My
father told me once that people from the city, deep down, longed for the green
grass, cornfields, and wide-open places of the country. Oh sure, those people
who built brand new houses in the middle of fields, once owned by old farmers
whose land had been in the family for generations, wanted to be there rather
than the city. Problem was, we didn’t want them and their snooty town-ness
around us. As much as they tried to fit in, their designer jeans, too-bright
smiles, and new cars didn’t blend well in rural Wisconsin. The ones who really
stuck out were the business people from Chicago. Sick of the rat race in the
Windy City, they wanted a simple “northern getaway.” The ones who stuck around
past late fall got exactly that: icy winds from Canada gusted and soon
brought snow, which drifted so high that the expensive SUV
often ended up in the ditch.
I
remember the first time that I ever saw an SUV. Growing up as a scrappy
farmer’s daughter, the only vehicles I ever saw were beat-up Chevy pickups,
families’ minivans, and the occasional teenager’s souped-up station wagon. My
father’s family had been farming the same land since Great-Great Grandpa
Schultz had come over on the boat in 1905. We took great pride in our heritage
as people who worked the fields to provide for our dairy cows. My father used
to say when I was little, “Ellie, some people think that milk and cheese come
from a store, not from our cows. Can you believe that?” Of course I couldn’t. I
had no idea that people saw the world so differently than myself.
The summer that our neighbor, Jim Borkwoski,
decided to finally sell his field
property my daddy volunteered my brothers and I as free labor. We helped him with
stone-picking, mowing the ditches, and clearing the treelines of brush. Borkowski would let us younger kids
ride in the tractor cab with him if the day was especially hot. One such day,
while we were driving along Otter Road, a huge, green monster of a vehicle
almost sideswiped us. Its driver had taken that curve along the crick too fast
but had the nerve to blare on his horn, as if a tractor on a country road was
an unexpected sight. As soon as he had passed and Borkowski finished grumbling about
“those damned city slickers” who “can’t drive worth a s***,” I asked the old
farmer about that strange truck. Borkowski scowled, his weathered face
crinkling up like a dried apple. “That was an SUV, Ellie. A big waste of money
if you ask me.”
Being six or so at the time, my natural response
was, “Why?”.
Borkowski chuckled, “Because, kiddo. City
people always need something that’s bigger, better, and faster than what they
already have. They’re never content to go slow and steady like us farmers. That
SUV is a waste of money because it’s something that they don’t really need or
want.”
“Well, what do they want?”
“Heck if I know! I still wonder that
myself.”
Old Man Borkowski, a ‘Nam vet and retired
farmer, wasn’t much to look at what with his crooked back, weather-beaten
features, and balding head, but he always seemed a lot wiser than he let on. I
had a lot of respect for that old-timer, however cantankerous he could be. Not long after his son, Mikey, had
died, Borkowski decided that he
had had enough of a hard life and deserved a rest. The stubborn Polack had
struggled to keep things going as best he could with his nephews and cousins –
first selling the cattle and farm equipment, then leasing the fields to
relations, later demolishing the old barn and sheds for scrap lumber. Finally,
he gave in and sold the whole 150 acres for real estate. I think it killed a
part of him to do that, but he really had no choice because none of the locals were
willing to take on more work than they already had.
Although he sold the acreage, Borkowski
couldn’t bring himself to leave the place entirely. After fifty-or-so years of
working the same fields, he remained tied there by memories and a sort of
loyalty. He kept the little white farmhouse and surrounding property, refusing
to be forced into a nursing home, which I think was best; the nurses there
probably would have gotten fed up with his grumpiness. Mikey’s wife and kids
moved in with him, leaving their house on the east side of the pond. He
bellyached for a week or so, claiming the need for peace and quiet, but we all
knew that he needed someone to keep an eye on him. Besides, grieving is lonely
enough without making yourself lonely.
Within a year or so, several families had
purchased lots and built houses on Borkowski’s property – that is, what used to
be his. My brothers and I secretly wished that no one would build on the other side
of the pond, but all of those hopes were shattered by Ms. Jane Carter, a newly
divorced attorney from Chicago.
Though I had many reasons for disliking
the woman, much of my prejudice against her was because she chose to build her
gigantic house in the back field west of the pond. Because Borkowski had known my father since he was
“a helluva lot smaller than you,” the crotchety farmer had allowed my siblings
and I, along with a few other neighborhood kids, to trek through the pine woods
and use the pond. Damn, but I was furious when I learned that we couldn’t go
there anymore.
Borkowski’s pond was one of my favorite
places. Its murky, spring-fed
water was chilly until late July, but my brothers and I would be there once
school let out in May, sometimes pushing each other off the creaky dock when we
weren’t attempting to catch frogs or bullheads with old fishing nets. August
was always the “swimming month” in my family since it was at that time that the
sun was usually the hottest, and it felt wonderful to swim after working in the
garden, mowing the lawn, or helping with hay chopping during a particularly humid
day. If Borkowski’s nephew, Andy Epson, hadn’t cleared away the cattails every
spring, there probably wouldn’t have been any space to swim with everything
grown up like the surrounding marsh.
