My mother liked to make newcomers to our neighborhood feel welcome and happy to be living in North Hope, so it was sometimes my assignment to take a cake or a pie or a pot of soup over to the new family's house and deliver it, with a note inviting the new mom to drop by for coffee some morning when she was free. I knew I was doing a good deed when I ran such an errand for my mom, but I really felt more pride in her generous gesture than I did in myself. And I felt embarrassed when the new lady got all teary and might blubber at me about being so kind and thoughtful. Whenever grownups show any kind of emotion like that, I feel kind of squishy in my gut. And in those days, especially, I wanted to turn around and bolt, as fast as I could run, down the road and back to my own house. That was how I felt the day I first met old Mrs. Zlatkova.

Mary Bok has always been interested in the magic of words as they relate and give voice to the thought that moves in each of us. As a child, she kept diaries and picture books that recorded something of her relationship to the world around her.

Later, as a young adult, she wrote stories and poems which mirrored this same connectedness; and even later, in the early 1970s, she began work with Ira Progoff, whose approach to journal-keeping deepened her explorations.

Mary has led Proprioceptive Writing Workshops at Elderhostels in Maine and New Hampshire, the International Women's Writing Guild conference in Canaan, New York, the Center for Health and Healing in Rockland and at her home in Camden.

Mary has assembled a collection of her work entitled Unfolding Dreams.

Her kitchen was piled high with cardboard boxes; I guessed she'd been unpacking all day. Something was boiling on the back of her wood stove — I think it had a lot of cabbage in it, by the smell. A fluffy, grey cat slept in a rocking chair beside the stove, and I noticed a basket of knitting on the floor near the chair.

Mrs. Zlatkova invited me in, so of course I was free to look around and see what I could make of what I saw. I knew my mom would pump me for details when I got home. All her friends were curious to learn about this newcomer to our section of town and, already, some of the things people were saying about her conflicted with what others swore they knew for sure — like about her being a communist.

At the time, I was about 12 years old, in Mrs. Peabody's sixth grade class in our town's public school. I was a member in good standing of our Girl Scout troop, but I didn't have any idea what it might mean to "be a communist." I surely did recognize the tone in the voices that said such things, however, and I felt the sting of those unexplained accusations and took them to heart. There had been much gossip and speculation about the elderly woman I was about to visit with my mother's pot of soup, and I felt irritated and ashamed of the people in our community who seemed to take pride in embellishing and continuing the mean-spirited stories about her. And it was not just the adults who did this! Kids in my own school taunted me about my interest in getting to know his new person and warned me not to get too close to her for fear of turning kind of pink!

They even suggested that she might steal pencils out of my backpack if she got a moment when I wasn't looking and for me to keep an eye out. I resented every lie and mean thing they said about this lady I wanted to love. It made me mad that anyone would want to say miserable things about someone just because they were so completely new to a community of people who surely felt foreign to her, as well.

I remembered very well being the "new one" when we moved into this town the year I was in the second grade. I remembered feeling different and at odds with the other children in my school. I was too tall, my clothes were all homemade and gawky, and I didn't even own a pair of sneakers! Now I looked to Mrs. Zlatkova, and wondered what it was that made her so different in everyone's eyes. What could it be, I wondered, to be living all alone without a family? Did she even have a husband? Did she leave him behind in the land she just came from? Or did he die somewhere and leave her to make this journey alone? What might she be feeling now as she found her elf becoming a stranger in a strange land?

As I thought these things, I realized that no matter how badly I felt about the way others talked about her, I was still a part of all that strangeness to her! I had to do something about that. Sure, I was bringing her a pot of soup and an invitation to visit my mother and our house, but what else could I do? This lady must be about the same age my Granna would have been, had she not died last year, after being so sick with the pneumonia. I wondered if Mrs. Zlatkova had any children, and grandchildren?

At the top of the hill that slopes down toward our river, I turned and walked down the brick sidewalk that would lead to her house, No. 43, and I was relieved to see that my journey was nearly done. The pot I had been carrying felt pretty heavy now, and a little of the soup had slopped over the side and down the front of my coat.

I saw No. 43 carved into the newel post at the bottom of a set of stone steps that led up to the porch of the house I knew would be hers. Holding tight to the banister with one hand and even tighter to the soup pot with the other, I made my way up those steps and onto the porch. Perhaps it was the sound of my tread on the porch floor, that brought Mrs. Zlatkova suddenly into my view and as soon as she opened her door, she greeted me like a long lost friend.

"Your dear Mother called a while ago to tell me that you were coming to see me, so I've been watching out my kitchen window, hoping you would find your way without any difficulties. You had a safe trip, yes?"

"Oh, yes. I only spilled some of the soup on my coat, that's all," I replied.

"Come, come inside, my dear, and let's see if we can't just wipe that off! I have just the trick to do it... cold water! Come on into my kitchen, and I'll show you!"

I could tell she was excited to have a chore to do and something to show me. I followed close behind her large, round, softness as she moved down a narrow hall towards an open door I soon discovered, led into her kitchen.

The large room was piled high with cardboard boxes; I guessed she'd been unpacking all day.

In the sudden bright light, I could now see Mrs. Zlatkova more clearly. She was dressed in a long, peasant-style skirt, which she wore over a long, flannel petticoat that I could see quite clearly whenever she bent slightly to move a box or a chair out of our way. That undergarment was unlike anything I had ever seen my mother wear but I imagined that it would feel nice and soft against a bare leg, and would provide more warmth and comfort during the cold winters than the thin silky slips we wore under our Sunday church clothes. Mrs. Zlatkova moved slowly and carefully around her kitchen, as if she knew the whole space by heart and didn't have to think much about where to take her next step. She gave me a glass of milk and a couple of freshly baked molasses cookies, which made me feel completely at home in her house. The cookies were heady with familiar spices, and went down well with the icy milk.

I settled myself on the front edge of the rocking chair, next to her beautiful sleeping cat, who seemed not to be disturbed by my moving around her. She simply snuggled deeper into the cushion placed there for her comfort. I gazed around and around this warm, welcoming room, taking in all the details to remember. I wondered how on earth a nice old lady from far away Russia, who might possibly be a communist, ever learned how to make molasses cookies as delicious as the ones my own Granna used to make. The thought rested in the quiet pleasure in my mind, as I took another bite of cookie and a sip of milk and began to pat the cat so near my lap. By then, she was roused from her sleeping. She stretched her neck up and in to my stroking and purred a song of such deep pleasure I could have recognized in any language. I loved cats and had always wanted to have one of my

Transformations

We tell stories.

We tell stories to make sense of our lives.

We tell stories to communicate our experience of being alive.

We tell stories in our own distinct voice. Our own unique rhythm and tonality.

Transformations is a weekly story-telling column. The stories are written by community members who are my students. Our stories will be about family, love, loss and good times. We hope to make you laugh and cry. Maybe we will convince you to tell your stories.

— Kathrin Seitz

“Everyone, when they get quiet, when they become desperately honest with themselves, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.” — Henry Miller

Kathrin Seitz teaches Method Writing in Rockport, New York City and Florida. She can be reached at kathrin@kathrinseitz.com.

own, but something about them made my mother get terrible headaches, and there seemed to be no cure, so mom would never let me bring a cat or kitten any where near our home. Mrs. Zlatkova told me that her cat's name was "Mootzie," which meant "sweetest one" in the language she came from. I whispered that name as I scratched Mootsie behind her silky ears, and she perked up and listened to the familiar sound. I imagined that in that moment, we became friends.

There was a very old, carved wooden clock hanging on the wall behind the chair where I sat. Its ticking sounded to me like music from another world. I wondered how many years it might have measured Mrs. Zlatkova's life and I told her how beautiful I thought it was. She was delighted to tell me that the clock once belonged to her grandmother, whose husband built that clock entirely from wood harvested from trees on their farm near a city called Smolensk. The wood was dark, soft grained, and shone in the late afternoon light coming in through the window nearby. Her grandmother gave the clock to her the day she was baptized into the family's church many years ago. She said that her parents kept the clock hanging in her bedroom, so that she would be comforted by the soft tick - tick - ticking, for as long as her father remembered to wind the mechanism that kept the spring taut. Her mother told her that that clock would protect her from all the evils in this world and would keep bad dreams from her window at night. Mrs. Zlatkova's eyes turned red and suddenly wet with little tears as she told me that the sound of that clock's ticking reminded her always that she would forever be surrounded by the deep and abiding love into which she was born to a family that still lived in Smolensk, on the land her grandparents loved.

I was fascinated with all this information, and couldn't wait to tell my own mother about Mrs. Z's clock. I noticed then that the hands of the clock pointed nearly to the hour of six, and I promised myself that I would stay no longer than 15 minutes more. That seemed like enough time for a polite visit, if I could make that much conversation last. I didn't exactly have the gift of gab, and in some cases, it was like picking scabs for me to carry on a sensibly social visit with a stranger—especially an older woman.

Mrs. Zlatkova gave me a glass of cold milk and a couple of molasses cookies, though. . . . and that helped. I liked those cookies a lot, and the milk made them go down really well. When I finished, she asked me very nicely if I would please walk her dog about half way down the drive and back, so's he could do his business before she fed him his evening meal. I told her "Sure," even though I hadn't seen or heard a dog since I had come into the house. She went to the closet and took a red leash off a hook on the door, without further comment. I could see that the leash was marked with the name "Boris" on the looped handle.

I thought she would give me the leash, but, instead, she went out into the hall, where I could hear her talking in the animated tone grownups often use when they talk to their dogs. I heard the clip on the end of the leash snap against itself, and I waited for her to return to the kitchen. When she did, she came toward me, with the leash still in her hand; she was still mumbling soft encouraging words in her doggie voice. I looked up to see the dog she called 'Boris,' . .. .but there was no dog following her! Just the empty end of the leash with the snap scraping along on the smooth wood floor! I was so surprised, I didn't know if I should laugh or cry or if I better just keep my mouth shut very tight, and wait to see what might happen next. I decided in favor of the silence. Mrs. Zlatkova handed me the looped end of the leash, and gestured towards the door I had come in earlier. I didn't have a clue what else to do, so I just held that leash and followed her out onto her porch.

I walked carefully down the porch steps and onto her lawn, all the time, praying that my neighbors, Tom Ellis and Butch Anthony wouldn't be out riding their bicycles and see me in my ridiculous predicament. I didn't exactly feel like explaining to them what I was doing with that red leash and I didn't think those guys needed any more ammunition for teasing me about my personal life.

 walked down to the corner, took a look over the bank to the river below, and then walked back to the house. I could plainly see Mrs. Zlatkova standing there in her faded blue apron, watching every step I took. She waved at me, and I nodded to her, hoping no one would notice. Then I pulled my cap lower over my ears and face. There was a cold wind coming up off the river, and I hoped to keep myself as invisible as I could, and as warm. I wrapped the leash around my right fist and jammed both my hands into my jacket pockets. The less people could see of that stupid leash, the better, I was sure of that.

How on earth would I ever explain that empty leash to Beano Plaisted, who might be on his way home for supper from his job at the mechanic shop, just about then. Or anyone else, for that matter? When I got to Mrs. Zlatkova's front walk, I solemnly walked up to her porch steps, passed her the leash and stood there for a moment, blowing on my hands to warm them a little before we started to talk again.

"Boris...didn't give you any trouble, did he?" she asked. What could I say? I answered quite honestly, "No, m'am. No trouble at all."

"Thank you, my dear. I do appreciate your helping me with that little chore. You know, I've been working so hard these last few days, getting myself moved into this new house. I've had a very busy time of it, and my old knees get so tired I sometimes don't feel up to walking that far. Thank you for doing it for me!"

As she talked, I watched a large, pink wart on her cheek move up and down, as if it were a living thing there on her face. She had a mass of curly, gray hair tucked into one of those hair nets that looked like a spider's web. And there were a bunch of hair pins I sometimes see advertised in my mother's magazines, sticking out this way and that. Every now and then one of those pins would come free from the net and fall to the floor. I decided it would embarrass her if I picked them up and gave them back to her, so I pretended I didn't even notice. When I got a chance, I interjected into her ongoing conversation, that it was time for me to be heading home. I told her I hoped she would enjoy the soup my mom made for her and she replied that she really appreciated the thoughtful gift , but explained she would save it for another day, as she had already made a Borscht for her supper that night.

"Tell your sweet mother that I surely will enjoy it, though... maybe tomorrow... also tell her I'll drop by to visit her very soon.

She paused for a moment, before going on; and then said that if I'd be willing to come by the next day and walk her dog again, she would pay me a dime, and if it 'wasn't too much trouble, could I do it for her every day?' She thought I could us the pocket change, and assured me it would be a great help to her.

What could I say? Any kid I knew would love to have a paying job that would earn them a little ever-ready money in their pocket. So I swallowed my pride, and told her I would do that for her. And then I turned up my collar, jammed my hands in my jacket pockets, went out the kitchen door, and headed for home. The sun was going down behind the silhouette of the woolen factory on the far side of the river that had probably flowed through this place forever. The air was crisp and made my eyes tear, and my cheeks sting against the coming night.

Old snow crunched under my tread, and a quick, longing thought of spring jolted through my mind. It made me laugh out loud into the early evening and I blew a small kiss to the spirit of my Granna, who, I was quite sure, might be looking down on me as I made my way up Chestnut Street and through the small back alley that made a short cut to my house on the east side of the River Road. I stomped up the steps to our porch, and then across the deck to the thick mat in front of our door. I kept stomping, to get rid of the snow I knew I should not track into my mother's kitchen, and by the time I felt the icy cold heft of our doorknob, I knew my boots were clean, and I was really at home.

I could see through the window into the warm, well-lit kitchen where I belonged. I could see that Mom had the table all set for our supper. There was a basket of freshly baked bread, covered over with a linen dish towel. Everything was ready for us to gather and eat and I knew, by the soup bowl at my place at the table, that we would be eating the same soup I had delivered to Mrs. Zlatkova that afternoon. The same soup she would have for her supper the very next day.