1

The Makin Year Отчет за 2004-ый год

Five years ago the first of these annual letters was composed. I’m more than a little astonished that the habit has been sustained for so long, and even more surprised that a respectable number of our regular readers actually seem to like them (thank you for indulging me). Even those who are lukewarm are fairly polite. So perhaps those of you who don’t approve, and whom we’ve forgotten to remove from the list for letters, will not be too aggravated when you open the envelope (quite possibly after Christ-mas, given what a late start we’ve made) and see another Makin epistle. Last year I gave the less enthusiastic, but still more-or-less positively inclined, the one paragraph option, and I do the same again this year. All you really need to know about our year in one paragraph fol-lows. We’ve had a very busy year, not without work stress. For once, we’ve not made a big family trip to Europe (that ought to cut the size of this year’s missive down a bit, but probably won’t); in fact, we spent almost the entire summer in Dexter, with Alina and me working, and Gordon and Neil playing; plans to make massive improvements to house and garden in time off from writing and research came to less than we had hoped – no surprise there. Gordon is now in third grade, at his second Dexter school, and appar-ently doing fine. Neil started Kindergarten in Gordon’s old school this September. He’s doing well academically, but keeping all the staff busy with his behaviour. Both boys have played sport non-stop all year – football in first place, with base-ball a new addition for Gordon. Alina has worked incredibly hard on research and teaching, and has fallen in love with pet rats. I have simply worked on research and teaching. I escaped everyone for a ten-day trip to Russia in September. We both escaped the boys for trips to San Antonio, Texas, and Joplin, Missouri (combining a bit of relaxation and quite a lot of work in both cases). Now it’s Christmas. Those less enchanted with long personal histories are hereby freed henceforth to look only at the pictures in this document. Writing our annual Christmas letter often brings on a snow fall, and this year we have just had our second decent one. The first came at Thanksgiving (see our card); the second came in the last few days. We

have not yet been to our favourite farm to choose and cut down our Christmas tree, but as soon as our grades are in, we will head there with the boys. It looks like goose for Christmas dinner again this year… Last year we met Western Christmas quietly, just the four of us. With our Petersburg friends Sveta and Gera – in the past regulars with us at Christmas, New Year, Thanksgiving, and many other occasions -- back in Russia, all the major holidays seem to have become very quiet times. We did enjoy the crisp weather and the snow on the 25th – before mak-ing Christmas dinner, we took our sleds out to the old gravel pit in the woods behind the house, and Gordon and Neil burned off some energy. We ran into our neighbour Paul, with his brother-in-law and neice, had some fun with them, and then dragged them back chez Makin for our patented Christmas cocktail and for blini with home-made gin-cured salmon. They left when it was all gone, already fear-ing rebukes from the cook at Paul’s parents’ house. As I recall, for our Christmas dinner I cooked goose with cognac and prunes. The Christmas pudding was from a Delia Smith recipe, and I was duly pun-ished (as Alina pointed out) for using the work of the Norwich City chairman. Not only did I forget about the pudding during its initial steaming the week be-fore Christmas – to be woken at three in the morning by the smell, pervading the entire house, of burnt pudding and even burnt metal in the now water-free steamer – but also, as many of you will know, my treacherous devotion to Delia led to the elimination of Ipswich Town by West Ham at the end of the sea-son, in the play-offs for the last promotion place, while Norwich were promoted as champions… I suspect that Gordon played his new computer games most of the rest of Christmas day; Neil played with the very elaborate kitchen Alina had bought him for Christmas – finally, a toy that one of our boys really liked and played with for months. Neil’s kitchen provided not only his highly original dishes, such as “Crême brulée soup”, but

Neil explores his Christmas present

2

also, inspired by advertising, “Guinness, straight from the tap” – actually served from the tap on his kitchen sink. New Year we also met quietly, but with our English friends Shirley, David, and their daughters Emily and Olivia. Alina cooked an excellent paella. We managed