Ms. Jane Carter moved to our area the
year I turned ten, some time around deer season. I remember because the day she
moved in, Borkowski stopped by to meet her. He wasn’t a very social person but
tried to be friendly to the newcomers anyway. He had gone bow hunting the day
before with Andy, so there were two bucks strapped to the top of his truck. Now
this is a common sight for country folk. We didn’t so much as blink an eye, but
Ms. Jane Carter hadn’t gotten the open season memo.
She was a rather skinny woman with sharp
features and a beak-like nose that poked out of her face. Her pale complexion
was contrasted by her inky-black hair, which she always wore pulled back in a
tight bun at the nape of her neck, while her glasses sat perched at the end of
her nose. She had a shrill warble of a voice, and her expressions were very
much like her clothes: severe, professional, and tailored.
As soon as she and Borkowski had
exchanged some-what friendly greetings, Ms. Jane Carter caught sight of the
deer. She swooped down on the old man like a bird of prey. Shrieking and
flapping her arms, Ms. Jane Carter demanded an explanation.
“Who the hell do you think you are, bringing
those ANIMALS on my property?! You can’t just go around killing animals and
bringing them here!”
Borkowski, though a bit shocked,
responded in kind, “Ma’am, it’s deer season, for Pete’s sake! It wasn’t my
intention to get you all riled up. I just came back from hunting and -.”
“I don’t care what season it is. I want
you to take those animals off of my property this instant!” Her voice cracked
with emotion. According to Borkowski’s retelling of the incident, she was one
of those people who believed hunting
was a sin.
I won’t go on to describe the rest of
their conversation as I heard it retold by my father, but suffice it to say
that it didn’t leave a good first impression on either Ms. Carter or Borkowski.
He finally left, deer in tow, and Ms. Carter kept a lookout the rest of the day
for meddling neighbors. We all did our best to be pleasant if we saw her
out-and-about, but most people kept their distance after hearing about her
temperamental behavior from Borkowski.
Several weeks later, my father and I were
out deer spotting one evening in our woods bordering Otter Road when we heard
squealing tires and scraping metal. Once we got closer to the road, we saw an
SUV half stuck in the crick bed, spinning its tires for all it was worth.
“Well, I’ll be darned, Ellie. I think
that’s Ms. Carter,” exclaimed my father.
Upon our approach, we found this to be
true. She looked rather shaken up but determined to get herself out of the
predicament alone. Waving us away, she called, “I’m just fine, thank you.”
My father wasn’t convinced, since all she
was doing was digging her vehicle deeper into the mud. “Ms. Carter, my truck’s
parked a mile or two up the road. I’m going to leave my daughter here with you
while I get it and a good-sized chain to get you out of there.”
Despite all of her protests, my father simply
shrugged, patted me on the shoulder, and asked me to keep her company. “See if
you can calm her nerves,” he suggested. “I’ll be back soon.”
Seeing that my father was serious, Ms.
Carter turned off the monstrous SUV, leaving the headlights on, and sat back in
her seat without acknowledging me. I didn’t know what to say except, “Pretty
night, ain’t it?”
I guess that wasn’t the right thing to
say at the time because she turned to me, her features all scrunched up in a
frown, and then began to cry.
Awkwardly, I handed her my pocket hankie,
which she accepted and blew her bird nose. “Don’t worry. My daddy will be back
soon.”
She sniffed and gave me a small smile,
which softened her face a little. “I’m not accustomed to having people help me.
I like to take care of my own things in my own way.”
“Oh, I understand that, ma’am, but it’s
always good to know when to accept people’s help too. Don’t city people help
each other?”
She began to cry again. Not knowing what
to do, I patted her shoulder and introduced myself. “My name’s Ellie, short for
Elvira. Your name’s Ms. Jane Carter. Borkowski told us back when you first
moved here. He said you don’t like deer.”
She laughed a little and hiccupped from
her tears. “Thank you, Ellie. I’m sure I didn’t make myself very welcome for
the outburst, did I?”
“No, but you sure gave us something to
talk about!”
She laughed even harder and asked me
about myself. I told her lots of stories until my daddy came back, including
some about Borkowski’s pond. She nodded and smiled, though I don’t think that
she understood some of what I told her.
“Well Miss Ellie,” she said, once she was
back on the road and had thanked my father, “I’ll know from now on not to drive
like a crazy person at night. Thank you for talking with me. Would you like to
stop by my house some time and show me around the pond? I haven’t had time to
see it yet and would appreciate a guide.”
Beaming, I answered proudly, “I’ll show
you all of the best places to find cattails, Ms. Carter!”
She laughed quietly. “And Ellie, you may
call me ‘Jane.’”
Almost every Bollywood film has an element of romance, and most of these include love triangles, arranged marriages, unrequited love, etc. Granted, some of it gets sappy, but because of traditional Indian culture, there is usually no explicit sexual material. Although modern Bollywood may include risqué material, anything before the early 2000's doesn't even include kissing. ***note: Some Americans may object to the different view of modest dress; dance numbers often include bare backs/midriffs.***
the point is that it's not meant to be taken accurately most of the time. Since life in India is often hard and impoverished, films are a form of escape from reality. Thus, the entertainment is not the equivalent of a documentary for Americans. If we should expect Indian films to accurately portray the harshness of the average Indian life, shouldn't they expect the same from us? Pretty sure that would mean that this:
