august 1969.

This is Blaženko, in his corner of the little shed, that was his food pot. He never really licked it through, so it acquired a crust and looked mostly awful, specially when there was squas stew, which he simply refused to eat. Well I didn't like that either, because granma made it with vinega.

The other big thing which happened this summer was the reshaping of the gateside part of the house. The old špajz (i.e. pantry) was halved; the wall between it and the kitchen thinned down and then finally torn; a bit of new wall, in the place where the wall was, was built with a supporting concrete beam between the old wall and this new part (to hold the ceiling). The anteroom ("predsoblje" is best translated so), which was built in 1963 was also reshaped - the main door was not gateside, but facing the yard, in the space where the window was now. The space between the door and the gateside wall was converted into a bathroom - because we were finally getting water mains. Getting the water before wasn't that hard for us, because the public well was just behind the house (in the sidestreet); the whole neighborhood was getting the water from it, and since it required a heavier pump (drilled to 125m, best water around), it didn't have the usual lever, but two heavy flywheels with a handle on the one facing the house, which you used as a crank. The weight of the flywheels helped surmount the top and bottom positions of the shaft, by sheer inertia. It was a matter of pride for us kids to be able to spin it fast enough to last a few turns, so while we got to the pipe (which was three meters away and pointing in the opposite direction, to the road) while the water was still running. Drinking from it was also a matter of skill, as the pipe was the high point of the system, so there was no continuous flow, it was sloshing out as the piston worked. We got it into our noses many times. I got used to the taste of iron in the water, which was there anyway, no matter which pipes.

The other well, which we had in the yard (converted from dip-bucket-on-cranked-chain into a simple lever pump back in 1963) was now to be the septic tank. Everybody did that, as the sewers in the street won't be built for at least another 20 years, and then the water was at only 3m depth, so it wasn't potable anyway.

The bathroom is tiny (still is); the 60cm thick pressed clay wall between it and the kitchen had to be thinned to about half so the bathtub would fit. They assumed the old clay would crumble, but it was really tough and had to be chiseled by axes, and I saw sparks jumping at times. The tiles were supposed to be checkered blue and white (well, mostly blue and kind of white, what could be found), but they weren't the same size, a millimeter or more off, so it's in stripes. Even a separate faucet for the washer was installed (and the washer was bought later in the winter), and italian lavabo and crapper, italian faucets for the lavabo and tub, with the telephone showerhead. Most of these things lasted for decades (except the faucets and the crapper lid and flush tank). Today (45 years later) - the tiles are all in place (some cracks on the wall, because the drunk Živa Sejin who built the walls didn't put the 2000 bricks into the foundation as my dad told him, saved at least half); the crapper has a few nicks and cracks but is still in place; the faucets lasted perhaps 25 years, currently going through the 2nd or 3rd set; the heater above the tub (and the tub) still like new; the three-piece mirror above the lavabo now moved to the side wall and a new one put instead. The toilet flush lasted until 2012. The toilet seat now won't stand upright because this new flush uses a thicker hose, pushing it off the wall. Washer, 2nd or 3rd. Water heater, fixed several times (cleanup, replace thermostat and/or heater element) and still works.

Eventually, some time in september, this was finished. Meanwhile, school started and I went through another ordeal of take pictures, cut my hair, be sad for a day, wait for the next summer. It didn't get to grow too long, though, as I had a haircut in may or june, and it wasn't growing that fast back then. I wasn't a blonde anymore, at least most of the year - a few weeks in the sun in the summer would turn me very light brown, and my eyebrows and what hairs I had on my body (not much back then) would be pure blonde. I would catch good tan, so this stood out.

The ditch where the water main was led into the bathroom and to the garden faucet was filled in and it was my job to tamp it down. I didn't quite understand what I should do, or how was it supposed to work, so I did a quick job of it. Later in the winter, when dad tried to drive the fića into the shed (the very narrow space between the wall and the stacked coal, which he barely exited, luckily he drove in backwards and the doors had the hinges the wrong way, in the back, so the door handle was in front), his rear wheel sank into mud to the axle. Had to prop it by some long wood beams and put some planks under so it would gain traction. No damage, but no garage that winter. He could drive over when it froze but what if it thawed when he needed the car?

Two notable events in the America this month - Manson's massacre and Woodstock festival, spaced barely tensome days. For the next few years I'll be in a situation at least twice a year when I'd be forced to explain that the length of [one's] hair has nothing to do with Manson's utter insanity, nope, I was always suspect, the dirty propaganda manages to put the connection into [public] opinion. Two-three years later someone forged a good counterargument, „Hitler also wore pants, so what now, should we stop wearing them to avoid being connected with him?“.

And the news of Woodstock did arrive, with lots of photographs and mandatory disclaimers how there were ungainly scenes and drugs were consumed. The at least hundred thousand times people fucked was not mentioned.

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Mentions: Blaženko, fića, Sejini, in serbian

12-IX-2014 - 15-I-2026