The Women of Pohorela are fiercely proud and strong. Growing up in a family of empowered women, helped me to know what I wanted in life. The Babkas, the village elders still walk through the streets early am with their tall black rubber boots and pickaxes over their shoulders, aprons hung around their necks, smiles on their face... It is a hard life, but a GOOD LIFE. Living close to the land, waking up at dawn, working in the fields builds resilience and character.
Growing up the child of these amazing women has prepared me to fight for what I want,to work and play hard, and to savour every moment I have on this earth.

To the women of Pohorela.  Nazdrovje !

This is the house my Mother was born in, in Pohorela Slovakia. It may very well have been the house HER mother was born in and HER mother before that. I have no way of knowing.

Immigrating to a new country can be very daunting,especially as a child. My mom was 6 years old when my grandfather sent for his wife and her, to make the long trip by boat across the Atlantic, to their new home in Sault Ste Marie, Canada.

My mother shared some stories before she passed away 2 years ago. She remembered that her mother was sick in their small cabin the entire voyage and that she was taken care of ( along with other children)  by another responsible adult. She shared that she had one suitcase with her and a rag doll in her hands. I'm sure this immigrant story is typical of many immigrant stories, regardless of cultural background or time of immigration. Refugees still migrate to North America, in hope of a better life for themselves and their children. I oftentimes think about how frightening and strange that all must have been at first. There were no English classes in school way back then in the 1920's. Right up until the end of their difficult lives, my maternal grandmother and grandfather spoke ( very) broken English. We feasted on our cultural favorite foods right up until the end.  I still cook some of them myself today. When upset or stressed out , a big warm bowl of kapusta and potatoes  ! always does the trick to cheer me up. It feels like "home" in some strange, com
Do you have a poignant story to share about someone who immigrated to North America in your family ? its through telling stories that we all get to understand each other a bit better. AHOJ !

All forms of artistic expression- Painting, Writing, Singing, Playing a musical Instrument- allow us to nurture and cultivate our culture and heritage. Growing up between 2 worlds - the world of my parents and grandparents and the world of rural Northern Ontario, steeped me in the beautiful embroidery, food and language of my immigrant parents, in addition to our adopted culture of rural Canada. My mother was an excellent baker. There were always sweet treats in our family home, 7 days a week. From the traditional Poppy Seed Koluch, to Roskci ( which are like rugulas) to the white birthday cake with sugar icing, we had the best of both worlds. Gathering together- all the cousins, aunts and uncles for  sunday family dinner was the highlight of the week. All the kids got to play together while the women laboured over steaming pots of our family delicacies, like Pirogi and Holupci while the men smoked  and talked in the grassy back yard.  Then at school,  I got to have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off,  like all the other kids on my block. What a gift to our ancestors, to keep those family values and traditions alive, through the sharing of them through art, writing and song ! Krista-link-a -la is one such celebration of my ethnic roots.

AHOJ ! To my parents and grandparents, and all those that came before them. I am proud to be a Slovak- Canadian.