Crossing the Frozen River Don 

As Sophia walked into the open expanse of the frozen River Don, the wind hit her with its full force. Her daughters, Luba and Zinaida, clung to her as they bent their heads down, braced against the wind. They focused on the heels of the boots of the refugees in front them. One step, another step. The refugees walked in clusters in a ragged line between the ruts in the ice left by the artillery wagons of the retreating White army which had passed this way earlier. The fires they had used to light their way still burned on the thick ice. The flames were bent horizontal by the cold wind that swept the river clean of snow. At twenty degrees below zero, the fires mocked them by giving no warmth. The wool scarf around Sophia's face was stiff and rough with ice that formed with each breath she took. One step, another step. Before the war, Sophia had loved winters in St. Petersburg and the sleigh rides with her husband on the frozen Neva River. Now she was on another frozen river, running from the Red Army. Paying the price for loyalty to the Tsar and Mother Russia.

                                                        Time Remembered, Grief Forgotten

"My family lived in interesting times. I've been told that is a curse. For my family there were many hurts, both physical and mental. I think we still carry those scars with us to this day." Kathryn pondered for a few seconds and continued, "We were happy. We were sad. We had many setbacks, but eventually we prospered. My story is my own, and my version of my life and my family, my selections and impressions, are now my own images of myself. I'd like to read part of a poem to you. It speaks to me of my life of winters and springs.

                                             For winter's rains and ruins are over,

                                             And all the season of snows and sins; 

                                             The days dividing lover and lover,

                                             The light that loses, the night that wins;

                                             And time remembered is grief forgotten,

                                             And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,

                                             And in green underwood and cover

                                             Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

My winter has been over a long time, and I have enjoyed the flowers of spring for many years. If my grief is not entirely forgotten, it is entirely forgiven."