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Spent
the day on my fave forms of wheeled
transport--bikes and trains.
Mission: travel 128 km to Stara Rise
to pick up a copy of my father's
birth certificate. I'd called ahead
so the city hall of the tiny town
where my father was born in 1920 had
it ready. It would take 3 links on
progressively smaller trains to get
there. The first one was 15 minutes
late and I worried I'd miss my
connection and the whole day would
be a waste but to my pleasant
surprise they'd held the 2nd train
and I hoisted my bike aboard. Three
trains in 3 hours and I was in Telc.
From there only 10 km to Stara Rise
along auto route 23, but it was a
slow go with much elevation gain, a
big chunk of it up a 12% grade. I
found the city hall where a woman
cleaning a sheet of Plexiglas
informed me that both mayor and
clerk were gone to Telc on business.
They'd be back in an hour or so; I
was welcome to wait. I sat on a
concrete planter and ate a snack.
The woman walked away with the sheet
and a battery-powered drill. I asked
if she needed help. Really?
Well, yes... She handed me the
drill and I followed her down the
hill to the village square where the
Plexi was to go back in place
covering the town's tourist
info board. The drill died
immediately but I was able to use it
as a cumbersome screwdriver, turning
it with two hands. I felt I'd
contributed something to the civic
life of my father's hometown. I
waited on a bench as my new
acquaintance dug up some plants. The
square was to be re-landscaped and
she didn't want the flowers to go to
waste. A friend of hers stoppped by
and she started handing him flowers,
asking when was the last time he'd
given some to his wife? (For all I
know, he could have been her
husband.) Not for a long time, he
admitted. He turned to me and told
what his father used to say: We
give flowers to goats. Women
aren't goats, so it would be an
insult to give them flowers. He
was 55 now but maybe it wasn't be
too late to change. After an hour
and a half, the mayor and clerk
returned. I got the paper I'd come
for and asked if I could see my
father's father's birth record,
which was scripted
in archival ink in an
oversized tome that held generations
of village history. I learned the
names of my paternal
great-grandparents: Jan and Rosalia.
I then asked where my father had
lived before he went to university
in Prague some time around 1938.
Number 39 (above right),
just past the church out on the edge
of town. It didn't look as if much
had changed. The house didn't say
anything. Riding out of there it
struck me that Moravia looks a bit
like the Pacific Northwest, forested
mountains blue in the distance,
laden lumber trucks rumbling through
smalltown intersections. Leaving was
easy, the hills carried me down and
away from a gap that had been filled
but remained a
mystery. |
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