Overhung dawn arrives quietly in this village of Veryohnovo, in the region of Novgorod Oblast, the district of Volotovsky rayon. The expectancy of spring permeates the early morning. A feeling of total tranquility and anxiety mix, causing an indescribable breathlessness. The wonder of waiting for a pattern of life to unfold never ceases. It is as if the whole village is in a slow motion, awakening. Greedily, there is the longing to grasp every corner, every angle, and every isolated sound to be held in the heart, like a treasure of life. There is a homesickness for this village already after only arriving yesterday, to leave this same day, after teaching in the village school.

I am told that the Germans stopped here, on the way to the front, to rest. They stopped on the way back from the front to rest also. Angrily defeated, at the end, they burned the village that they had hoped to capture for their own. It is easy to see why this place was chosen, with its tranquility and high visibility. The warmth and slightly chilled glow of the emerging spring lingers in the heart and bones as each new micro-image reveals itself. Flashes of the future reveal themselves.

The carefully mounded hills peacefully await plants and seeds which will eagerly be grasped and responsibly nourished to assure joy and good health for the residents therein. On the windowsill of my hostess, Olga, in Novgorod, await such red and yellow pepper plants to be deposited soon in her own village. The remembered sweet, dull unique taste of these peppers demands satisfaction.

The young bull languishes and grows in his mother's belly, to be born soon, nursed, and then herded to his new home in the animal quarters, built adjoining the house. Cozy with comfort, it contains hay for his pleasure. When I ask where he will graze, the answer is that freshly cut grass will be served him there. Things are no different, the world over. Surrounded by attentiveness, one cold January day, he will fulfill his destiny. His fate will be sealed as the grandmother, like mothers and grandmothers for centuries, rises early and prepares for the approaching man whose talent is slitting the throat and quartering the meat. Memories of those long ago days rush forward when Mr. Ben arrived to find the kettle of boiling water waiting, the rope strung up, vessels ready, and the young daughter of the house hiding to observe and enjoy the scene considered too indelicate for young lady's eyes.

Lively hens, pecking ruthlessly, yet meaningfully, search the surrounding ice-crusted puddles. The grandmother examines her cache of beautiful brown eggs in the bin, anticipating preparation of Easter delicacies. Outlines of barren and broken trees form a kaleidoscope from the immediate to the distant. Quickly, loudly, piercingly, the grachi, bringing spring on their wings, demand more respect for their arrival. Did everyone not know they were coming, sooner or later? What goes on here? Demanding respect, they proclaim that the new season proceed, quickly.

Yesterday, an e-mail arrived from a man named Jerry from Iowa (Tatayna's former guest) who learned from Tatatyna that her mother had departed this world on May 2lst. which was her seventieth birthday. The cycle of life continues. The garden, which she would not plant, the bull which she would not nourish, the little grand daughter for whom she would not care, and all those other things in life would go on. Today, an e-mail arrived from Tatayana stating that she works on. Her mother would want her to have the summer school. Her mother's sister is helping her. We are developing the summer program together, via e-mail. I met Tatayana, her mother, and her daughter during the special education trip to Novgorod with Project Harmony. She writes me today that her young son, whom I saw briefly at the final party, will help me with my classes. He will be my interpreter when I need help. Glancing at William only briefly at the party, was impressed with his happiness, his social graces, and his ability to handle himself. He is perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. I suspect that William will attend many hello and goodbye occasions in life.

Our goals and objectives are being developed from the Michigan Curriculum Framework. A Michigan company doing business with Russia will ship a box of educational materials soon, donated by the Alpena Reading Program. Although I knew the grandmother only one night and day, she will always be in my heart. I shall always remember her meeting us where the car could not go, with her granddaughter beside her, smiling, bringing her daughter's boots. Now, as a result of the P.H trip, the children of the village will become a part of my life and a young teenager will become my co-partner in developing and expressing ideas with young children while his mother works with the others. Spring is turning into summer soon and the cycle of life continues. The young bull will be black and white.

It is school time. Since my summer in a village in Northern Russia, near the White Sea, with the family of my Moscow exchange student, I have wanted to teach in such a school. Tatyana and I begin our long walk, deftly dodging mud puddles. In the north, I was given high boots to manipulate the baloti (swamps). Here, my new Nikis took the mud, and surprisingly cleaned well. The ditches hold bush after bush of pussy willows with barely open slits of silken silver. Long ago, I looked down a long stretch of mud ruts. Now, a familiar rush of joy returns at the allowed recurrence of the experience, thousands of miles across the world, in a new millennium, during my waning years, with a different language surging in my brain to complete the circuit of my auditory system.

On his bike, carefully manipulating the path, a teenager approaches to help us with our things. His perception holds and he does not fall in the mud. He is carefully focused and well groomed, with the handsomeness and sharpness of his youth shining through. What paths of life will this boy manipulate with the careful practice gained in these muddy ruts? Observing the set, determined look on his face, he will proceed with life in a yet to be determined pathway of the fast unwinding global world. Tomorrow, in Novgorod, at Easter breakfast, the priest will pose the question, "What shall we teach the children in this new millennium?" I recall a recently read statement. "The modern poet will face a real challenge to express the rapid, complex life of the new century." Will the child of tomorrow not need the quietitude of the villages across the world?

Around the world, villages have customs unique to their areas, and perhaps known only to them. I was warmheartedly greeted with a gift of sap from a birch tree, gathered that morning by a brightly smiling teenaged boy. With the teacher and the class urging me to drink the liquid that had been gathered just for me, it became obvious that I was being incorporated into this joyous celebration of early spring.

It was in this spirit that the lessons began. With joy, we began the exploration of spring. As the Russian word for spring is written on the board, Tatyana informs me that the children would like to correct my spelling. "Of course." Happily and proudly, the Russian words manipulate my tongue. "What do you see in spring?" Understanding, the answers begin. A boy clearly and strongly states, "I saw a flower this week." He wrote his answer in Russian and English on the board. In my mind, I recall a purple crocus impeding the surrounding, crunchy snow at my friend's house. The surprise and impact of the first flower of spring is always astounding.

I understand there is something in Russia called "Flowers under the snow." This boy has strong convictions that there will be a rose. At his age, he knows that there will be a rose in Russia. It is my observation that Russian art portrays the rose in its great beauty. I am a woodcarver and on this trip I brought a carving of four perfect roses for my friend in Petersburg.

Continuing, I carefully print the Russian words for "What do you hear in spring?" A carefully prepared list both in English and Russian await reference. These sounds are not their first choice. A girl answers, "The wind." They answer "the leaves," seeking the word "rustling." They continue with the softer sounds clearly heard in their village.

It is intended to introduce Black poets of the Twentieth Century. Maya Angelou's "Tears" is posted for reference. For this, a very worn piece of towel with ragged edges and further tatters cut for emphasis was brought for illustration. With deep feeling, the words are examined.

My friend had previously described the swan song and the dying swan. Tatyana is asked to relate this in Russian. The poem takes on high intensity. Pointing to my head and my heart, I ask, "What is the soul? Where is it?" They look startled and puzzled. Michigan's Literacy Standards tells the value of learning to read. "Imagine what it would be like to be unable to read- to be denied Shakespeare's soaring English, Faulkner's serpentine sentences, Maya Angelou's cadences…."