Rapla – My Hometown

Posted by Kaire Kalam (That Estonian Girl) on November 2, 2012 in Stories | 1 Comment

The wind howled, the snow crunched under our feet, and the candle holders clicked against each other in the plastic bag. The town’s main road was busy with pedestrians coming and going. The scent of garlic, slow cooked pork, and sauerkraut slipped through the night air. It was Christmas Eve in Rapla, Estonia. As is tradition, my family and I had visited the town’s 13th century gothic style church and were now entering the edge of the forest. Scattered amongst the trees and shrubs, lie wood crosses and stone slabs. We had arrived at the town’s graveyard. People moved peacefully between graves placing lit candles to remember loved ones who had passed – silent shadows in an ocean of flickering lights.

In March, the sun finally appeared, the temperatures rose, the snow melted, and streams ran down the cracked gray asphalt. Nine apple trees in the field in front of our house, shed piles of winter snow and sprouted fertile buds. It was finally time for me to ride my bike. I had earned that bike. After a long year of collecting, carrying and carting bagfuls of my father’s stale and stinking empty beer bottles, I had saved 100 rubles – 10 times the cost of a month’s rent, a third of my mom’s salary, and the cost of a new bike.

Our family of four’s cramped one-bedroom home, was located in a five story white-brick Soviet apartment building. It stood on top of a small hill with the year 1977 proudly carved into the front steps. Inside, I slid down the hallway railing and bounded down the basement stairs. Outside the door of our storage space, I stamped my feet on the concrete floor and broke into a song before unlocking the padlock. “Hit the road Jack, da, da, da, da, nomo, nomo, nomo.”  The exact English words were lost on me, but it was my way to interrupt the rats feasting on our winter’s store of potatoes. Not until I turned on the light did they run for safety, with their defiant tails smacking and rattling the jam and pickle jars stocked on the shelves.

I sped my Russian-made skolnik down the road, the back tire slipping and sliding from side to side. Alone on the road I passed my high school, the always crowded pub, and the corner kiosk with the angry old lady; finally arriving at my friend’s house.

Estonians are known for their love of, and connection to, nature. Gathering flowers, berries and mushrooms is a way of life.  My friend and I had been eagerly waiting for the first flowers of spring; cute, white, snowbells. Her neighbor’s yard was full of them. Patiently, we waited for the cover of dark.

I peddled down the moonlit street skillfully steering my bike with one hand, while holding my treasure of snowbells in the other. Having glided past the now shuttered kiosk and the always crowded pub, I stopped my bike in front of our apartment building and waved hello to my mother, who was patiently waiting in the flickering light of our apartment window.