to stay up all night, without suffering terribly on the 1st – surely a real achievement. Eastern Orthodox Christmas was met very quietly (there’s that adverb again – in many ways, a quiet year overall), although, on reflection, it was distinguished by the fact that the boys received, as one present for what we call “Russian Christmas”, a DVD of the 1968 film, The Charge of the Light Brigade. Our family’s private multi-cultural world is certainly a little eccentric… And, in fact, one of the pleasures of this period was the growth of our friendship with Idil and Fatih, new friends from Turkey (now back in Istanbul with their small daughter). Thanks to their hospitality, Gordon and Neil became enthusiasts for Turkish food; thanks to their generosity, both our sons now sleep in Galat-saray kit, and I am occasionally seen at football matches in a Fenerbahçe cap. As I said, we have cre-ated an eccentric world for ourselves. January and February were quiet (see what I mean), as they usually are. Indeed, I have just looked at my calendar for the early part of the year, and it seems to be criss-crossed exclusively by teaching and football (either ITFC matches to follow on web broadcasts, or Gordon and Neil to transport and support). The boys both played futsal (a particular version of indoor foot-ball, popular in South America and in parts of Europe); Gordon also played one of the more regular versions of indoor football. Neil continued to produce his spectacular pearls, mostly out of the blue – as we drove to futsal one Saturday morning, for example: “Do you remember that beautiful diarrhoea Gordon had at the dacha (cottage) in Russia last summer?” (he turned out to mean the diary Gordon kept). Gordon, despite con-tinuing to consider Gym the only lesson worthy of his full attention, seemed to do fine at school. With Spring, came outdoor football, and many trips to windswept, often waterlogged playing fields, where

Gordon and Neil played in various “developmental” programmes. Gordon displayed his usual tolerance for the less committed, remonstrating on the pitch with team mates who had watched balls sail over their heads or had moved out of the way of a larger player with the ball; Neil proved the usual challenge – too experienced for his age group, too small and tantrum-inclined for older groups. Alina disappointed the boys by (very occasionally) talking to other parents while Gordon and/or Neil savaged the opposition with Roy-Keane-like tackles, “Alan Sheawa wockets” (as Neil puts it), and Christiano-Ronaldo-style dribbles, or so they would have us believe. I disappointed them by pointing out that not every goal given up or missed was the fault of team mates. Alina claims to have been buried under mountains of books in her study for large parts of the year, meaning that when she emerges at the end of one of her pro-jects, she is given a tour of the house and its denizens (“this is the kitchen, where meals are cooked; here is the laundry room, where clothes are sometimes

washed; and these two small people are your sons, Gordon and Neil”). None-theless, just before Western Easter, we both abandoned students and sons (who stayed with David and Shirley) to attend the annual meeting of the Popular Cul-ture Association, this year in San Antonio, Texas. Alina had a serious paper to give -- on the spread of Estuary

English, with the great title “Boo’ it loik Beckham” (but, in the original, spelt in Inter-national Phonetic Associa-tion’s Transcription). It was accompanied by a Power-Point presentation that actu-ally included snippets of the England captain’s speech, which proved popular with all Commonwealth citizens present, although it might not have registered quite so strongly with the natives. I gave a less serious paper on Russia’s literary muse-ums – in the Tourism section of the conference, no less – just so that I could use research money to fund

Neil, Gordon, and Olivia, New Year

San Antonio in the sun, while Michigan was still gripped by

cold

3

Neil’s birthday party — the travelling zoo

the trip. Giving the papers was fine (especially once we’d fixed the computer problem generated by a previous speaker on Alina’s panel and prevent-ing an incandescent Mrs M. from running her own presentation), but the real pleasure was moving from late winter Michigan to full-throttle-spring/summer southern Texas for a few days. It was in-vigorating to see so much green, so many bars with good Margaritas, and such an intriguing bilingual world (that last is the future of the USA, by the way, and fascinating to see). Spring also brought two of our major calendar events – the boys’ birthday parties. Both had foot-ball themes (again), and both were enjoyable for adults and boys alike. Now that we know our boys’ developed characters and interests, we’ve really sorted out the present stuff, too: Gordon got an England away kit he wears to every practice; Neil got a Michael Owen shirt. Gordon delighted us,

and all the adults at his party, by choos-ing the following menu: homemade sushi; pot stickers; homemade miso soup; homemade Thai noodles. True, one of his young

guests announced loudly from the table that he’d rather have had pizza, but everyone else seemed pleased with our elder son’s taste in the culinary arts. Alina

notes that, in fact, Gordon himself nowadays would (and does) eat anything and everything. His school lunch bag has not returned with a single crumb in many months. And he eats the remains of his brother’s lunch on the way home, if Neil is not watching.

Gordon has not exactly turned into a giant, but he has certainly grown a great deal this year. Perhaps that’s why he signed up for an evening cooking class this autumn. We didn’t dare tell him that he might be the only boy at the class, but, sure enough, he was – apart from the instructor’s son. Fortu-

nately, it turned out that we knew the instructor, and she let Neil join in, too, even though the class was for older children.

