Guest Post: Her Name Was Vera by Time Travel Romance Author Stella May...

I’ve been thinking about writing this for a long time, but never put the actual words to paper. Something always stopped me. When the story is vital, and the memories are bittersweet, it’s very hard to transform into words your emotions. At least, it is for me.

So, the women of my family: my great-grandmother Tatiana, my grandmother Vera, my mother Karina, and my aunt Stella.  Even the names sound lovely, old-fashioned, and classy, don’t they?

Three generations, four amazing women who shared blood, but were as different from each other as night and day, or as only mothers and daughters can be. Four women, four fascinating life stories. 

Today, I will tell you about my grandmother.

Her name was Vera, but we called her Verunya. Even her daughters, my mother and my aunt, referred to her by that endearing nickname. No one in the family knew when exactly it started or who started it. But someone did, and it stuck. For three generations.

As a matter of fact, she had two names: Vera, which means “faith” in Russian, and Gulbahar, which means “spring flower” in Azeri. Why? My grandmother was unique in more ways than one. You see, her mother was from a prominent Russian family, and her father….. Well, here’s where we draw a blank. To this day, no one in the family knows who his ancestors were. But as the family lore goes, my great-grandfather was kidnapped as a child and raised in Iran in a Kurdish family. When he met my great-grandmother Tatiana (and no one is sure when or how he ended up in post-revolutionary Azerbaijan, a republic of former USSR) he was so lovestruck that he converted to Christianity to get permission to marry her. And so, Meshady Abbas became Artemy Kurdov. My grandmother Verunya was the only child of that unusual union.

To say that she was a complex woman is truly an understatement of the century. Stunning, strong-willed, capricious, multifaceted, she looked fragile like a china doll, but was stronger than steel. She was beautiful and knew it. She drove men crazy and enjoyed it.

But she wasn't flighty, shallow, or mean. There was not a single humble bone in her body, but she never hurt anyone on purpose. She worshipped at the altar of high fashion, but sold without hesitation her favorite dress in order to buy her two little daughters Christmas gifts.

She had a huge heart, and loved all four of us, her grandchildren, to distraction. And every time one of us would visit her, before she would open the door, she'd call out, "My dearest one has come!"

She was not your traditional grandmother. She was not traditional anything, period, and that was a huge part of her charm.

For me, she was a personification of everything female. Always dressed to kill, sporting an impeccable manicure and pedicure, she could apply mascara and her famous cherry red lipstick even half asleep. And grey hair? She refused to even acknowledge its right to exist.

She fell in love at 16 with a man who was almost twice her age. Needless to say, no one could stop her from marrying this dashing hunk who happened to be a popular jazz singer. My aunt was born less than a year after, and my mother three years later.

Then, tragedy struck. My larger-than-life grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. He died three months later, leaving a 20 year-old widow with two toddlers on her arms, no income to support them, and no place to live in a strange city. You see, my grandfather Sergey Periev moved his family from Baku, when my Verunya lived all her life, to Yerevan, where he was offered a position as a lead singer in Armenian Jazz band. The apartment they were living in was a rental for the members of the band only, so after his death my grandmother was asked to vacate it. And the year was 1942, the second year of World War II.

But instead of falling apart, this young girl, a child herself, grabbed her two daughters and whatever meager possessions she had, and returned home. With no help from the well-to-do in-laws, who decided they didn’t need an additional burden, she struck out on her own.

I can only imagine how scared she was. She needed to support her family, but had no real profession or formal education. What she had in abundance was sheer guts and a spine of steel. And a true gift that fate bestowed upon her: her amazing voice.

So, shaking off her own fears and insecurities, my Verunya stuck her perky nose up, squared her fragile shoulders, and set to pursue a career as a singer. And the rest was history. She became a star. In my former country, USSR, the name Vera Perieva was familiar to millions.

In her early thirties, she met her second love. Mikhail Kauffman was her impresario. It was a long, happy, and content marriage. But then cancer struck again, taking away the man who became a true father to my mother and aunt, and loving grandfather to my cousins and I.

