#4 By the Grace of God

Close your eyes for a second and imagine a howling wind, but not a scary one—the kind of wind you hear at a time when you are safe and happy inside, have few worries, and so can take comfort because of the contrast between the safety you have now and the unpleasantness outside. This is the sound that trams make as they accelerate and slow down. It is also the sound of another train as it’s passing the one you’re in.

We took a fast train through the beautiful countryside from Prague to Brno, the second largest city in the Czech Republic, the city where we lived for nearly a year three years ago. Gently rolling golden or new green hills outlined in darker greens; sandy beige, pale terracotta or dusky pale mustard-colored houses with red tiled roofs, and lace curtained windows. I see only a few people, and those I do are tending the fruit trees that seem to be a part of nearly every household garden landscape, even in the city.

These are views that never, ever fail to bring tears to my eyes. And no matter how long I have been away, I always feel as if I am coming home to a place that is as much a part of me as it is place apart from me. This sense of belonging doesn’t compete with my love of my own native Georgia, or South Carolina. Rather, it is another home in addition to the one I was born to.

Love of place is one of those things that Czechs and Southerners share, which isn’t surprising when the majority of population can say their ancestors have lived among these hills and valleys for hundreds of years. All of my acquaintances in Brno consider themselves Moravian Czech, and they announce this with the same pride as a southern man might refer to himself as a good ole boy. And a couple of them are so proud of their Moravian heritage that I am sure if bumper stickers were even remotely popular here, they would have them that said, “Czech by birth, Moravian by the grace of God.”

There is also a deep respect for grandmother, and the secure and happy associations that the word conjures up. More than once in this country, I have seen a change in a surly shopkeeper when I was shopping for a gift, or in an impatient security guard with the invocation of a single word, “babicka.” It was understood immediately that the gift I wanted was for my grandmother, that my grandmother had made the sandwich I was being ordered to toss into the trash. I got a smile at the store and permission to carry my food into the museum. It’s a lot like being in the South, in Georgia or South Carolina, and having the correct response to the inevitable question: “Who are your people?” It’s an ordinary occurrence, perhaps even one taken for granted until I am far enough from home.

If home is “the place where they have to take you in,” then this is surely home, too, though like going back to my family and friends in America, I don’t feel like I am being taken in out of a sense of obligation. When I come home to Brno, my friends treat me with the care and habits that their grandmothers treated them. I am welcomed with the affection and attention of old friends, though I have known these friends for only a short time. On my first return trip to Brno eighteen months ago, one of my friends asked what meal I’d like to have when I arrived. When I answered that it didn’t matter, she explained to me that her grandmother always made the favorite meal “for the one who’s been away from home.” My eyes filled with tears. “Babicka.” The word even works on me.