Praying for Ukraine in the muck of March

I first encountered the words ‘Ukraine’ and ‘Kiev’ in my high school’s band room in the 1960s. The band was getting ready for a concert and we were playing a magnificent piece of music by Russian composer Modest Mussorgsky, a piece called “The Great Gate of Kiev,” part of a suite of songs entitled “Pictures at an Exhibition.” Written 150 years ago, “Kiev” will last for another couple of centuries, as it is unforgettable, glorious music. Long after rock ’n’ roll has faded from the earth Mussorgsky’s masterpiece will carry on. Please check it out. You may be surprised that you are familiar with it.

Every night on the news I watch as tens of thousands of Ukrainians wait at train stations, hoping to get out, no longer considering the schedules up on the big boards above the tracks, hoping against hope that Russia will back down. I have been in glorious, old European train stations hundreds of times and every news cycle breaks my heart. A train station is supposed to be a place of hope, a place of moving on to another place, a bit of chaos leading to a promising future, not a place of escape. Pray for the Ukrainians.

Walking to my garage the other day I had to stop and look to the east, not for any religious reasons, unless you count appreciating wildlife as a religion, and perhaps it is. Anyway, I could hear them approaching from a long way off, honking away, two Canada geese winging their way west, low overhead, chatting with each other in loud voices. Perhaps they were arguing. Going west was something many of us considered decades ago, an American dream but, well, here we are. Geese head west and we stay here.

Soon we’ll experience the melt and muck of March. I’ll be honest: I detest March. I have, for a number of decades, been the one who keeps the house clean and folks tracking mud into my house is not something I appreciate. They don’t mean anything by it, I suppose, but my gosh. I shouldn’t travel this road: there are so many things I’d change regarding husband/wife relationships and responsibilities at home, but now is not the time to discuss it.

I’m told we are in the midst of what is called March Madness which, as I understand it, pits the best university basketball programs against each other until there is a national champion. I suppose that’s important. A writer friend some years ago said, and I’m paraphrasing here: if a couple of years after graduation you still care about how well your school is doing in sports then you didn’t get a good education. It’s more than a bit snarky, but it gives me something to ponder. He may have been on to something but alas, like so many others, he is gone.

Again, dusk, and about a dozen deer are grazing in the field in front of my house. All but two are moving gently and quietly across the grass, while the two are clearly young, sprinting and leaping around the field at full tilt, playing with each other, stopping on a dime, changing direction quickly. I envy their youth. It looks fun. Like so much in life, they’re beautiful.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press