When in 1991 our family relocated to the USA, Verunya tried really hard to adjust to her new country, but that proved to be a challenge. The language barrier, failing health, advanced age—everything added to the load.

She passed away quietly in her sleep on one brutally cold October morning, wearing an impeccable manicure and pedicure, with not a single grey hair offending her trade-mark mahogany mane.

Last February would have been my grandmother’s 105th birthday. I'm sure the angels threw a huge party for our Verunya, with my mom and dad, and all our dearest departed friends and family in attendance. And then the birthday girl sang, and her deep rich soprano flew over heaven making the Almighty sigh with pleasure…..

Talented author Stella May is the penname for Marina Sardarova who has a fascinating history you should read on her website. 

Stella writes fantasy romance and time travel and is the author of the family saga/trilogy Once & Forever, and fantasy romance Rhapsody in Dreams. Love and family are two cornerstones of her stories and her life. Stella's books are available in e-book and paperback through all major vendors.

When not writing, Stella enjoys classical music, reading, and long walks along the ocean. She lives in Jacksonville, Florida with her husband Leo of 35 years and their son George. They are her two best friends and are all partners in their family business.

Follow Stella on her website and blog Stay connected on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.

Lessons from my Brother…

Ian at his home in spring 2014

I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since my youngest brother, Ian, has left us. Truth be known, we actually got closer when he was diagnosed with cancer over two years ago. I’d phone him once a week, and he’d phone me when he was feeling up to it. He brought his son to our ‘Farewell to the Cottage’ party and had fun watching him fish and hang out with the family. Oh, there were times when I wanted to slap my brother across the back of his head for his bad behavior and callousness in the past. I know I’m not the only sibling in that boat! LOL! Still, in the end, Ian was my brother. And as the old saying goes, blood is thicker than water.

They say you can choose your friends but not your family. But I believe that we choose the family we want to be with before we’re born. Scary concept, eh? We choose what lessons we want to learn from our family that will help our souls grow, develop, and evolve into someone better than before we were born. And when those lessons are over, the teacher leaves us.

So this got me to thinking. What lessons did my brother teach me? I did a little time traveling, since I’ve been so good at that lately, and came up with some answers…

I remember when I got my father’s station wagon crooked in the garage and tried to straighten it. Um, not one of my finest moments. I scraped both sides of the car, until I realized that there was no way I could straighten it. So what did I do? I ran crying to my two brothers. I swear they couldn’t stop laughing, but my heart was pounding so hard knowing I was gonna get in trouble. Ian managed to get the car out, and drove it back into the garage with no sweat.

Lesson learned: Patience is a virtue. Oh, and never try to straighten a big-ass car in a small garage.

I remember when I used to cheer Ian on during his hockey games. I wished like hell I could have played hockey back then. But being born in a time when no such opportunities existed, I settled for being his team’s number one booster.

Lesson learned: A team doesn’t just consist of players. The backbone of any sport is comprised of the blood, sweat, and cheers of all family members. Plus, I believe I found my true voice with all that cheerleading I did!

I remember when Ian let me drive his and my other brother’s green Challenger. Somehow, I managed to put one of the front wheels into a ditch while backing out. I think we had to pull it out with my father’s station wagon (yes, the same one that got a garage door make-over). Again, my brother got me out of another tight spot and didn’t berate at me.

Lesson learned: I always have the support I need to overcome obstacles. And never make wide turns in a small driveway.

I remember when my brother and his best buddy sat on me so I couldn’t go to church. They held me down until it was too late to attend. Um, yeah. Hope God forgave them for that one. Still, I know Ian was never one for religion or going to church, and sometimes we all have our faith tested again and again to see if our beliefs have changed from when we were kids. I know mine have.

Lesson learned: Develop an understanding of where other people are coming from. Even if those people are sitting on you.

I remember when my brother tried (operative word here is tried) to teach me how to drive three on the tree in his red truck. He drove me down to the town’s fairgrounds where I could practice shoving the stick-shift in the column. About ten grinds later, we called it quits before I did something very bad to the transmission. He never took me out again.

