Dacha
My grandfather’s family had lived in a small rural town and, like many Soviet families, owned a dacha. I spent a great deal of my childhood there. Back then, we had a very specific route from our home to that place.
Before my grandfather bought his car, we travelled by bus and foot. It was a journey that took about an hour, although it often felt much longer to my six-year-old-self. I remember one specific day in the late 80s.
While my grandfather had set out early to work at the dacha, my grandmother and I left the house around 9 am. The heat was intense and I remember feeling restless as we began our walk.
Our first stop was near a local restaurant, the go-to place for the whole town: many weddings were held there. Perhaps because of that it was known for its wonderful pastries — peanut shortbread rings, shortcrust tartlets with meringue mushrooms, and eclairs. Grandma bought me a ring, which made the early part of the walk much sweeter.
Get Michaelmeltfold’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Next, we stopped at the local mall. Because my grandmother had worked in retail for many years, she was always interested in what might be available on the shelves. In the late 80s, goods were scarce, but because the town was near a major railway switching station towards Moscow, we sometimes found products here that were sold out in larger cities like Tula. It was a strange result of the Soviet distribution economy and economic situation. While she caught up with colleagues and searched for supplies, I would wait impatiently, finding the shop talk quite tedious. It could take one hour or more.
Finally, we continued our journey to the main street in our town which was lined with beautiful, lush trees. My favorite stop was the bookstore. I loved the smell of the books — that magnificent, dusty, paper scent — and would spend time browsing the illustrated pages while Grandma looked around. I could already read, and I found it fascinating not just to look at the illustrations, but to read the captions and book headers.
Nearby, we stopped at a grocery store for essentials: fresh white bread, rye bread, and milk for my grandfather, who was waiting for us at the dacha.
The final leg of the journey involved a bus ride to the railway station, crossing the bridge over the tracks, and catching another bus to the dacha’s edge. When I was young this road from the bus stop to our dacha seemed very long. Later I realized it wasn’t as long as I had imagined. But it was difficult for my grandma. Though it took us three or four hours in total, arriving at the dacha was always a relief. We would find my grandfather there, ready for a break.
Since it was peak summer, we could immediately harvest. We ate fresh vegetables from the garden — I especially loved the baby carrots — and enjoyed the calm of the day.
By evening, after helping with the watering, we would make the journey back. It was exhausting, but I cherish those memories. Later, when my grandfather bought his first car, Moskvich 412, the entire experience changed, but those long, slow walking days remain a vivid piece of my history.
