Spring in the bride-basket of the world

As with all movies I saw hundreds of times as a kid, I grew desensitized to the true genius of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, the best romp through pioneer days since the game “Oregon Trail.” But this May, as I watch the baby animals skitter among tulips and gang-bang each other, those showtunes of my youth (e.g. “Bless Your Beautiful Hide,” “Goin’ Courting,” and “Spring Spring Spring”) again waft through my head.

If you’ve never seen this gem of MGM musicals, here’s the run-down. Howard Keel stars as a bass-toned, toothy backwoodsman who brings home a wife, thus inspiring his strapping-yet-socially-awkward brothers to find women of their own. They go about this via a midnight raid of the town’s daughters, grabbing the unsuspecting brides-to-be out of windows and tossing them into a wagon.

Their menfolk pursue the girls, but after crossing a mountain pass, the brothers whoop and holler and let off their pistols, and cause an avalanche that blocks the pass! So, all winter, the girls gradually succumb to Stockholm Syndrome and by spring, they frolic with the brothers in a Technicolor pastoral.

What’s at work here isn’t just a 1950s brand of compulsory heterosexuality. Rather, having endured two winters in the rough-and-tumble backwoods of Ukraine, I realize the reason is – Spring. From its first warm breath it leeches your reason, then catalyzes all kinds of freakish behavior.

I participated in such vernal rites on a recent excursion to Kholodnee Yar. The grounds include a nunnery and also battle site from a short-lived Ukrainian independence struggle in 1918-22. To celebrate that battle’s anniversary, a whole-day affair was organized, replete with booming cannons and pompous speeches.

At the height of the afternoon’s heat, we gathered on a hillside. Not knowing why, or what was expected of me, I wove in the crowd: Cossacks swaggered, with sun-seared bellies hanging over sashes where they’d slung knives, long moustaches drooping, bald pates dangling stringy braids. A Belarusian contingent in huge black fur hats circled huge drums, pounding and chanting, “Bel-a-rus! Bel-a-rus!” (A decent chant, but only because it copies ours; everyone knows “U-S-A” is the best chant, drowning out all others.)

Other men were more casual, in typical summer gear (mesh or sans shirt, baggy capris revealing that awkward stretch of hairy calf). Among the women, I observed matronly cleavage further cleft into etched wrinkles and promptly slathered my collarbone in more sunscreen. A group of secondary-schoolers (incredibly fresh-faced, as if their faces were nubs of amputated limbs) waved flags and banners, singing patriotic ballads with the pure tones of eunuchs.

A blast of pistol fire rang out. In the valley, a handful of men, dressed as Cossacks and Bolsheviks, scampered around the scant shrubbery, crouching and shooting and pretending to die. As the sulfurous odor ribboned the crowd, they cheered. I thought, This is DUMB.

To be fair, I think I enjoyed Civil War Days at Naper Settlement, the fake 19^th century town inside my town. As a kid (probably around the same time I was watching Seven Brides for Seven Brothers) I volunteered there, pretending to be a kid having fun in the 19^th century. This involved a lot of mashing corn with a wooden block into “meal” (which was hard because the corn was like the fake corn in Thanksgiving decorations) and knocking a hoop around with a stick. So, I suppose I can’t remove the splinter from my neighbor’s eye until I remove the log from my own … and then dance on the log!!!!! (See: barn-raising dance number.)

After the day’s pomp had ended, everyone went off to the forest for picnicking and, of course, toasting to the glory of Ukraine and her heroes. Someone named Vlad poured me a generous shot of samahone (homemade vodka), shoved a pickle into my mouth, then tried to feed me porridge. Although I became immediately wasted after taking the shot (but only for about five minutes because I was really sweaty), I explained that I was perfectly capable of eating my own porridge. Vlad accepted this, but called me a “hippie” and invited me to listen to Jimi Hendrix at his house.

Drunk off my ass or no, I find myself increasingly susceptible to the wiles of Ukrainian males. In turn, they sense my pheromones, and act accordingly; another specimen of masculinity named Sergei also came a-prowling after this schoolmarmly sack of bones. Sergei might have been wearing camo capris and a T-shirt emblazoned with Taras Shevchenko’s face surrounded by guns, but his eyes were as brown and deep as twin pools of my current water supply. Daaaayum, Sergei, do you want a WIFE???  

I’m kind of being an asshole in this entry, so let me say, I actually have met a number of kind, intelligent, lovely Ukrainians. But I’d never date one. My Ukrainian and Russian skills just aren’t good enough to send sexy text messages (my #1 method of goin’ courting), or to express myself like an intelligent adult. At one point in conversation, I stopped understanding the words coming out of Sergei’s mouth and just smiled, mute and infantile. He said sympathetically, “Maybe this is too philosophical for you.”

Uggggggh. Sorry, guy, but in order to marry me, one must recognize and adore My Genius. Back to square one, mooning down the lilac-scented roads, waiting for a swarthy young buck to throw a bag over my head and whisk me away.

Wait a second, I forgot something: At my 11^th formers’ graduation party, my favorite pupil Radion asked me to slow-dance! OK, so he’s 9 years old and his head only comes up to my waist, but he let me spin him around. Radion, I’ll totally wait for you to grow up. Spring, after all, is the season of hope.