Our two boys made (and later ate) excellent ginger-bread loaves, and didn’t seem too perturbed to be in a class with over twenty girls. We made the decision last year not to undertake any of our usual big trips to Europe this summer – they cost the earth, drain all our energy, and have presented no shortage of problems as the boys get older (especially as our usual destination is Russia – not the world’s most child-travel-friendly coun-try). The plan was that we would work on the transformation of our house and garden into a genu-inely liveable environment during time off from research and writing, while giving the boys a chance to spend the summer as they would doubt-less prefer — with us, playing sport. It will proba-bly not surprise regular readers to learn that only the last part of the plan came off fully. It is true, we did finally re-treat our deck (listening, as I recall, to Tim Henman come close at Roland Garos as we did the last bit of treating, having watched our first ef-forts wash away in an early-summer storm); how-ever, the front path was not repaired; the back path was not created; the new lawn was not seeded; no path through the woods was cut; no new shade gar-den made; we still have that rain-cut valley at the beginning of our driveway; I could go on, but won’t…. On the other hand, our national flags were eventually moved from the porch to flag poles on the garage, as Alina had requested in July, al-though that did take until November. It is also true

Birthdays

Gordon shows off his trophies in his new

England kit

Cooking class

4

that some pieces of deathless prose were composed and even sent off to appropriate destinations, but the number was smaller than we had hoped. As for ten-nis, Alina asks me to point out that, while, yet again, Henman didn’t quite do it, Russian girls simply took over. I was not too sad about that myself, especially since some of them are rather “easy on the eye” (the Wimbledon champion, in particular). In fact, the highlight of our own summer was also sporting. In July, Gordon went to try-outs for the Ann Arbor Arsenal Under-Nine Travel Teams (football), and made the top team. We were thrilled. Alina put “Soccer Mum” on the screen of her new mobile phone, and has been true-to-type ever since. I started writing lengthy sports reports, which several of you have had the misfortune to receive on an ir-regular, but too frequent basis. A month later we all

trekked to Indi-ana for a week-end of training at a special sports complex, and it hasn’t stopped since. Alina greatly admires Gordon’s (young, Scot-tish) coach, and so do I – but for different reasons. Gordon’s team

won its division in the autumn, and has been pro-moted to the top division in the top league in our area for the spring. He finished third in goals scored on his team (top in percentage of goals to shots, which probably means that he should shoot more…), open-ing and concluding the league season – in which his team won every game – with a hat trick, and was a very solid all-round player, despite being on the slight side. After scoring a goal direct from a corner (an ambition fulfilled) he even wrote to the BBC Sports Academy, claiming to have bent the ball like another man who wears Gordon’s number (Seven), although now only for his country. But the BBC didn’t post his message (nor did they post the times the boys sent in for the BBC Sports Academy’s “Dribbling Challenge”, even though Gordon had times that were competitive with teenagers, and Neil had times that were better than children twice his age – perhaps I should have paid my licence fee more often while I lived in the UK…).

Significant parts of the boys’ summer were spent at various football camps. In the midst of them came the European Championship, with the predictable disappointment for the national side (another clear opportunity missed), but with some very interesting and, of course, distracting matches. We shared Rus-

sia’s pain, too, though that, as ever, was moderated by the dreadful conduct of the Russian foot-ball federation and by some of the play-ers (all the same, the Ovchinnikov send-ing-off was a scandal, and the Russians, as usual, were treated to some other poor refe-

reeing). The biennial feasts of football that are the World Cup and the European Championship always make me glad that I am an academic (something has to). One’s summer schedule can so easily be rear-ranged to accommodate endless football at any time of day or night. I have vivid memories of the French and Portuguese matches, like so many of my compa-triots, and of the replayt his year of the Campbell-goal-that wasn’t-against Argentina-in-98 in the Terry-goal-that-wasn’t. It speaks volumes for Mrs M’s adaptability that she went to pick up Neil and Gordon from football camp that afternoon, while I sat with expatriate friends glued to the TV, and that she called at least four times to check on the score. She tells me that it was only because she has especial affection for the England no 10 and no 7. And, in-deed, their somewhat involuntary defection to Ma-drid has caused considerable grief in this house (Neil wanted to bury his Michael Owen Liverpool shirt after Owen moved; Alina now joins two thirds of England in rejoicing at every Man Utd defeat, after the sale of her David). The spring had ended disappointingly for ITFC (thanks to that Christmas pudding), but the autumn has brought new hope. When the boys’ schedule permits, I now glue myself to the web casts of Ips-wich games, and hope that our good luck and good form will continue. When conjugal consent is avail-able, or can be assumed, the TV is tuned to live foot-ball -- often pay-per-view, which I justify by claim-ing that it is good for the boys’ athletic development. Partly as a result of this, Gordon and Neil both im-press coaches with their knowledge of the game, which, for many Americans, consists only of the rec-

Arsenal Blue Under-Nine Team at Blue Chip USA Soccer Complex, Indiana, with coach Barry Scott

At Soccer Blast Camp, with coaches Gonzalo, Jonathan,

and Neil

5

reational sport they play themselves. Neil astonished a camp coach by naming at least one other national side who play in yellow, like Brazil (“Colombia”, he announced), and amused his mother in his account of events at another summer camp by relating how he’d been the only player to form a wall to defend a free kick, and to … protect himself in the conventional manner while in that wall. His coaches added that they had been enchanted by his strident explanation to his small team mates that “actually it’s a free kick”… Gordon impressed coaches at his try outs by giving a detailed account of the mistakes England made late in the France match (he’s learning the ropes of being an English fan, ever hopeful, ever disappointed). One of the highlights of our autumn was the celebra-tion we had for Gordon’s team at the end of the out-door season – fifty-odd people at our house, includ-ing all the team, and team siblings, as well as every parent. Thank goodness it was a fine day, and the boys could play endless football outside (with Gordon complaining that the sides were unbalanced, since his lost). There were fireworks, a bonfire, mulled wine, and the 1966 World Cup Final played on TV, to the consternation of our coach, but at our boys’ request (how many young children in America watch that match repeatedly, or the 1978 FA Cup Final, for that matter – what loyal sons!). After years of feeling very out of place among parents at football matches, it seems that we might have finally found a group more like ourselves – many academics and other professionals, apparently with time and wish-fulfillment on their hands, and a great deal of passion. Among the team parents there are two who keep meticulous score sheets that are regularly posted on the web; at least four or five other fathers watch the matches as intently as I do, and some even shout as much (although I am the only parent to have been threatened with a yellow card so far – for de-manding an obvious offside after a series of wretched refereeing mistakes). When the league gave Gordon’s team a loss (in error) on the weekly posting of league tables one Sunday evening, the scorekeeper received four emails by nine the next morning, only one from me. Yes, for the moment, we fit in. Of course, travel football has its challenges. Our first season introduced us to yet more very wind-swept, often waterlogged playing fields, at which our anxious and determined families all seemed to arrive at least forty-five minutes early, sometimes after quite long drives. However, we have not yet reached

the sort of travel faced by some parents – weekly trips to Chicago, Cincinnati, Cleveland, etc (and that is just for a ten-year-old we know) -- or the sort of costs. One of our friends on the team described opening a recent credit card bill and immediately concluding that his card had been stolen, only to remember that his three sports-playing children had all played in tournaments away from home each weekend of the month – that means a lot of travel and a lot of hotel bills. No, we’ve just shelled out modest sums totalling somewhere in relatively low four figures for an autumn of football. The world’s “people’s game” is very much the USA’s “middle class people’s game” … It has been hard to compensate Neil for all the atten-tion and time given to Gordon and his travel team (two practices a week, at least one match, sometimes two), but we have certainly tried, and he has played plenty, too. And he has made his mark. Late in the summer, Gordon played in a three-on-three tourna-ment at UM, and we had further evidence of Neil’s popularity – a series of pretty female athletes, who had met Neil at summer camps, walked out of their way to pass the pitch where our team played, in or-der to share a moment or two with our younger son, who was an emergency substitute for the day. We weren’t surprised, since we had been told that Neil had kissed every female coach at the end-of-week awards ceremony at one camp (he won the MVP for his age group, and his report noted “strongest shot in camp”). There has been more of the same this au-tumn. After two months at school, Neil had his first phone call from a female class mate. Alina was caught between humour and jealousy, I between humour and envy. Somewhat against our better judgement, Gordon started baseball this summer. And really enjoyed it. And did quite well. It was a modest, developmental

version of the game – the coaches pitch to their own players – but not without its demands. Gordon’s competi-tive streak (perhaps I should call it not a “streak”, but a “mile-wide-band”) carried him through his unfamiliarity with the game: he only struck out once in eight games, and made a number of good plays. I quite enjoyed watching him (all the while regretting that no local cricket clubs have

Gordon at the plate

6

youth programmes). Alina complained constantly about her loathing for baseball, but loyally watched most games (while secretly drinking white wine from a coffee travel cup – this is America, don’t forget, where watch-ing summer sport and drinking don’t mix as naturally as in other parts of the world; however, she tells me that without the wine she would have died of boredom). The boys also swam enthusiastically all summer, with both of them making a lot of progress in lessons at our local pool. A not-untypical summer day for them began with football camp, continued with an early evening swim in a neighbour’s pool, and concluded around 9 pm with the end of Gordon’s baseball game. I asked him, as we drove home from one such game, if he had enough sport for the day. Predictably, he answered in the nega-tive, and asked if there were any late Copa América matches to watch on Spanish-language TV (Neil, by the way, has taken to exclaiming “Gol, gol, gol, gol!”, like Hispanic commentators, when he scores). Apart from our trip to Indiana – with a stop in Chicago on the way home (where I renewed my US passport, and was, for an hour, a Ukrainian – until I had my place of birth changed on the new passport from “Ukraine” to “U.K.” – I’ve still not heard the last of that) – our only other summer trip was up north, to stay at our friend and neighbour Paul’s cottage for a few days. That was also a memorable trip, not least for the pleasure of fishing in one of Michigan’s best trout and salmon streams. Neil and Gordon caught their first trout, and we all stood right above an entire pod of non-biting salmon, in a deep hole next to the stream’s main race. Gordon and Neil took especial delight in the fly they used – a Woolly Bugger, no less. But even the Woolly Bug-ger Gordon dangled over the most adventurous salmon’s head as, it came within inches of his waders, could not induce a bite. All the same, a magical experience. Sadly, that was the only trip up north all year (we didn’t make it once to the cottage we love on Ocqueoc Lake), and we didn’t fish much locally all summer. The boys are so busy, and our favourite fishing place has become less accessible. I have hopes of some ice fishing, if we

ever get any safe ice this winter, and really miss my af-ternoons at lakes with the boys. But Gordon seems to have lost some interest in the sport. Perhaps the long-promised purchase of a small boat, which might finally take place next summer, will change things. The summer also had its unexpected heroines. Gordon’s class at Cornerstone last year had pets – several quite uninteresting birds, and two lively rats. It is the custom for children to take class pets home for the summer, and

Gordon campaigned very energeti-cally to bring the rats home. I was

in favour, but Alina was strongly opposed, especially after seeing up close the two ro-dents and their long, scaly tails. But in the end, she gave in. The rats could come home, so long as she didn’t have to go near them.

In preparation, as the school year ground to an end, Alina and I devoted a day to cleaning and tidying the boys’ rooms. We might not have known much about rats, but we did know that, unlike boys, they were clean and tidy. When the room was fit for rats, they arrived. Gordon, Neil, and I petted them, fed them, played with them. When Alina was in the room, and they were out of their aquarium (safer than a cage in a house with cats), she stood on the bed and screamed. The white rat, Molly, seemed sickly. We read up on rats, changed their diet, bought better bedding. The rat with the black hood we christened Missie; she was lively, inquisitive, and, unlike the sickly Molly, didn’t bite. Everyone who came to the house had to be shown the rats; many, in-cluding some men, agreed with Alina, and wouldn’t go near them. Others let Missie climb onto shoulders and sniff at noses. Gradually, a change took place in our own family. The mistress of the house started to insist on expensive purchases for the rats. If we bought over-priced English farmhouse cheese, a piece had to go to

Trout fishing in the Little Manistee

Missie Makin

7

Travel, Russian style. The main road from Vytegra to Kargopol’ in October.

Entering Archangel

Region

each rat. Eventually, Alina stopped screaming, and started carrying Missie around, whispering affec-tionate terms to her. By the end of the summer, Alina was strongly opposed to any rat repatriation to Cornerstone, and managed, through tears, to con-vince Gordon’s teacher of last year to let us keep them. Sadly, Molly has not made it to Christmas, but (touch wood) Missie is fine, and is the darling of the house. She also dilutes the testosterone levels somewhat, in as much as 100 g rodent can. So far, so good with our cats, although vigilance is required. Stasik was unjustly accused of rat harassment ear-lier this year, but I, as his court-appointed attorney, managed to convince the jury of his innocence, cit-ing the unreliability of the DNA evidence presented (from a tuft of grey fur), and the danger of profiling on the basis of colour -- I told the jury that being grey is not a crime. Since that trial, however, Friendsie, has been a fugitive from justice, after being observed many times transfixed in front of the rat house. Apologists claim that she is simply watching “TV for cats”. Tikhon, too large to care, seems only mildly interested in rats. The end of the summer brought another major “life event”: Neil began school. He entered Gordon’s old school, Cornerstone, while Gordon moved on to the second Dexter elementary school (Wylie, for third and fourth grades, where he seems to thrive again with a very good teacher). Cornerstone staff have

