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Last year was my saddest Christmas ever. I never imagined that one can experience so much pain and still breathe. Just amazing how persistent life is! Even my Mamka spent most of her time at hospital during the Christmas of 2005 ... My cousin Andrej Imrich summarised the chapters of my book Cold River during the sermon dedicated to my Mamka yesterday. Auntie Maria was a humble joy giver!

Over 140 people gathered at the wake in a school canteen where Mamka was a chef who cooked every school day for over 100 student for over two decades. Gitka my sister is an angel. Thanks for everything ...

Maria – A Sanctuary of the Human River
-White Christmas 1957

Swimming is the first thing we ever do.
Before we breathe, before we cry, before we crawl,
we swim in the waters of the womb. Then the walls close in
and we tumble -- turn into position, ready to dive into the open air.
- Fiona Capp

Tucked away in the folds of the ancient mountains that embrace the Kezmarok and Poprad valleys, lay a royal town called Vrbov (a place with dual meanings: willow and boiling water).
A weeping place at times. But mostly a happy little village of a few hundred souls with a robust sense of humor.
It gets dark early in December. The Vrbov definition of winter: streets are snowbound, the road is quiet, the mountain air is very, very cold. That day in 1957, Vrbov was gripped by mid-winter night frostiness. It was two evenings before Christmas Eve. Children and dogs no longer romped in the snow watched over by women wearing headscarves and long dresses. All the children were inside warm houses listening for the bells of Saint Nicholas's sleigh; and motherly figures were bustling about with Christmas preparations.
Every twig is draped in red and green memory.
Slowly, like the heavy curtain of a play's final act, white night descended upon the small mountain village. It was impossible not to notice how suddenly the temperature dropped and how the fragile leaf-like frost built up icicle by icicle on the glass in the windows. Footpaths lay buried under piles of snow. Snowmen stood in public places lording over Vrbov territory. The village was all wrapped up in white like a giant Christmas present.
For more than 700 years, Vrbov's 200 or so chimneys had faced the winter northerly wind which would wake up in Poland (to be exact, in Krakow) at around five, pass through Zakopane ten minutes later and almost immediately strike Vrbov's isolated white streets with a vicious force. The blizzard, like the thunder, in the High Tatra Mountains, could be heard in full voice across both sides of the border.
That night, birds were perched on the low branches of every poplar and seemed to be watching a human figure walking briskly below. The whipping wind shouting in the tops of the poplars didn’t seem to bother that determined little figure, bundled up in a black woolen shawl and long skirt, plodding doggedly through the milky snow, leaving deep footprints that soon vanished like liquid silk in the gale. There were few paths more heavily beaten or more slippery in winter than those leading to a cream terrace situated in the Horna Ulica (Upper Street).
She stumbled often. Yet with every slip, her determination to dive headlong into the deep white emptiness and her stubborn resolve to reach her destination in the face of nature's hostility only seemed to increase. The air, cold as ice, appeared to have taken shelter in the warm flood of her whistle.
The happy whistle was interrupted when she almost slipped on the steps leading to the cream terrace she knew well. Now she wiped the snow off the ends of her chestnut hair and removed her shawl. Aware that her teeth had bitten into her lip, she took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Her breath steamed in the evening chill. On the other side, the sound of footsteps grew louder; and when the door opened, a familiar odor of pharmaceuticals wafted out, embracing her with reassurance.
Number Seven at Horna Ulica looked like a set for a Christmas movie; except instead of a facade of shopping centers, it had a facade of white forests and a garage door hidden by one-meter snow banks. The terrace house was as private as a priest's confessional. Confessions, in the shape of exceptional happenings, often stopped here. The inside was full of warmth from the open fire, huge divans, bright-embroidered cushions and the smell of baking and pharmacy rolled into one.
A pale orange light radiating from the street lamp just meters away gave the moment a mystical aura. The soundtrack of knives and forks clinked invitingly. A middle-aged man wearing a white coat opened the wooden door and looked down at the petite woman who stood five-foot-three. She had sky-blue eyes and wore her slightly grey-streaked, honey brown hair in a bun. The corridor felt like holy ground, a place where she took off her shoes because custom also demanded it. Shoes were removed so that the dirt and chaos of outside were left behind.
No one ever forgot the first time they met the only man in Vrbov who got away with wearing a white mask and rubber gloves. People marveled that anyone could be so at ease and at peace with the world and at the same time claim to be a keen supporter of a local soccer team. A team that seemed to lose every match. To the men of Vrbov, he was a “city boy,” as he could not tell a difference between a goat and chamois. It was even less well known that the medical profession had a stronger connection to music than animals; and that doctors were often good musicians. Doctor Rusniak was often found polishing his precious musical instrument, using the soft chamois cloth in the living room of his home, where an upright piano had pride of place.
“Ahoj, Maria!” called Doctor Rusniak, the keeper of every woman’s secret fears and wishes. Welcome was in this greeting and an amiable curiosity. Peach skinned, Maria Imrichova, born and bred on Vrbov’s customs, was more likely to kiss than to shake hands -- even with a person she was meeting for the first time. If you were in Vrbov, you kissed. Doctor Rusniak kissed Maria on her rosy cheeks three times without thinking about it. For someone who could not manage one kiss without looking embarrassingly awkward not so long ago, he had come a long way.
Politeness was his old trademark: “After you,” “No, no after you.” He stood out in a village crowd, not just because he always dressed impeccably, but also because his deep educated voice belonged to another part of Czechoslovakia -- Bratislava maybe or even Martin. He spoke proper Slovak, like a radio announcer or the school principal -- and even better. Every one around him sprinkled shs and cheshes in their sentences as often as they could. This was the Spis region!