Zagare

Who'd a thunk it!? Those of you who know me, know that my ears perk up when I hear Road Trip. I have traveled to many places on the globe, but I certainly have a whole lot more to see. There is so much out there. It is an entirely different experience to go somewhere in person than it is to read about it or Google it.

A few years ago I was in Zagare, LT exploring the town with a lovely lady. She is a teacher at the school and has made preserving the iron crosses of the region her mission. It is the school project to collect them and build a museum around them. Currently, they are being housed in a delightful wooden church at the top of a hill just outside of town. The church sits atop a knoll that is the graveyard. I have never seen anything quite lke it. Each grave is set off in its own rectangle. Someone, I imagine it is the remaining family, tends to the spot. Each grave has its own personality in the flowering plants and arrangement of the area. It is certainly not a graveyard as we know them in America. No freshly-mown green grass with gravestones all in rows. Each plot here is stikingly individual.

We walked to the top of the knoll through the graves until we reached the church. Inside the nave are pictures of many of the crosses and where they came from. The iron crosses are displayed throughout the church with some of their histories. No pews were evident but services continue in this tiny church. The altar was at the far end of the church. The altar cloths had been preserved from a bygone era. They were from before Soviet times, and yet they were still beautiful. They had not disintegrated, but looked fresh as the day they were made.

After a bit, we went upstairs to the choir loft. The stone staircase had been built ages ago to accomodate tiny people. I am not that tall but I could not stand up in this stairway. It was a circular stairway with stone steps that had huge halfmoons from many years of use. I began the ascent. It was like climbing up a waterslide - about as slippery and certainly treacherous. I had to lean on the walls to make the turns. I used the flash from my camera to see where I was going. One of the things I love about Lithuania is the complete disregard for public safety. There are no cocoons, no safety nets. It seems that Lithuanians assume that you are intelligent enough to see that it is dangerous and will act accordingly. I like that about them. The EU is changing all of that. It is probably a good thing but it certainly shows what morons we can be, but that is another discussion entirely.

At the top of the steps is a fabulous pipe organ. Thank you, Curt, for teaching me about pipe organs so many years ago. I could appreciate what I was looking at. The organ had been there for many years. It had to be at least pre-Soviet, which is 17 plus 50 years ago minimum and I would guess it was older than that even. It was still in good working order. The bellows were in fine shape, still supple. Every Sunday it is played for those who come to services at the church. The keyboard had two ranks and quite a few extra keys for variety. You organists will appreciate what that means. Imagine finding such a thing in a little village on the border between Lithuania and Latvia. Even more amazing is that it still works well and is tended to regularly. Many of these organs in the States have been abandoned because of the cost of maintenance and that there are so few who still know how to maintain them.

Amazing as the organ was, it was not the highlight of the visit. Behind the mighty organ was the choir loft. We walked around the organ to see the pews for the choir. They are still there and in their midst was a huge kettle drum. It was obviously old but had been taken care of. There was no dust to be seen. The teacher told me that the drum had been there for safe-keeping for some time. We all know the story of Napoleon and his failed march on Russia. His retreat took him through Lithuania. Apparently, Zagare had the pleasure of hosting his visit on the way back to Paris. His little drummer boy hoisted the big kettle drum to the choir loft along with other instruments so that Napoleon could enjoy an evening service. Napoleon asked the priest to take care of his drum until he returned for it. It may be that many of his soldiers were sick and dying and there was no one to carry it. It has been in the choir loft ever since.

I just stood there, in awe. It had been painted a military blue, a sort of deep blue and had been gilded with gold, probably the real thing and then lacquered. The drum is over three hundred years old and yet it still resonates. She asked if I would like to play it. I was speechless. My first thought was Museum! Do Not Touch! Oils on my hands! I can vividly remember those words screaminng through my mind. Then I came to my senses. Would I ever have a chance like this again? Of course not, and so I hesitantly reached out for it. It was smooth to the touch. No dust here. I ran my fingers over the skin. It was still supple. I imagine it could still be played. The body was solid and smooth. I tapped it a few times and it sounded like a drum. I tapped a bit of a tattoo that I could remember and it sounded great. OK, remember that I am not a musician so it probably sounded horrendous in terms of music, but it was awesome that it sounded like a drum to me. To be that old and in such a remote place and to be still a viable instrument made my skin tingle.

A salute to the teacher and her determination to save the heritage of her town.