Hryts on Christmas

By Walter Kish

Beset by the financial crisis in Canada, combined with the political crisis, not to mention the social crisis of having too many Christmas parties to go to and not enough liver and kidney capacity, I did what I usually do in such situations and called my cousin Hryts in Pidkamin. 

Hryts, besides being my cousin, has also become my most trusted advisor in all things.  Despite having spent most of his life in the village that he likes to call the poopchyk (navel) of Western Ukraine, Hryts has managed to acquire a “down-to-earth” wisdom that seems to transcend not only geographical but philosophical constraints as well.  I asked him once how come he knew so much, seeing as he’s spent almost all his life in a small backwater town, famous mostly for the strange rock on the hill above the town and the quality of its garlic and horseradish.

As usual he laughed at my ignorance.

“What do you know, you smarkach (runny-nosed kid!).  Just because you’re from the big city you think you’re so smart.  My cabbages in the garden know more than you do.  This town has been in existence for some eight hundred years.  It has one of the oldest monasteries in Ukraine, started by monks who fled Kyiv when the Mongols decided to take their summer vacations in Ukraine back in the Thirteenth Century.  We have seen wars, famines, Polish rule, Tatar rule, Kozak rule, Russian rule, Nazi rule, feudalism, communism, dictatorship, democracy and Yushchenkism.  This last one I am still trying to figure out, since it doesn’t quite fit into any rational political ideology that I know of. I think our dear Victor has been stung by one too many bees from that hive he keeps as a hobby. Obviously, that bee must be a close relative of Yulia Tymoshenko.

In any case, all that experience has seeped into the very soil giving wisdom to all that grow on this land, including me and the kapusta (cabbages).  Even this burak (beet) in my hand has more culture and common sense than you do!”

“You may be right,” I said.  “Maybe that’s also why I like borscht so much!”

“So”, I continued trying to change the subject, “with all the political and economic troubles Ukraine is facing, I guess it’s going to be a bleak Christmas, eh?”

“Oh my,” he sighed. “Living in all that modern decadence in Canada has sucked the values out of you faster than the oligarchs here have sucked the wealth out of this country.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying…” I stuttered hesitantly.

“You poor dear!  Tell me, my young smarkach, - what does Christmas have to do with politics or economics?  Did the Three Wise Men come to see Jesus in the Manger to get his views on how to deal with a recession or the benefits of supply-side economics?  Tell me which one of the gospels offers a treatise on the best political structure for an emerging democracy.”

I stammered out something unintelligible, not knowing what to say.

“Don’t you know that Christmas is one of the few times of the year that you can thumb your nose at reality, forget the trials and disappointments of every day life and indulge in something truly remarkable and joyful!” he continued.

“And what is that?” I asked sheepishly.

“Why, hope, of course! Pure unadulterated and possibly irrational hope!  But hope, nonetheless.  If the birth of one impoverished little child two thousand years ago could change the world the way it did, then anything is possible.  The one thing no politician or crook can steel from us is hope.  It is the most valuable gift we can give anybody, and the most joyful present we can receive.  So, Volodiu, I have a bumper crop of hope this year and would dearly love to share some of it with you!”

“Hrytsiu, I don’t know what to say, except to wish you the very happiest of Christmases!”

“That it will surely be, my friend. That it will surely be!”