Meeting the first of the Village People opened the floodgates. Of course, there couldn't be much of a flood in a village of fewer than 200 souls. Still, that long day with Joze marked the beginning of my integration into Goce. People started waving to me on the street and exchanged "dober dans" with me. I wasn't yet an insider, nor would I ever be a native. I was just happy that people here seemed willing to accept an American neighbor -- even one who couldn't speak Slovene.
I really wanted to meet the family living next door. After all, we were within three feet of their front door every time we left the house. Their house is what Running Man (RM) calls "renewed," with crisp white stucco covering the stone, a new tile roof, and a stone-studded concrete paver patio stretching the length of the front of the house, shaded by a vine-covered pergola and filled with dozens of flowering potted plants. It's a cool and colorful place and the inhabitants spend many hours sitting there while a little girl plays on the patio and on the asphalt of the street that meets the concrete. Their house starts one of the "spokes" from the heart of the village that concludes with the end of my house that overlooks the vineyards and valley. Their house is connected to another old and crumbling stone house and barn where chickens strut in the walled yard behind large iron gates. That house and barn is connected to my barn which is connected to my house. The stone wall perpendicular to the right side of the old farm's gate, and the backside of another old farmhouse, form the tunnel-like passage that leads to my gates. That's what makes my courtyard so private. Since that passage is part of my property, that's where RM usually parks the van. We can't come or go without this neighbor noticing.
It appeared that the household comprised an older lady, two younger women, one blond and one brunette, a younger man and the darling little girl with huge blue eyes who looked to be about three. The older lady was the one who had been the keeper of the keys to my house, no doubt taking care of things since the former owners rarely stayed here. She's petite, with short, dark hair and those stylish eyeglasses. She makes multiple trips to and from a garden on the hill behind my house, traveling the dirt road that runs behind it. From the looks of the thriving garden and the colorful patio, she must possess a very green thumb.
I still hadn't been able to determine the times for Mass at St. Andrew's Church in the middle of the village. RM and I had checked at different times to see if Mass times were posted or if the church was open, but neither of us had been successful. With the weekend approaching, I suggested we ask "the lady next door" to find out. We walked over and found the front door standing open, which is common in the village. RM stuck his head in and shouted a greeting in Slovene that brought the lady out into the central hallway. She smiled, replied to RM and waved us into the house. Her name is Maria and she introduced us to her brunette daughter, Andreja, and the charming little girl, Spela (pronounced "shpay-luh"). Maria invited us to sit down in the kitchen where Spela was curled up on Andreja's lap watching a cartoon on the television, her big, expressive eyes moving back and forth between RM and me and the cartoon. RM and Maria chatted for several minutes before he stood to leave. I uttered "me veseli" and "nasvidenje" (nice to meet you and goodbye) and we walked our few steps back home with RM recounting their conversation. We'd broken the proverbial ice with a little small talk.
Two days later, my back was making small talk with me. The air mattress had to go. I hadn't shipped any of my possessions to Slovenia and I didn't have the money to go out and buy new things. Instead, RM had I had been quite inventive with all of the furniture the previous owners had left behind.
When I bought the house, there were five large daybeds in it. Each of them had faux wood, laminate-covered backs and sides, a big humped upholstered seat and two large drawers for storage underneath. RM and I now looked at the four we'd moved into the barn, trying to figure out how to construct a bed from two of them. After a bit of discussion, we decided we could take the arms off one of them and use the back and seat as a headboard and half of the mattress, then remove the back and arms of another one, push the two together and leave the drawers of the backless one facing outward for storage. Clever, huh. But we faced one big problem -- how to remove the pieces that needed to come off. They weren't attached to the base with screws or nails. In fact, even after we moved them out into the courtyard and turned them upside down and inside out, we couldn't figure out how they were assembled. We needed a saw.
The house had also come with several very old saws of various types. RM tried a couple on the laminate-covered material but couldn't get any teeth into them. We needed a power saw.
RM had met Maria's son, Rado, the day after we'd gone to their house. He and his wife, Kristina, and their daughter, Spela, live there with his mom and sister, in the multi-generational way many families live in Slovenia. Rado had a factory job down in the valley and a bull in the barn that he raised for slaughter. He also cut and sold firewood and, of course, owned vineyards and made wine. Surely, he would have a saw we could borrow.
RM headed next door and I went back into the house to continue cleaning, sorting and organizing. All of the sudden, I heard the unmistakable roar of a chainsaw. I rushed out into the courtyard and saw RM holding onto the back of one of the daybeds while a young burly guy with short-cropped hair wielded a chainsaw, slicing off the side of the daybed amid a cloud of flying sawdust. RM was smiling. The other guy, whom I assumed was Rado, looked seriously focused on the task at hand.
"Oh, my gosh," I thought. "What in the heck is that going to look like when he gets done?" "A chainsaw?" "Really?"
I could do nothing but stand in the doorway watching Rado sweep the heavy chainsaw through the air and through my furniture, a la "Texas Chainsaw Massacre." When he finished, he shut off the saw, mumbled something to RM then abruptly left the courtyard. He moved like a small bull with his broad shoulders hunched forward, muscular arms curved away from his torso, head down, taking long strides, each foot landing with purpose and authority.
"You couldn't find someone with a circular saw?" I asked RM as the dust settled, a slight bit of irritation in my voice.
"No, darling," RM said, his "darling" sounding like "dahhhling," as usual.
"Can you believe it?" RM said. "Rado did the work eins, zwei, drei!" he said, making a dusting motion with his hands. (That's "one, two, three" for those of you who don't speak German.)
It was like he'd brought a cannon to kill a fly. I walked over to take a closer look at the beds, my heart filled with fear. But amazement replaced the horror I had anticipated. The cuts were straight, clean and smooth as if made by a surgeon.
"Okay, that guy should be one of those people who sculpts statues from tree trunks using a chainsaw!" I said to RM.
"And, we can buy wood for the stove from him for the winter," RM said with a smug look of satisfaction.
All of the sudden, Rado the bull strode back into the courtyard. This time, RM introduced us to each other. Rado doesn't speak English but told RM his wife does. At least I'd be able to communicate with one person in my neighbor's house.
Apparently, Rado had come back to help RM move the heavy daybeds, or what was left of them, into the house. How nice for me. All I had to do was tell them where to put the two pieces then run the vacuum over them to clean up the sawdust.
When they finished, RM told me that Rado had invited us next door for, of course, a glass of his wine. What a country. He comes here to do us a favor then invites us over to share his wine. Rado's wife, Kristina, was home so I was able to converse with someone other than RM. She apologized for her English as has every Slovenian I've met who speaks English. I told her that her English was far better than my Slovene. She actually speaks quite well.
Everyone in the household was there in the kitchen, sharing food and wine with us. Little Spela, who I found out was not quite three years old yet, started talking to me, her high-pitched little voice expressing words I couldn't understand. Like me, she was learning Slovene, although with far greater ease, I'm sure. She laid a little book in my lap that had pictures of animals and the Slovene word for them underneath. She pointed at a picture of an owl and said, "sova." I repeated it, trying to pronounce the word correctly. Then, I said "owl, English" and when we looked at each other and simultaneously said "hoo-hoo-hoo," everyone burst out laughing. Animal sounds are a universal language.
You never know what kind of neighbors come with a house. But it's a great feeling when you know that the people next door are warm and gracious people you can count on. This is especially true when you're thousands of miles away from home, and even if the neighbor uses a chainsaw to make furniture.
I still didn't know what time Mass was on Sundays. No problem. I'd go next door on Saturday and ask.
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