had ample opportunity to observe differences between our two sons. Gordon is such a law-abiding citizen, ever anxious to observe rules (he constantly rebukes me for speeding, and, al-though he doesn’t always do his homework as effi-ciently as he might, he pan-ics terribly if he can’t find it on the morning it is due), but Neil is, let us say, differ-ent. If there’s a solemn event to disrupt, a minute of

concentration to interrupt, another child to distract, a challenge to throw down to a parent, then Neil’s your man. So his first months at Cornerstone have proved … interesting. Academically he has done fine: he writes and reads in a limited way, but with great energy, speaks frequently of his affection for his teacher, and gives enthusiastic accounts of his lessons. But he’s already been in the principal’s office once (it took two years for Gordon to receive

such a summons) and his first report included a note on his poor conduct from the Gym teacher (no less). We had our first parent-teacher meeting with his teacher on my birthday – great present. It was hard to tell who was the more uncomfortable. Turns out that he is one of about six very “energetic” boys in a class of seventeen boys and only seven girls. He is

not the worst, but he is not the best either. Conduct is colour-coded every day (Green – good; Yellow – not so good; Red – poor; Blue – terrible, and a note home). Neil has reac-quainted us with the spec-trum on a regular basis. Neil has also taken great delight in many moments of his first school year: his first “Turkey Trot” (he did well; and Gordon did well in his, too); his first

“Thanksgiving Feast” (he made a good Pilgrim, although I found the pressed turkey breast and jelly served at the “Feast” a little surprising); his Christ-mas gingerbread house, which he decorated this week; and his family’s turn on the month “healthy snack” roster (he has taken especial delight in intro-ducing his

classmates to his favourite cheese – Stilton, which his teacher seems to regard as a major educational challenge for some pupils). Alina thinks that Neil gets away with so much be-

cause he has such striking Neil with his teacher, second day of school

Colour coding — Neil is on yellow

Pilgrim Neil at the kindergar-ten Thanks-giving Feast

Gordon in the home stretch of the Wylie Elementary Turkey Trot. He finished sixth, the second third-grader. His father loped the last 100 me-tres of the one-mile track with him

8

eyes. That would certainly explain the calls from classmates and kisses from teenage girls. School is one thing. Life at home would be easier if both boys didn’t seem to regard fighting as one of the most enjoyable pastimes, especially when par-ents are working. Readers with more than one son will probably understand, but for me (an only child) and Alina (one of two daughters, separated by seven years) that aspect of parenthood remains a real shock. And sibling rivalry is rife, even if they’re not fighting. Every breakfast is monitored care-fully: glasses of fruit juice are measured compara-tively, and there is major trouble if one boy has a millilitre more than the other. When Neil got an extra fish finger for helping me set them all out on the oven tray, the scandal could have rocked a gov-

ernment with a cast-iron majority. And football in our back garden means one thing (as do penalty shoot-outs in our living room, when Alina is away): the painful prospect of a hor-rendous tantrum from the loser, plus accusations of

pa-

ternal favouritism, taunting from the winner, and vio-lent retribution from the loser. Boys.

Needless to say, while time with the boys is won-derful (for example, "University appointment” got them out of school early three times this autumn, but meant taking them to watch UM’s men’s and women’s football teams in big tournaments), boy-free time also has its pleasures. Although the rest of my family was confined to the USA all year, I did get to escape for ten short days in September, when I went to a bonanza Klyuev event in Petrozavodsk

