I was 13 at the time. Boyhood was slowly fading from me, like the green from the wheat sheaves, and I, faltering, made my first steps into youthful manhood. I began learning how a man is measured, and who and what measures the man.

It begins with his home.

The new ataman sat at our table (the new one we broke out on such important visits, white lace tablecloth and all), announcing the exchange.

“Tarasiev? That best be not from Kirian Ivanovich’s lot-I’d sooner stake my fence next to the devil!” My grandfather’s brows arched in surprised concern. So surprised was he, he took his pipe from his whiskered lips and wagged it in respectful urging at the ataman.

Having returned from his service term at his assigned station, my father was home to stay- at least for the next year or two. So now, Grandfather had to share the seat of command, if you will, with his now-returned son. (Auntie too, because she ruled us all, even if we didn’t know or admit it).

My father was a quiet, gentle sort. He possessed a sort of quietness that made him ideal for easing skittish horses or holding someone’s wailing infant at a baptism. He was the opposite of my grandfather. And keeping with the opposite, he never argued, but always sought solving a fight with solutions, not fists. I should have perhaps learned more from him, but the Tsar’s government always whisked him off to a station here or there!

Placing his hand up, my father silently hushed Grandfather. Grandfather merely snorted.

“We will try our best to live in peace with our neighbors, Ataman. After all, the stanista lives on its brotherhood. Be assured our side of the fence will not sow any seeds of discord. We will keep to ourselves if necessary, if the Tarasievs are a reticent lot.” My father calmly explained.

I sat at attention at the table, straining to keep up with the large words and even larger promises-I was taking my first steps in joining the men’s world. Still, my mind wandered from the boredom of discussions on land-rights, taxes, granary rights, livestock rates and the like- as I stole furtive and envious glimpses through the window at Kolya splashing in the riverside with our friends.  

“Well, answering your question, Nikon Danolivich, and to put you at ease, Danilo Nikonovich, it’s Kirian Ivanovich’s eldest son (well, his only son, if you two remember what happened), Lukyan Kirianovich. Hopefully, the years mended the rift between you, Danya-“ The ataman addressed my father aside, with a thoughtful tilt of his head, as they had been cadet students together in their youth, and were something old friends-“ and Lukyan Kirianovich. It was a long time ago…”

My father straightened himself, as though the name struck a nerve, like when your horse pricks its knee.

He glanced down at the table for a moment, broad brow furrowed like a plough track in earth,  which struck me as unusual, as my father was seldom this sternly pensive.

“Of course. It was a long time, and that’s all been forgotten. At least on my part.” My father said quietly yet firmly.

After the Ataman departed (after tipping his cap and receiving a cloth-covered cake from Auntie), no sooner had the door clasped shut with a click, I quickly assaulted my father with a battery of questions.

Who was this Lukyan Kirianovich? What happened between he and my father? What feud formed between us and the Tarasievs?

“Ah! Maybe you should let the boy know, Danilchuk!” urged my Grandfather with a sigh.

My father turned around, and with his usual gentle manner, he shook his head. (See, this made him the best horseman- quiet and gentle like a mother.)

“Andrusya, maybe when you’re older. You shouldn’t have to chew on old bitter things your elders made. But when they arrive, we’ll treat them, including Lukyan Kirianovich,”-he eyed my grandfatherly in sharp, wordless reproach, as though he was the father, and not the son- “ with respect. And we’ll offer our help if any need arises. It’s what Christ told us to do.”

“Huh- if I recall right, Christ also drove knaves out with a whip, right in the temple, too…” Grandfather added testily, fulling his pipe bowl broodingly.

My father narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Father…don’t open old wounds. They’ve already scarred over.”

“Oh, the colt thinks he can master his sire!” Grandfather snorted defiantly.

“I mean it, Father. Let it be!”

“Hush, you. I’ll keep my quiet- who’s lived longer than you? Me! I want peace, too. Even if we must put up with that devil Lukyan Kirianovich, damned devil if God ever saw one! Should have let me take my whip to him, the way he did yo-“

“That’s enough, Father. Not in front of the boy.”

In boyish curiosity, my arms went still at my side- I stopped in my scything, and my eyes sought out to catch a better glance at what Kolya was up to.

Fixed on one spot, Kolya stood still, like a stubborn grass stalk that wouldn’t be cut down. I turned my head more towards him, and noted his eyes were glued onto the little Tarasiev girl.

He had that silly, glassy gaze… of lovesickness!

I wanted to laugh, hold my sides from bursting at the seams. My little brother- smitten with the little Tarasiev girl! And he was only 9! Hah! 

Shifting nervously from heel to heel in the swaying grass, Kolya summoned, I guessed, his courage, and greeted Dasha: “G-goo-Good Morning, Dasha!”

“Huh?” She looked up, puzzled by my brother’s sudden voice. Blinking confusedly, she resumed tying the sheaves with her mother’s help.

“I said, ‘Good Morning, Dasha!’” shouted Kolya.

“Oh! Morning. Who are you? How’d you know my name?” Dasha asked, squinting confused as the sun emerge from a cluster of clouds which granted us all a brief respite of coolness and shade. 

“Uhm… I’m Kolya...I heard your mother call you, so I guess that’s your name?” Kolya faltered, awkward as a colt on its wobbly legs.

It took all my gumption not to burst out laughing. 

I wanted to help my little brother, as he made his first entrance into “courting” girls, but I thought it best to let him stand on his own. 

I’d soon be off to academy, and he’d have to fend for his own, I remembered with a tinge of distant melancholy. 

Dasha, averting her eyes, returned with her eyes down on her work, while her mother whispered something, perhaps encouraging her little one to befriend my clumsy yet eager brother. 

Dasha shook her head, and shot a narrow-eyed glare at Kolya. 

Kolya panicked. Should I help him?

Instead, he used his wits for once, and whether from boldness or desperation, he went to the dividing line, dipped into his shirt pocket, and handed a piece of his rock candy over the line to his new-found sweetheart. 

“You like Sarsaparilla?”

Irina Larionevna prodded her stiff-necked daughter forward. 

“Say thank you, Dashenka.” She reminded her gently. 

“Uhm. T-thanks!” She snatched the candy piece and ducked back to her mother, who patted her head and chuckled softly. 

But just as my eyes caught sight of Lukyan Kirianovich and his family, so had my Father and Grandfather’s eyes spotted them.