Skip to content
Call Us Today! 212-533-4646 | MON-FRI 12PM - 4PM (EST)
DONATE
SUBSCRIBE
Search for:
About Us
UNWLA 100
Publications
FAQ
Annual Report 2024
Annual Report 2023
Annual Report 2022
Annual Report 2021
Initiatives
Advocate
Educate
Cultivate
Care
News
Newsletters
Sign Up For Our Newsletter
Join UNWLA
Become a Member
Volunteer With Us
Donate to UNWLA
Members Portal
Shop to Support Ukraine
Search for:
Print
Print Page
Download
Download Page
Download Right Page
Open
1
2-3
4-5
6-7
8-9
10-11
12-13
14-15
16-17
18-19
20-21
22-23
24-25
26-27
28-29
30-31
32-33
34-35
36-37
38-39
40
and more vegetables, but whose basic approach to gar dening was still pragmatic, found the weed-infested “barvinok” intolerable — sentimental nonsense that made his job of mowing the lawn difficult and annoying. Though my mother, my sister and I pleaded and cajoled, the weeds and the “barvinok” were mowed down; a small clump was salvaged and transplanted to an unob trusive corner of the yard where it still grows. Every Easter my mother clips a few sprigs for the basket that she takes to be blessed at the church. As a young adult, I went through a succession of apartments in Philadelphia and Atlanta, Georgia without any interest in gardening, pragmatic or sentimental. My gardening obsession began when I moved into my own house in the suburbs of Philadelphia, a house situated on a double lot bordering the township’s nature center. A house is a house is a house, but the garden was a case of love at first sight and I was determined to turn every inch of it into a floral paradise with a Ukrainian flavor. Like Wilde’s character, I scorned the scientific and opted for the sentimental. Gardening books, I felt, were written by accurate gardeners for other accurate gardeners. They were stuffy and cautionary and included paragraphs about soil acidity and morning exposure vs. afternoon exposure and aphids and pesticides, and none of these details had anything to do with my plans. And so I started with roses and tulips and hydran geas and sunflowers and lily of the valley and assorted splendid specimens that could be ordered from cata logues and countless plants of every size and hue that caught my eye at the local garden supply center. A spe cial location was chosen for a new generation of my grandmother’s ’’barvinok” and whenever possible I tried for combinations of blue and yellow. But my special passion was reserved for "мальви” (hollyhocks) those quintessentially Ukrainian ’’мальви” with their tall stately stems and marvelous blooms which have been immor talized in song by Volodymyr Ivasiuk and which magi cally transform the lowliest village cottage in Ukraine into a work of art. I planted them here and there and everywhere, seeds, seedlings, mature plants purchased from garden centers and charitable contributions from my friend Olena whose “мальви” came up every year, splendid and self-propagating, just a few miles from my own which were withered and stunted and sickly and defied all my efforts to make them grow. My tulips fared just as badly. They grew where planted, flowered magnificently for a day or two and were devoured by the squirrels. Most of the exotic spec imens from the catalogues soon disappeared — my garden is too shady to sustain them or the sunflowers that I hoped would bring a touch of Ukraine to my corner of Pennsylvania. The rose bushes went to Ole- na’s mother, the ’’barvinok” struggles valiantly and the rhododendrons bloom when they feel like it. I’ve given up on the “мальви”, but my sentimental, unscientific EVHEN HREBINKA (1812-18498) THE SWAN AND THE GEESE Upon a pond, a swan was floating proudly: Grey geece beside him swam and gabbled loudly. ’’Has this white bird turned all you heads, forsooth?” One goose cried out. in sibilance uncouth. ’’W hy do you stare at him with bulging sight When we are grey and he alone is white? I with one mind we act, in filthy fuss. We can smear up this dude to look like us.” To this appeal the goose-flock all respond: There rose a mighty hubbub in the pond; Up from the depths they drag the slime and clay And smear the swan to make its feathers grey. The deed was done; the gabbling tongues grew slow: Then the swan dived — and rose as white as snow. (From The Ukrainian Poets, Selected and Trans lated into English Verse by C.H. and Watson Kirkconnell.) garden remains my sentimental, unscientific garden. In a small boxed patch that lies in one of the few sunny areas on my double lot, marigolds and ageratum create a summer long mosaic in yellow and blue. Pale blue columbines and bright yellow black-eyed-susans grow along the back fence. Along the side fence, yellow for- sythias bloom in the early spring; in mid-summer, a healthy and strong hydrangea sports gigantic blue blooms. Now if only I could convince the forsythia to bloom a little longer or the hydrangea to bloom a little sooner.. ’’НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ", ЛЮ ТИЙ 1995 25
Page load link
Go to Top
1 
2-3 
4-5 
6-7 
8-9 
10-11 
12-13 
14-15 
16-17 
18-19 
20-21 
22-23 
24-25 
26-27 
28-29 
30-31 
32-33 
34-35 
36-37 
38-39 
40 
