Chernozem Martin Krylov

Chernozem Martin Krylov

The murky water around me began to bubble. I was terrified. The thoughts of a submerged whomping willow or river monster rushed into my head. The long branches or sharp teeth pulling me underwater. Heaps of bubbles now rushed from the depths, and I began to sink. I took one last look at the sights of my childhood -- the pine forests and the lush plains, the adventures and experiences that shaped me. Then, as I was lost in my thoughts, the water completely engulfed me and my stylish pink baby floaty. Although not the best boat ever, that flimsy piece of plastic was a memorable part of my adventures in my ancestors’ homeland. Every summer, I traveled to Russia to visit my family's roots in a village in the Central Black Earth Region, known for its chernozem, a fertile rich black soil. We lived in the oldest house on the block, which lacked many of the amenities that I enjoyed in the US. With no running water, AC, or internet, I entertained myself in different ways than I normally would, hence the pink baby floaty. My friends in Russia introduced me to their daily activities and culture. They live a simple lifestyle and do not have access to the same technology as a modern American teenager. But it was because of the lack of technology that I was able to learn so much about their way of life, and to learn much more about myself as well. Not only did they have a different language and traditions, but the ways we interacted with each other and with the environment around us was also different. From digging in the dark chernozem to climbing incredibly tall birch trees, the freedom was exciting. Some days I woke up extremely early, literally before the rooster crowed, and set out to go fishing. I carefully hiked through the dew-covered plain with excitement for what lay ahead. Reaching the river, wet from head to toe, I would take off my shirt and pants and slowly and quietly waddle into the quiet, glassy morning water. Carefully, I set a maggot on the hook and cast out my line, patiently waiting for the bobber to jerk. Other days, I would set off into the field of birch trees to hunt for mushrooms. Walking with a knife in one hand and a basket in the other, I searched for hidden fungi. Sometimes a lonely and spongy boletus edulis sat hiding below a tree or a group of lactarius resimus in the lush tall grass. Carefully examining the mushroom a second time to make sure it wasn’t poisonous, I cut it at its base to protect its mycelium for the future. This thrill of the hunt and exploration lured me in every day. Similarly to how the chernozem allowed almost anything to grow, the remote environment fostered my creativity. If I wanted to entertain a housecat, I would need a toy which I did not have. So instead I