A sad and lovely visit to another world

So, there I was, undressing in a corn field in rural Romania with a gathering of curious sheep watching from across a dirt road.

It was my own fault for catching the plane wearing a fire-engine red shirt, blue jeans, and sandals.  It never occurred to me that Nicoleta’s brother would pick us up from the airport in Budapest, Hungary and drive us straight to the wake of their father. He tried to be polite about it, but I could tell my faux pas was a grievous one.

Once properly dressed in the dark clothing of respect, I got back in the car, and Frank and I went on to the tiny village of Semlac to grandmother’s house.

There the body of Valerian Chiriac lay surrounded by his family and many friends. And there I made good on my promise to Nicoleta to say goodbye in person to her daddy.

Due to the insanity and heartlessness of immigration officials, she could not get a visa to attend the funeral and return to the U.S. to finish nursing school. (Although the office of Congressman Jeff Miller tried valiantly to move them, even up to the Washington level.)

So, Frank and I went in her place and spent two weeks in Lipova where we were treated like family and learned about the rich and colorful heritage of Georgeta, Cosmin, Larisa, Valentina and little Kevin.

At the wake, we sat among the mourners in stifling heat and oppressive sadness.

Since Romanian passions are intense, I witnessed women fainting and heard the loud plaintive wailing of a people who are only too familiar with pain and loss. Elderly ladies in baticuri (head scarves) served bread and water to everyone gathered in the charming little farmhouse where the clucking of chickens and the howling of dogs joined in a symphony of sorrow along with dirge singers from the village church. Floral wreaths, too many to count, hung from lines strung across the courtyard, filling the night breezes with the fragrance of roses and lilies.

The funeral the next afternoon began at 2 p.m. in the same little house with friends bringing more flowers and expressions of “condoleance.”

The dirge choir again sang songs of mourning and again black-clad ladies served bread and water. The funeral service at 4 p.m. took place outdoors in the yard where the glass-topped casket was centered with all the immediate family standing close around it.

The eulogy and pastoral messages were followed by the reading of a special farewell letter from Nicoleta to her father. When it was read, almost everyone responded in heart-broken sobs.

It helped my emotional dignity not to be able to understand a word as I’m sure I would have “lost it” at that point.

A driver with his horse-drawn wagon stood by waiting to take the man who had died too young to the old country churchyard on a hill.

After the final prayer, the casket was placed on the wagon, and everyone gathered behind it, walking the distance to the cemetery. A brass band playing funeral hymns, all of which I recognized, accompanied the group as villagers came out of their houses to stand and bow their heads in respect.

The pastor said a few words at the gravesite. Then the pall bearers, wearing towels pinned to their shoulders (a symbol of weeping), shoveled the dirt into the grave as more wailing and fainting followed. As we left the graveyard just at sunset, a train stopped on the tracks below the hill, and the engineer blew a mournful whistle of tribute to a good man who was his co-worker in the Romanian train system.

The remainder of our time was filled with meeting lovely people even when it was not possible to have a conversation, and I discovered that “connecting” with others can be done remarkably well without actual language.

Our time there also introduced us to wonderfully strange food, STRONG coffee, outdoor toilets and indoor toilets that flushed with a lever or chain. And, I wondered why all the toilet paper was pink.

It meant shopping in open-air markets, going to church and hearing familiar songs and scriptures but in another language. It meant waiting for the sheep or cows to get off the road so we could continue driving on. It meant amazing kindness from people who made sacrifices to ensure their guests received the best of what they had to offer.

It meant a time in my life I will never forget.

Mary Ready of Destin is a twice-retired English teacher and long-time area resident. Her columns are published on Saturdays.