Dacha Days Done

The dacha days are over now, and the weather is supposed to turn colder on the first of November. The dacha belonging to my in-laws is often neglected, sometimes hated, but mostly enjoyed. The dacha has been hard to get to this year and impossible to do anything major with. My mother-in-law needed several years of round-the-clock help, and that took effort. The dacha season always started with the necessary one or two scandals; otherwise, nothing could be done. Angry bickering about where to plant, voices peppered with irritation and unforgivable rudeness. Quarrels about how to plant the one rosebush that immediately gave up the ghost. My father-in-law's marathon curse parade after I cut down a branch of his apple tree, the very branch that provided a curtain so he could step out of the banya and enjoy the sun in all its blooming nature. In the spring, where to plant, and who did that, and the dust and dirt! Finally, a few scraggily-looking cucumber patches were put in that bore scant produce and tasted terrible—full of water and tasteless. Tomatoes that refused to grow and even green onions! Strangely, the roses always seemed to be beautiful, growing waist high with dozens of blossoms. The dacha with summer days lying on the deck in the heat and the banya and some barbecue. And the dacha seemed to create a country world where time really meant something and everything became more real.