nails that are holding the metal drywall edging on, or the splinters of apple crate used as shims against the lumpy concrete wall, the splatters of quick-dry cement that always seemed to dry to quickly, or the three glue-laminated layers of drywall that dropped the header low enough to meet the doorframe. Eventually, the last of the plaster dust will be evicted from the crevices of our house, the smell of glue will vanish from the air, and my battered hands and aching arms will recover enough to let me forget the unpleasantness of sanding. Until then, I will chase after plaster dust, soothe my shoulders with hot packs, and wait to see where the next daydream leads.

It was a typical day of studying. In addition to wearing wool socks and two sweaters, I had piled our warmest blankets around my study-zone on the couch, and the laptop was dutifully keeping my knees and fingers frost-free. I have to admit, I don’t particularly like studying, so when the doorbell rang, I was eager to take a break. I climbed out of my blanket-igloo, and skidded over to the front door.

Out of habit and curiosity, I opened the peephole to see who could be standing on our landing. There were two young men, perhaps in their early twenties; both dressed casually in jeans and jackets. Since the main entrance has to be opened with a key, we don’t get a lot of visitors, but the door is often left open during the day, and solicitors, utilities people, Mormons, or potato sellers sometimes make their way to our door. These two didn’t look like utilities workers, and they certainly weren’t Mormons, but I would have happily bought a kilo of potatoes, so I opened the door.

I smiled, and said “good day,” they politely nodded and replied with the same. Then, the flash of a badge, and one single word: police. I wish I could describe what occurred in the following few seconds, but sudden anxiety does interesting things to one’s brain. My eyes were completely fixed on the shiny, laminated “Policija” card that was being held up in front of me. Or maybe it wasn’t anymore. Maybe he had already folded it back up and put it in his pocket, but it was still all I could see. Apparently, they were undercover policemen, and the one on the left was asking me something. I stared. Then the one on the right looked at me with a flicker of sympathy, and I heard him say, in Russian, that perhaps I didn’t understand. But I did understand, and managed to stutter the much-rehearsed phrase, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Lithuanian very well.” They didn’t look too impressed, and within the span of a heartbeat (which, at this point was pretty fast), a dozen thoughts flashed across my mind:

I am legal! I have a valid visa; it’s in my coat pocket…my left coat pocket. It’s pink, and shiny, and looks surprisingly like your police card, only smaller. We own our flat, and have the document to prove it. Goodness, these two guys are young to be policemen. What if they want to arrest me? What if I have to go to the police station? Can I ask to use the bathroom first? I really need to go to the bathroom. I don’t want to go to the police station in my frumpy blue study sweater. And the blankets on the couch are a mess. What time is it? Nathan is teaching; I wish he were here. Maybe they want to arrest Nathan. But we are legal! Just let me get my visa…

Somehow, simultaneously, I was processing what these two young men were saying. They wanted to know about our neighbours across the hall: their names, were they home, etc. Of course, I find speaking Lithuanian difficult enough, so when my brain is squeezed in panic, forming phrases and parsing verbs becomes nearly impossible. Through a stumbling mix of Lithuanian and English, I explained that we know very little about these particular neighbors. The lady who lives there, I said, likes to keep the hallways tidy, and the man who comes and goes is, sadly, usually drunk. We actually see very little of them, and aside from the occasional “hello,” they keep to themselves. I felt bad that I couldn’t be more helpful, but also very relieved that they hadn’t been looking for me! We stitched together a few more sentences, and they repeatedly assured me that everything was OK. I’m sure I looked absolutely terrified, but hopefully I didn’t seem suspicious. Maybe they were peering past me into our apartment, wondering why I was so nervous. Next thing you know, they will be asking our neighbours about us!

They thanked me for my time, I smiled (I think), and that was it. Despite an enormous sense of relief, my brain was too busy playing reruns of the encounter to focus on studying. I thought about all the difficulties we’ve had obtaining our visas, and belatedly thanked God for providing all the legal bits and pieces at just the right times. When I talked to Nathan on the phone a few minutes later, I laughed as I told him the story, but even then, the tension squeezed my voice into a squeak, and Nathan wondered if I was crying. Of course, we are living and working here perfectly legally, and we have nothing to worry about. Still, with visa restrictions getting increasingly tighter, we can’t help imagining the “what ifs.” All I know is that I have been as close as I ever want to get to a police badge.