(on Lake Onega) and in Vytegra. Alina was bitterly opposed to my departure, and it certainly placed a lot of demands on everyone, coinciding with a foot-ball tournament and other boy events. But for me, it was one of the highlights of the year. I really en-joyed both parts of the conference, saw lots of old friends, enjoyed writing my paper, and even sort-of enjoyed the inevitable radio interview. Hearing about modern sorcerers from a local ethnographer, catching up with all the latest scholarly news, and, of course, seeing Vasya and Gera in Petersburg be-

fore and after made it all worthwhile. Alina’s theory that I went just to see Vasya and Gera has no support in fact. Mrs M.’s only escape alone, as far as I can recall, was a two-day trip to a conference in Chicago. I think that we should assume that she banked the difference. In November Alina and I both escaped for two days, to Missouri State Southern University, in Joplin (the south west corner of the state). We’d been invited to participate in the University’s Russia Semester by my old friend (and first Ph. D. at Michigan) Joy Dworkin, whom I’d not seen in many years. De-spite the hectic programme, it was very enjoyable, and a lot of fun to be in a very different academic environment. In less than 48 hours we gave five public lectures, and I even had an audience in sig-nificant double-figures for my Klyuev lecture – as I told them all at the end, they now knew more about Nikolai Alekseevich than anyone else in Missouri (and far more than they needed to, but that’s another story). Needless to say, Mrs M. on Russian Women and the Culture of the Russian Table drew bigger audiences, plus a nice article in the student newspa-per. The later autumn brought indoor football (in Michi-gan, you can play outside in spring, summer – if you can stand the heat, and early autumn, but you can’t play organized football after mid-October – not that weather has ever stopped my sons from

Above — back-garden football. Right — Gordon and Neil at a “University appointment” of their father. Neil with an Ipswich scarf; Gordon with a St Petersburg Zenit scarf. Both boys cov-ered in hotdog mus-tard.

An unsched-uled picnic during the Klyuev meet-ings (our bus had broken down)

9

playing in our back garden). The nucleus of Gordon’s under-nine team was joined by four boys from the second team, and they played up a year in a top under-ten division. After carrying all before them outside, they were outplayed and physically overwhelmed inside (where the game, played in a confined space, with walls that are in play, is fast and physical), although they learned some valuable lessons. Gordon was not only the scorer of a rare goal, but also the keeper with the best record for a half in goal – sadly, on a day we were away. Neil’s experience – his first of indoor football -- was simi-lar. We had thought that we were signing him up for an under-seven team (the lowest available level), but he turned out to be playing on an under-nine team. At five, he was the youngest player on his team, yet, accompanied by some other fairly small children with a lot of pluck, he struggled manfully to cope not only with larger opponents, but also with larger team mates who, as players who didn’t make it to organized, club teams (and therefore ended up on this ragtag team), clearly lacked many football fundamentals. Of course, when you are five and playing against nine- and ten-year-olds, however passionate your tackling and alert your sense of po-sitioning, your legs just won’t carry you to the ball fast enough. His team lost every match by a rugby score, but he never gave up. I can’t write enough of my admiration for him. Fortunately, for January and February we have managed to get him on an under-seven team, and hope for a little more success. At Thanksgiving (another quiet occasion), Gordon played in an indoor three-on-three tournament at a venue an hour’s drive from here. It was his second three-on-three tournament of the year – the first was that outdoor tournament in August, at the Univer-sity’s recreational football facility. As in the first tournament, so indoors in November, Neil was lined up as an “emergency substitute”. When Gordon’s team (led by his favourite Arsenal team mate Josh, and by Gordon himself), took a four goal lead in the first match, Neil came on to chants from the touch-line of “Supersub, Supersub!” (well, chants from his father, anyway). The smile on his face was worth the drive and the commitment of a whole day to the event. And when the boys saw that the pitches at the indoor facility were labelled “Old Trafford” and “Wembley”, their happiness was complete. Sadly, despite playing in the “Theatre of Dreams”, Gordon’s team lost in the under-nine final by an odd goal, and the other matches were too tight for Neil to repeat his first supersub performance. But it was

a good day out for them both. As I look back on the year, it seems to have been with-out major excitement – it must be the absence of a big trip. But it has cer-tainly not been without its strains – and the workplace provides plenty of them. That is only as expected, although, at long last, all the UM lecturers (among whom Alina numbers) have

