This is the stand, where the kids and I used to buy strawberries from a young Russian girl, named Olga. She dreamed of being a ballerina and sold strawberries to make money, and pay for her lessons.  Summer after summer, the stand, sat by the roadside, in the field.  You could pick your own if you wanted, or just buy them from Olga. Then, one summer, the business closed down, Olga was gone, and the field went fallow.  Year after year, it stood there, empty and all alone, with sun, rain and snow beating down.  Despite the wear and tear, it had to take, there was some comfort in seeing it by the roadside, as I passed by.  It brought back sweet memories of picking strawberries with my kids, and talking to Olga, about her dance.

Recently, I drove by, and all that was sitting there was a huge refrigerator, a garbage can, and a couple of stools in a junk heap. There was no stand! I returned the next day, and decided to walk down the lane, behind the white house, where there is a small old barn, and some old sheds. This is something I always wanted to do, because I had spotted the buildings from afar and hoped to get up close.  Not looking for anything in particular, lo and behold, there was the Stand! She was intact, and proudly occupying a piece of land, as if to say, “Look at me!  I have a new home.”  I must say, her new home is a much better place than the field, as she is now protected better, from the elements of weather, and the brutality of the passing seasons.

Although, it sure made me happy to see, that someone gave the stand a new home, I wonder, what happened to Olga, and if she is still dancing, just like her stand, is still standing.  Maybe someday I will run into her again, or maybe her path will unknowingly cross, with that of my children. Perhaps, they will dance beside each other in a park in St. Petersburg, on a warm rainy afternoon. These are mysterious and mystical happenings one can only imagine.  There is a chance they will come true, and a chance they won’t.  If they do, it’s nice to think that it was the stand, that brought them together, and the love they had for buying and selling strawberries, as well as for dance.

When I begin to complain about a cold wet January day, in Connecticut in 2015, I stop and think about what Richard and his fellow soldiers must have been going through on that train ride in Europe in 1945. It makes me feel so grateful for the comforts and good things I have in life. Most of all I am grateful for my father Richard and my mother Mary, because they made it all possible for me. Growing up I didn’t realize the sacrifices they made for their family always wanting to make a better life for their children, better than what they had, especially as they were growing up in the Great Depression. On January 13^th, Richard writes a continuation of the train ride they are taking into Belgium. They have been aboard this train, 39 soldiers crammed into a freight car, since the 10^th. They were told they would be traveling for 48 hours this way but it seems this time has been extended. All he can think about is survival aboard this contraption. A short stop and a bit of French hospitality, give him and his friend John, some relief from the train ride.  All pain and suffering, is relative.

January 13-14, 1945

Your mind and senses are now overwhelmed by only one concern – staying alive. To do so, you must stay warm. We stop at one French city, the name of which I do not recall for about half an hour. Johnny Whalen and I go off looking for a warm place – store or restaurant. We meet a Frenchman on the street and he takes us up to his apartment, where we have some bread and a glass of wine. This is the only moment of brightness we have had up to now. We repay our debt with cigarettes.

10:30 We detrain at a little village northwest of Liege.