The next time my doorbell rings, I’m hoping for the potato guy. I like potatoes.

After several days of unusually relentless snowfall, the ground and trees outside are covered in a thick, white coat. Looking out from our kitchen window, the cloudy skies, white rooftops, and snowy ground all blend together, making the usually pale yellow shade of our building seem like a beaming beacon in the cold. Among the various splotches of colour outside is a particularly noticeable black circle on the ground next to a few spindly trees. The circle is a manhole cover, under which runs hot water for heating the apartments nearby. All around this little snow-free island oasis are the paw prints of a dozen or more cats who retreat there to warm themselves while they make their neighbourhood rounds.

As much as I love snow, and even enjoy the zing of wintry air in your lungs, and rosy-red cheeks on a cold sunny day, the beauty of glistening snowflakes and icicles on tree branches tends to fade when you can’t feel your fingers anymore. So, I have been quite content to enjoy watching the falling snow from the warmth of our apartment, venturing out only when necessary. Yesterday, however, with a post office slip tucked securely into my pocket, I had the perfect motivation for heading out into the cold. After bundling into three sweaters, two pair of socks, and my boots, with two jackets zipped to the top, toque in place, and my Auntie-Martha scarf wrapped up to my chin, I was more than ready for the short walk to the post office. And even if the sun disappeared and the clouds rolled in by the time I was on my way home, my curiosity about the package I was carrying provided sufficient distraction to keep me from thinking about my quickly numbing toes. Of course, I had to un-bundle myself from the many layers of freeze-proofing, then wait until Nathan had come home from work in the evening before we could open our parcel together. Once we were both warm and snuggly settled, we opened our box of Christmas goodies from my sister and her family in Canada.

Appropriately, Nathan managed to reach in and pull out his birthday surprise first! The treat bag full of candy was a great way to start off the unpacking adventure, and added a rather potent sugar buzz to our excitement. His handmade, barley-filled hot pack will certainly get a lot of use on cold days, and if that doesn’t work, the squeezy chili spices should help! The butterscotch pudding mix was cause for a bit of undignified – but happy – dancing in our living room, and we had completely forgotten about sparkling Jell-O, so that will make a fun treat. We are pretty sure we can steam the carrot muffin mix, and I even know where to get cream cheese for the ultimate carrot cake icing. My creative sister also made some calendula and mullein ointment (from her own herb garden), which is packaged so beautifully into a corked glass jar that I am sure it will be just as enjoyable on display as it will be smoothed onto our winter-cracked skin. I’m not sure I will be able to make anything as spectacular from the calendula seeds enclosed in the package, but we will give it a go! The creativity continues in a pair of lovingly knitted socks that my sister made from the fleece of one of their sheep. I am looking forward to taking these Icelandic wool socks on a test run through the piles of snow outside. This might be just the thing to keep my little toes toasty warm on days like today! Some shower gels, cream, toothpaste, and razors will help round out our current supplies, and add some variety to our daily routine. Of course, no package from my sister’s house would be complete without something utterly goofy, and I am sure my nephew had a few goes with the swing-the-ball-into-the-cup gadget as it was getting tucked into the box. But the most nostalgic – and definitely the most hilarious – thing we found in this package of Christmas cheer was a pair of magnetic Scottie dogs. I remember playing with two just like these when we were kids: one black dog, one white, magnetically attracted to each other and oodles of fun! I’m still playing with them…

So, we had our twelve days of Christmas…plus a few more. And the season was indeed merry, and bright, and even white. We feasted on pudding, and snuggled in our beds, we sang carols, watched old movies, and giggled like kids. Thanks to everyone for making this possible, even if we couldn’t be with you. Your thoughtfulness and generosity are treasures we unwrap and enjoy each day of the year.