02 September

A quick blink and another weekend has fizzled away. Something about the lack of anything to do does funny things to time, at least the difference between experiencing and perceiving it. At times it felt as though the back patio was the summation of my Georgian experience over the past 48 hours, the rain not lending the countryside to further traversing and exploration, and the only interruptions from reading and writing coming in the form of my host family or neighbors, the screeches and yells of the surrounding 6-14 year olds not always the best escape from my literary world. Last night was one of my favorite nights with my host parents and their friends however, the air crackling with post-funeral excitement, those who went to pay (and drink) their respects have survived the requisite gloom that pervades such gatherings, and have come to relish their standing in the world of the living. The rest of the night will saluted with another toast, and the realization of good company enjoyed more than another typical night as, for a brief window, everyone is in a higher stage of appreciation of the life that lies before them. Tomorrow such exuberance will be replaced by a lazy sluggishness as a hangover takes the place of such excitement, and the doldrums of their daily tasks will be looked at with more apprehension than the appreciation of today, at least until the next tragedy reaffirms perspective.

The Georgian tradition is something that I have had a hard time coming to grips with. The original culture shock of walking into a society that has not developed as the world I have existed in for the past 25 years has worn off, unfamiliarity giving why to exploration and the wondering of why, and eventually an appreciation for the change that has already occurred since Georgia has separated from the old Communist regime. The history of the village that I have come able to call home seems as though it was caught in a cyclical nature, generations of people named similar names or named after deceased relatives, kids and grandkids assuming control of an elders house or farm or both after a death in the family, the 2010 version of Giorgi or Annano ready to become version 3.0 of the 1930 Giorgi, ready to till the same farm land and clean the same house for another 60 year tenure. As though that repetition was not enough, the grandfathers and grandmothers, great great aunts and uncles are all buried within walking distance from the property line. The cemeteries are cared for and visited once a week, properly watered and wined (poured to form a cross) so the dead do not go thirsty, and a candle lit so they can read when the sun goes down. The reverence that has been driven into a new generation of Georgians is astounding, although the glass ceiling of their future is troubling. The concept of foreign travel has only begun to come as a spark to the locals, and I am using foreign to mean travelling out of this town, this village. Khabume has bred a new generation of caretakers and lawn maintenance workers, farmhands learning the trade of their fathers who learned it from their fathers and many fathers before, and in their off time memorized the rituals of caring for the gravestones of ancestors never met and abstractly known, the ‘what to do’ not fully incorporated with a ‘why we do,’ and my questions of rituals “why do you light a candle?” Why do you pour wine on the headstone?” Why do you plant basil plants at the cemetery entrance?”) go largely unanswered, met with an almost disdain of my ignorant question of what drives so much of their day to day motions.

I am not claiming that the traditions are backwards or the people a backwards farming community lost in tradition and unexplained ancestor worship. The mentality of caring for elders and remembering the family line that brought them here is admirable, and something that is not as valued in America. Funeral homes do not have the lucrative funeral business that exist in the states, no creepy men in black suits smelling like formaldehyde and using a moment of personal and familial grief to extort egregious sums of money for a dingy viewing room and hyper-expensive wooden box. Even more telling, retirement communities and nursing homes are nonexistent, younger generations seeing it as a duty and almost honor to care for aging family members, the happy and reverent second half of a cycle of care that brought these youngsters into the world now gracefully and respectfully usher another generation out.

The culture of death (or, perhaps euphemistically, the celebration of lives past?) is an unnerving one, and not one I have always been very comfortable with. The last time I went to a wake for a family member, everyone was left with the morose after taste of everyone else’s funeral wishes, aunts, uncles, and even parents thinking about their own mortality, and expressing to their loved ones how they wish to be remembered and mourned (very uncomfortable except for my dad, who “can’t stand this awkward standing around for a wake bullshit. Have everyone file through and take a couple of seconds to say their goodbye, and have an open tab running at the Irish pub next door.”). Luckily, many people seemed to have similar thoughts, and what started as groups of two or three people sneaking away to the pub (and Kristin and I thought we were being such rebels) turned into a mass exodus, partly spurred on by a shout from the ‘great-‘ generation (great aunt, uncle, or cousin, I am not sure) of “well this has been fun, see everyone in a couple of years for my turn.” In truth, I have allowed myself to drift so far away from the culture and idea of death, that the only time I have been to my grandfather’s gravesite was when it was still an unfilled hole. I carried the casket to the center of the mourning family members and friends, and left an hour later, the 21 gun salute still ringing in my ears.