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Autum n colors flame now on either side of the highways. The wind scatters the leaves th a t were once the thick, green robes of the p a rk s ; and the hum an dwellings stand bare. On both sides of upper Woodward are nice, big cottages and manors. In summer, they are hidden from the eyes of the instrusive tourist but now they seem lower in height, and nearer the road, as though about to run away. Love ly Ferndale, Royal Oak, Bir mingham, who call themselves “city” although their center is Detroit, the really big village. Well, you cities, on both sides of the highway . . . Do your dwellers know happiness ? To night or tomorrow morning they will drive on the highways in a frightening, continual, uncom- prehensible hurry. This is the style, this is their way of life. I too am on the highway, I and my car, Carry. And we are talk ing. He is the only living be ing, the only m ate I have. My faithful friend, living his own engine life. — You see, Carry, when we passed here the last tim e it was summer. The heat rose from the h ighw ay; and it looked as though the gasoline would boil in your m oto-hearth. But noth ing happened. Somebody wise gave you your life. Carry rolls smoothly along, mumbling easily to himself. He is happy. He likes wide, smooth highways. He does not like it when someone blows a horn sud denly, while passing; or when the cop stops us to ask silly ques tions. Nor does he like it either when lights are striking him at night, from the opposite side. — Do you see? The high vol ume of smoke. One m ight think it a fire. But no, people are burning leaves. Autum n leaves. Far, far away in Ukraine, where no one knows you Carry is my country. There leaves are not burned. Indeed not. They are carefully raked up and carried in sacks from the forest. For w hat use you would like to know ? They serve twice. F irst as cover around the house, called “zaha- ta .” It is a fence close around the house, filled up w ith leaves, which helps to keep it warm in w inter time. They don’t have a m otor like you to warm them up. No, they are often even short of m atches to light a small kero sene lamp. — The second use for the of leaves is to litter a stable. Do you know how the stables are littered? Do you know how the stables are littered in this coun try ? Maybe there is no need of litter here at all, but only for electric light and radio music! Carry is taking advantage of my musing, is tw irling a little and heading towards the second line. — You don’t know? You should know : you are an Am eri can. And please, keep straig h t on your line. You should be wise yourself, should stop on the red light, look fixedly around in or der not to run over someone and finally drive ahead. And you — left a little — are bending rig h t away. You say it is not your fault, the highways are not even. Let me allow you to wander at will, on the m ost even highway and you see how you will land in the ditch or h it a house. No. N o ! I prefer to guide you. Easily, quite easily, turning the wheel. Only to keep you on the way. But you should be careful too, my fellow. We have no one else, you and m e; and we are both lonely in open space on the high ways, running around us. Some tim es I am fearful: w hat would I do if you got sick or left me definitely. And night would come on the em pty highway, be tween wood and field. It makes me shudder to think of it. I press on the accelerator and look at the speedometer. A gray, dull, hopeless evening creeps up on us. I keep talking: — And something more hap pened, in Autum n — potatoes were dug. A pleasant work when the soil was soft. Under each bunch of dried stalks were m any potatoes. O, how I liked to dig out potatoes! There was another pleasure: the potato stalks were raked up in heaps, and then burned. The grey, dense smoke, spreading over the stubble field, smells of A utum n and evokes an easy, dream y sad ness. Under the grey sky cranes or geese are flying. And M arysia stops digging, leans on her hoe, and looking at the bird’s flight, sigs: — Geese leaving us already! T hat means an early winter, heavy snows and a lot of frost. And she continues her dig ging. But Yasko w ith Dmetro, the shepherd boys, are increas ing the grey smoke and later on they put potatoes into the glow ing coals and hot ashes. How delicious potatoes baked in ash es smell! — How is it th a t I never saw a potato field here? They m ust be cultivated in this state too, but I never came across one. We see different types of advertis ing along our route — young chickens, fresh eggs, bulbous plants and only once a big sign “potatoes.” And of all things — brought here from Idaho! In the old country we were told th a t oranges are cheaper in America than pota toes. The paradox: the potato was born in America. Carry was born in a paradox country, and does not tre a t them too seriously. On the contrary: he rolls smoothly on the wide highway and is very happy. * — A fterw ards w inter comes. You didn’t like it I noticed. Do НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ — КВІТЕНЬ, 1963 19 Sophia Parfanovych Carry and I
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