Lesson learned: When something doesn’t work for you, just let it go.

Finally, I remember when we celebrated the first Christmas during Ian’s apprenticeship as a mechanic. He bought us some wonderful and expensive gifts, and I truly appreciated his generosity. I still have part of that gift – the mirror to the tea caddy he bought me. Ian was very generous to our family that year, and I believe our father would have been so proud of him, had he lived.

Lesson learned: Enjoy the fruits of your labors, so that you may share them with those you love the most.

Ian celebrating our 'Farewell to the Cottage' party

As the first year of your absence in our lives comes to a close, I want to just thank you for choosing me as your big sister, Ian. It was a truly a gift from the Universe, and I believe I made the right choice too. Here’s a toast to you, who in the end, will always be my little brother…

“Be grateful to those who left you, for their absence gave you the strength to grow in the space they abandoned.” ~ Dodinsky

The Importance of Family Traditions…

This past August, I was privileged to take part in one of my sister-in-law’s (SIL) revered family traditions: making tomato sauce. Oh the carnage, the mess, the bloodbath! Of course, I’m talking about all the prep work that goes into making my SIL’s secret family tomato sauce. No worries, SIL. I won’t divulge your mother’s sacred recipe—only what I’ve learned from participating in such a fun, family ritual.

First, like writing a book, making tomato sauce requires a whole lot of preparation! There are the tomato bushels to order and pick up. Get the equipment out. Setting up the equipment and tables. Scheduling family members. Buying tomato paste and spices. I tell you it’s a first-class production!

Second, delegation is the key. I looked at this entire operation through the eyes of an author and thought how genius my SIL is. She stationed certain family members for washing the tomatoes (as a newbie, I got to help my nephew with that job). Other family and drop-by neighbors (poor buggers) were commissioned to cut up the tomatoes into quarters. Then, once a few bushels were filled up with severed tomatoes (I know, sounds horrific), they’re placed in a grinder that separates the skins and seeds from the juice, which flows into a large pot set on a propane burner.

Third, once the pot is full (four fingers from the top—believe me this is a science), the burner is lit, and the tomato juice has to come to a rapid boil.

Fourth, once the juice boils, the secret ingredients must be added. This is my niece’s specialty, and she has this down to an art. And if I spill the beans here, she will hunt me down, and squish me like one of those poor tomatoes. Yikes! After the said ‘secret ingredients’ are in the pot, the tomato juice must be set to boil for 45 minutes.

Fifth, a small pot of tomato juice is scooped out of the large pot after the 45 minutes has expired, then placed into another pot with about two large scoops of tomato paste. This concoction is mixed together and placed back into the large, boiling pot. This is akin to editing, rewriting, editing, and rewriting until the author is happy with the story. It’s the process that solidifies the sauce (or in my case, story).

Sixth, finally comes the jarring. Honestly, it’s like being on a production line. SIL stands ready with a jar while my brother pours the sauce into a one liter jar. She quickly puts a lid on it, turns the jar upside down, and goes on to the next jar until the whole pot is emptied. They usually make about 4 pots which fills 50 jars per pot. Wow, that’s a whole lotta sauce!

The whole tomato sauce ordeal takes about twelve hours (not counting prep time) and is a hell of a lot of work. So the question I pose to you is, was this family tradition worth the time, energy, and effort? YOU BET IT WAS! Not only did we make enough tomato sauce to carry three to four households over the year, but we were TOGETHER the entire day. Other then holidays and celebrations, how often does that happen in this day and age?

Family traditions, no matter what they are comprised of, keep the bloodline going long after the older generation have gone. Part of what has been passed along flows to the next generation, and hopefully the next one, and the next. And that is one of the reasons why I write books—to pass on what I’ve learned and experienced from my family and from my life.

Do you have any long-standing family traditions you participate in? Or have you started a new one? Love to hear your comments. Cheers and thanks for reading my blog!