formed a union, which might in future take some of the stress and frustration out of Alina’s professional life, with its massive workload and poor rewards. I even joined her in a picket last spring (it says a lot about the institution we work for that I was one of very few professors to show any support at all for our colleagues’ union). If only I’d had my camera with me, to photograph her in a coat that cost rather more than a lecturer without an indulgent husband (and bad money habits) should ever be able to wear, carrying a union sign and chanting a slogan about a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work... Alina radi-calized – it sounds like a subject for a well-intentioned, politically-correct documentary… In fact, for all its weaknesses, the union really has made a difference in Alina’s life, and I am optimis-tic that she will find her own working environment a little less difficult in the future. At least, we both hope so. My own professional year has had its chal-lenges, too. I know that readers outside of academia must laugh at the idea of stress among university teachers and researchers, but there really is plenty, even if we’re not heart surgeons with another per-son’s life at stake every day, or journalists with monstrous deadlines every hour. But university teaching demands a lot of energy, and can be quite draining: it is hard on your feet and hard on your interpersonal skills -- a bit like being a shop assis-tant, in fact. My failure so far to place the book I worked so long on (who nowadays wants a big book on a single Russian poet most Anglophone Slavists don’t even read?) has also added to the strain, and it’s probably going to take a while yet to find a pub-lisher for a project that I’ve devoted so much of my life to. I don’t regret my Klyuev book one little bit – the work brought enormous personal rewards, but it is sad to see it as yet unwanted. This year we’ve both also done a lot of extra teaching and a fair

At the Theatre of Dreams

10

amount of administrative and related stuff – although, as the year comes to an end, I’m not sure that I can say why we did, even if I can certainly say that it con-tributes to the sense of wear-and-tear. And we have made what we regard as major efforts in research and writing, in the hope that the research that we both enjoy will lead to (modest), but tangible professional achievements. We’ll hope for the best. Then, of course, there is the energy that goes all the time on our two (fairly) small boys, but I’ve described that already. And readers with children won’t feel a whole lot of sympathy, I suspect. All the same, I have to say that it has been a good year. As I write, I’m sitting at my desk at home; the late afternoon sun is shining on the snow; birds are flocking to the bird feeders; I’m enjoying the quiet before the storm of the boys’ return home from school, and thinking without too much guilt of an article I owe and the grading I still have to do (classes finished a few days ago). Alina has finally tidied her study (and is enjoying rebuking me for the state of mine). In just over a week it will be Christmas – probably before most readers receive this, for which many apologies. We have plans for the New Year that in-clude a summer trip to England, where I have not been for three years, where Alina and Gordon have not been for five, and where Neil has never been. A few other short trips are possible, and we might fi-nally get that little boat, if the boys show enough in-terest in using it. Despite my claims of a quiet year, I have taken around seven thousand words to describe it -- just like last year. Further apologies to patient readers are in order. The less patient of our readers won’t be too happy. But they won’t have got this far, of course. When asked to name her highlights of the last year, Alina listed: Missie; Gordon’s football, especially his two hat tricks; our trip to San Antonio (out of the snow into the sun). Gordon listed: Missie; making the top Ann Arbor Arsenal under-nine team; going to Chicago (the hotel pool, the sushi restaurant, the Shedd Aquarium); sleeping with Stasik while Mum was in Chicago at a conference (Stasik usually sleeps with Mum). Neil listed: Missie; going “up North”; playing football – and, especially, the “Alan Sheawa wocket” that he scored from the penalty spot, and the splendid pivot-volley with which he scored the win-ning goal in a parents vs children end-of-season match (Gordon sourly comments that he could just

have tapped it in); his special friend Jenna’s birthday party (that’s the girl he “kissed on the lips” last year); his gingerbread house, decorated at school for this Christmas. I list: the boys’ football – Gordon making

the travel team and scoring two hat

tricks, and Neil the smiling super sub, fierce tackler of boys twice his age, and determined defender, pre-venting several certain goals with goal line clear-ances; my trip to Russia – Vasya, Gera, sorcery, old friends, even my paper; the trip Alina and I made to San Antonio; fishing for trout up north; watching Wayne Rooney score for England. I will conclude our 2004 letter roughly as I did the last one. With the year almost at an end, and Western Christmas not long off at all, it is our great pleasure to wish everyone all the very best for Christmas and the New Year (or for the New Year and Christmas, in the case of our Russian friends), and to hope that we see as many of our friends and loved ones in 2005 as pos-sible. With warmest greetings for the season, lots of love, Alina, Gordon, Neil, and Michael. P.S. If you can’t get enough Makin news (!!), you can ac-tually find a whole archive at: http://www-personal.umich.edu/~mlmakin/FamilyArchive/ (all of our Christmas letters in English; the last three years’ versions in Russian; sports bulletins on the boys’ ac-tivities from this autumn; the narratives of the births of Gordon and Neil; and Gordon’s kindergarten auto-biography; most are illustrated documents in pdf, and are quite large – use a fast connection if you really want more Makin news).

Sushi in Chi-cago, and Neil’s gingerbread house