VIII. Return to Berry Meadow and other Stories of Our People. Lincoln, Nebraska: Augstums Publishing, 1995. Yagodnaya Polyana, "Yagada" for short, with the emphasis on the first syllable. Since the earliest days of my youth in the rolling Palouse Hills of eastern Washington State this Russian name has stirred wondrous fascination. The word was mentioned frequently in countless stories I heard from elders recalling life in an Old Country village near the lower Volga River. At some point I learned that Yagodnaya Polyana's namesake was a wild strawberry that grew profusely in meadows among the hillocks flanking the village. The entire region west of the Volga near Saratov, another exotic name flavoring Sunday dinner conversation at Grandpa Scheuerman's, was termed the Bergseite or "mountain side" by the German farmers who had tilled those gentle slopes since Catherine the Great had peopled that part of her domain with dependable colonists. Grandpa called her "die Kaiserin" and knew that she had been a German by birth before marrying into the Romanov dynasty. Her campaign to secure recently acquired domains for the sprawling empire prompted the proclamation of her historic Manifesto of 1763. This invitation enticed thousands of European peasants ravaged by the Seven Years' War and famine to settle on the Volga in exchange for free land, exemption from military service, religious liberty, and other benefits guaranteed "for eternal time." Some 27,000 impoverished peasants, mostly Germans, accepted the liberal terms of Catherine's promise over the next four years of the campaign and endured the year-long trek to the Volga where they established about one hundred colonies. According to Grandpa, one family bore our surname, and they joined in a transport destined for the uninhabited steppe where they ultimately halted in an obscure meadow named for the white blossomed berry native to the area. According to the old timers of our town, the names of virtually all of our neighbors had been represented in that legendary journey two hundred years earlier. Another movement of usu Leut (our people) was undertaken a century later when one of Catherine's successors, Alexander II, decided to revoke the colonists' original terms of settlement in 1871 in a move reflecting a rising tide of Slavic nationalism. Thousands of these Volga Germans responded by immigrating to America, including the grandparents of most everyone with whom I had grown up. They settled half-way around the world in an area not coincidentally also known for its fertile rolling hills. Our place was located between the tiny rural communities of Endicott and St. John in the heart of the steeply tumbled terrain for which the Palouse is famous. A small farm even by 1950s standards covering just a half-section, its virgin bunchgrass slopes had been turned and combed first by Great- grandfather Henry B. himself. My only direct knowledge of the man was through family stories and the image on a cardboard backed photograph from Russia showing a heavily bearded fellow with benevolent eyes sitting next to his comely wife, Mary, whose slight smile speaks of forbearing mien. His son Karl, my grandfather, regularly visited the farm long after his retirement but he especially enjoyed being there during August's sweltering hot "thrashing weather." We would sit in a grain truck perched for view as Dad harvested some of the finest crops around with a growling mechanical dinosaur of speckled red skin that slowly ate its way through rolling seas of wheat. The high yields produced year after year reflected an agrarian sense in both men that had been passed down over centuries from the viridian fields of Hesse and Volga steppes to the Palouse Country. 300 Grandpa was a citadel of understanding. Fully aware of the struggles his family had endured in Russia and frontier Kansas, he did not allow the siren sounds of memory to romanticize our people's history. He encouraged me to ask questions, to listen and read for answers. While Psalms and Proverbs were his favorite readings, a few years of schooling here had introduced him to selections of Tennyson and Wordsworth which always remained with him. About that time a social studies teacher at school and local historian Anna Weitz introduced me to several books indicating that Grandpa's fanciful stories about queens and empires were rooted in important historical events. I learned that during Catherine the Great's reign control over the lower Volga shifted recurrently among Russia, Turkey, and various local tribes of Mongol origin. With Genghis Khan now entering the picture, more exotic images of past family adventures filled my young brain. That our ancestors had been part of imperial Russia's empire building plan to secure this vital region cast their role with new significance. As I matured the interest nurtured by childhood curiosity and the generational seepage that comes with life in one place over decades was encouraged by family and teachers in my attempt to distinguish fact from fantasy. I set about to visit every person in our neighboring towns of Endicott, St. John, and Colfax that I knew had been born in Russia. Often assisting in this peculiar pursuit were my parents, Don and Mary Scheuerman, and aunt and uncle, Evelyn and Ray Reich. Aunt Evelyn was an indefatigable family genealogist while her husband was known throughout the area as a great storyteller. As is often the case in rural America, among one's most special friends at any age are senior citizens who welcome opportunities to reminisce. The moment we would breathe the name "Yagada" a gleam would flash in most hosts' eyes and a smile would transform their smoothly weathered faces. Work at school or on the farm usually filled my weekdays but many Saturdays and most Sundays were spent in town to afford a great field for filling my curiosity and imagination. For years Saturday mornings usually began with mowing Grandpa Reich's lawn. He was not really our grandfather but bore the name out of both the respect his kindness engendered and the fact that he was a grandfather to several cousins about my age who lived just far enough away to avoid mowing duty. Reflecting pride in place and possessions, every edge of his lawn had to be neatly trimmed and all caked grass thoroughly removed from beneath the mower with a paint scraper after each cutting. Sometimes his neighbors and lifelong friends August Markel and Conrad Schmick would join us when the work was nearly ended. A glass of hand pressed lemonade usually awaited us inside Grandpa Reich's small kitchen where the interrogation would begin. I never could tell whether the other two were more interested in refreshment than my questions but it was clear that they enjoyed both. I knew by observation in his home that Conrad's preferred drink was a cruel concoction of fortified port and Jack Daniels, the very smell of which often sent guests into another room. Having come to America as young adults between 1902 and 1907, all three men could tell me about life in the days when work was measured in literal terms of horsepower and freedom by distance from the tsar. Before lunch, time usually remained to visit others in the neighborhood for the same work and rewards. My cousin Clifford and I worked up enough gumption one day to visit the oldest man in town, Phillip Ochs. Though also a Russian German and thought to be a relative through some vague connection, so many unusual stories had surrounded his life from tales of Indian fighting to horse thieving that we had some cause to fear his presence. Overcome by boyish curiosity, we made our way to his backyard where he regularly sunned in the afternoons. Half expecting a concealed six-gun to shoo youthful meddlers 301 away, we instead were disarmed quickly by his cordial welcome. He spoke beneath an enormous gray felt hat that seemed a permanent fixture regardless of the weather and he also evidenced scarcely the hint of an accent detectable in most others we knew of his generation. Through Phillip we entered the world of a Wild West experience little known to even most of his contemporaries. The Volga German immigrant farmers that began arriving in large numbers in America around the turn of the century tended to be a reserved lot. Phillip, however, had joined the original vanguard that brought our people by wagon to Washington Territory in the early 1880s before the later influx. We found that Indian fights and rustling genuinely had been part of his pioneering experience. But with forthrightness he also confessed to us his own responsibility for being caught up in some of the regrettable episodes. Far better that we boys stick to mowing lawns and minding our parents. Somehow his saddled yarns did little to support that advice in our minds. But those special moments that summer day grew in meaning to me as Phillip passed away soon afterward. The abruptly closed entry to his fellowship and reminiscences caused me to deeply grieve the passing of our brief friend. Death is no stranger in any rural immigrant community where elderly residents value self- reliance. Many steadfastly withstand the best and well intended efforts of their adult offspring, often living elsewhere, to relocate or enter retirement homes. For this reason, the Whitman County Gazette still regularly prints reminders on Thursdays through its obituary column that another "native of Yagada, Russia passed away at the home" somewhere in the vicinity. But even the circumstances of their passing often contributed to a fuller appreciation of their lives.