statue on Baltic Coast - Expat in Kaliningrad, Russia

A monumental occasion

Published: 10 June 2022 ~ Victor Ryabinin Pushes Boat Out with Bronze Aged Fisherman

At last, on Saturday 4th June 2022, the memorial plaque that we commissioned in 2021 linking Victor Ryabinin, friend and Königsberg artist, to our physical representation of his famous painting ‘Boat with Flowers’, which occupies pride of place next to the Soviet fisherman statue, was given a home. The reason it never got attached last year was that we could not make up our minds where the plaque should go. The original plan was to include it within the boat and statue ensemble, possibly secured to a large flat-surfaced rock, screwed to the side of the boat or mounted on some plinth or other. I was easy with any of these three options, but Olga opined that the plaque would be hidden, which would rather defeat the object.

Thus, the location of the plaque was put to the vote, resulting in the unanimous decision to secure it to the side of the house, beside the garden gate. Our friend with the drill and bolts, Mr Chilikin, performed his side of the operation, whilst I, having just returned from the shop with two bottles of beer, provided inestimable assistance by holding the plaque in place.

Victor Ryabinin

When you lose someone as dear and as vital as Victor, time has a perplexing way of flying and standing still at the same time. This July will see the third anniversary of Victor’s death. It seems like only yesterday, ten thousand days or more.

I am not ashamed to say that once the plaque had been placed, I did shed a few tears, but being a real Englishman, not a cheap British counterfeit, in order to maintain the myth of the stiff upper lip, I managed this in private.

Of course, once the plaque had been ‘unveiled’ a toast ensued involving vodka, after which an intuitive silence fell on those of us present, the shared but unspoken thought being that had Death not exercised its non negotiable right to inopportune subtraction, doubtlessly Victor would have been with us today, and no plaque would have been necessary, just another glass. Life goes on, as they say, though never quite in the same old way.

This year our boat is not looking anywhere near as well-stocked and verdant as the one in Victor’s painting, so project two is to rectify that discrepancy as soon as humanly possible.

Before getting down to the serious task of celebrating what was without argument the most glorious summer day this year, Mr Chilikin also made good his promise to turn our fisherman bronze. You may remember that last year’s restorative work on Captain Codpiece, our statue, had garnered criticism from a certain outspoken babushka, to wit that his new coat of paint appeared to be designed to make the feeble minded do something remarkably silly, like go down on one knee. Hence, there was nothing for it: either we had to delete one letter in the ‘Codpiece’ name and add two more in its place or pursue the original plan, which was to make him bronze.

The latter option being the best in good taste all round, though the former was chucklingly good, Mr Chilikin got to woke, I mean work, and with the catalysing infusion of a couple of homemade vodkas gave Codpiece a new look that would make any alchemist jealous.

In the 1960s, the fisherman had been silvered, but that was long ago. The Soviet era passed, the silver wore away and the fisherman’s concrete superstructure began seriously deteriorating. We repaired him, coated the concrete in a special sealant and weather-proof solution and painted him in a dark matte ground with hints and highlights of bronze. Finally, succumbing to the criticism that he was as dark as a midnight mushroom, we turned up the bronze, although some might say that relative to the new beginning he is fullfilling an act of destiny and turning into gold.

Advice for free

Published: 29 September 2021 ~ Beware of the Babooshka!

It was an extremely hot day when my wife decided that as I had made the mistake of buying a new lawnmower, perhaps now would be a good time to cut the lawn. “Why whinge?” you ask. “There is nothing so easy as cutting a lawn. Modern, electric-powered lawn mowers cut lawns as if they were made for the job.”

“Ah, yes,” I concede, “but there are lawns and lawns.”

The lawn in question was big and, as it had not been cut for a year, it was intolerably overgrown and full of long, brown straggly things.

Nevertheless, not one to walk away from a challenge when there is the promise of beer at the end of it, I set to with a vengeance.

About four hours later and three-quarters of the way through it, I was just looking back over what I had done and secretly congratulating myself, when a stout and redoubtable babooshka came marching down the road.

As she drew level with me, she stopped, peered over the fence and gazed intently first at the lawn, then at the mower and then at me.

“I’ll bowl her over with my scintillating grasp of Russian,” I thought. So, I call out, merrily.

“Strasveetee [Hello]!”

The babooshka looks but says nothing.

Perhaps she was spellbound by the conquistador job that I was doing.

When she finally did say something, it sounded short and to the point. I asked my good lady to translate.

“What did she say?” I asked. I suppose I was expecting to hear a compliment.

“She said, “‘You don’t do it like that!’”

“Don’t do what, like what?” I asked

“Don’t cut lawns like that!”

Well, really, had I been in England I would have put her right and no mistake: “Listen to me my good woman, I’ll have you know that I’ve been mowing lawns man and boy …”

But that was just it. I wasn’t in England and, if I had been, would an elderly lady address me like this?

Certainly, in days of yore, when I was a nipper, they would have done. But that was then and now is now. Grandmas in the UK no longer dispense worldly advice and criticism, they are too busy nightclubbing and looking for dates on Tinder.

Having said her piece the babooshka went on her way, and I continued to cut the lawn the way that I always shouldn’t have done.

This was the same babooshka, incidentally, who had sworn blind that our statue was black when, in fact, it is bronzed-brown (I repeat the incident from my former post, Hippy Party on the Baltic Coast).

We were standing on the pavement at the end of the garden admiring the newly painted statue when who should appear but the friendly village babooshka.

“Hello,” we regaled her, cheerily.

“Why have you spoilt him?” she snapped.

I knew she could not have been referring to me, so she must have meant the statue. Before we had chance to reply, she had exclaimed: “He’s black!”

I shot a glance at the statue. Heavens, should we be taking a knee?!

“No, in fact, he is bronze,” I curtly corrected her.

Olga bent down and picked up some litter from the side of the road and placed it inside the rubbish bag we were carrying.

“Huh!” the babooshka tutted, “Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time!”

A few days later, without me, I am sad to say, my wife ran into her again.

“Hello,” Olga greeted her.

“You haven’t done much, have you?” came the oblique reply.

Who remembers Albert Tatlock from Coronation Street?

Olga asked for clarification.

She got it: “The house. You haven’t done much to it. All you’ve done is painted the statue black!”

Who remembers Nora Batty from Last of the Summer Wine?

My wife attempted to turn the tables adroitly, innocently remarking on the nice sunflowers that she had observed in a neighbour’s garden.

“What’s the use of them?” the babooshka asked, and before Olga could think of nothing in response, went on to say, “Those sunflowers are in my relative’s garden. Look at it. It’s full of potatoes, but she hasn’t looked after them properly. They’re all overgrown. Spent too much time on those sunflowers, I suppose.”

Puzzled by Babooshka — See end of post for image attribution

The next time my wife bumped into this ray of golden sunlight, she was caught by the philosopher as she was running to catch the bus.

“What are you running for?” the merry babooshka asked.

“To catch the bus,” Olga explained. “The last time I almost missed it. The driver left earlier than he should.”

“Well,” retorted the babooshka, “sometimes he gets here early, so he leaves early.”

“But he shouldn’t!”

“Why not, he can do what he likes. If he’s here early there’s no point in him sitting about. He wants to get on.”

“Yes,” my wife argued, “but there is such a thing as a timetable.”

“Timetable,” the babooshka snorted contemptuously, “what’s the point of that when he’s here early and doesn’t want to wait?”

“But people will miss the bus,” exclaimed my wife.

“That’s their problem, not the bus drivers,” concluded the babooshka.

Beware of the Babooshka!

Sometimes the most important and valuable things in life can pass you by, and when we are reminded of them we should be eternally grateful. For example, if it was not for this babooshka, it would never have occurred to me that I had spent the greater proportion of my life cutting the lawn like I shouldn’t have done; that our bronzed statue was black; that there is no possible excuse for growing sunflowers; and that impatient bus drivers had better things to do than to adhere to timetables and pick up passengers.

It is surely food for thought that I have reached the age that I have but still have much, so very much to learn.😉

Image attributions:
Elderly lady cartoon: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/kT8oprbnc.htm
Question mark figure cartoon: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/BcarELBKi.htm