TIME MACHINE

From January 2023 onwards…

My Saturday afternoon journal… A time machine!

I have tried to keep a journal many times before, but always gave up quickly. Of course, I always found a reason why I did it. It is easy to justify laziness, but much harder to justify the opposite. Recently, I read some excellent journals and realized that good writing often does not require great wisdom. This brings us to the most important thing – for any text, it is important how it is written, not what it is written about.

Saturday afternoon has a special and difficult to explain importance in my life. Plus, it’s a day off, a real treat. Since Grandpa Writer doesn’t lead a very exciting life, the journal will be a mixture of reality and the author’s vivid imagination. As the characters of the late writer’s journal would say, “There is some truth there, but mostly made up. Don’t believe the writer!”

Well, dear reader – cheers to your reading!

The first Saturday of this year coincides with our Christmas. About the holiday and the eternal inspiration that I have been drawing from it for decades on Saturday afternoons.

Tradition has never been too important to me, but I love and celebrate some customs with pleasure. We celebrate Christmas several times and according to various calendars. When the 25th of December comes, we exchange gifts, gather with family, have dinner together, and go our separate ways. Two weeks later, another Christmas, but also my son-in-law’s birthday. No, I didn’t become a father-in-law to that guy, my daughter’s husband was born on that day. Prika planned it well. The family is together again. Instead of gifts, we “open” the Christmas bread. This year I found the coin.

Mama-Dama loves this holiday very much, and it’s important to her that we gather on that day, and it’s important to me that she is happy because “happy wife, happy life.” Children love homemade bread, cabbage rolls, and cevapi. A little bit of everything for everyone.

After lunch, everyone goes home, and I head to the park to burn off some calories. I took the usual route to avoid busy streets. Only one traffic light to the park. Ready, set, go… At the entrance, dog walkers exchange experiences, but no one listens to anyone, everyone talks about their “baby.” An obese woman in a slow jog approaches the bench where her husband awaits with burgers that are still smoking. On the playground, a group of boys is studying something. The ball is on the side while they carefully examine a wooden object.

“What is that, guys?” I asked curiously.

“An old clock, but with some computer chips,” answered the red-haired brat.

“Be careful, it might be a bomb,” said the worried Young Pioneer who was taught in school that the enemy never sleeps.

“Don’t worry, my grandpa made it, crazy scientist George. Are you interested in buying it? I’d sell it to you for 40 dollars.”

“Twenty!” I offered impulsively.

“Sold.”

I ended my walk and ran home. I locked myself in my room as if I was going to do something naughty, opened the door on the clock from which the cuckoo usually comes out, and there was a completely different world. The clock takes me back in time, half a century and a bit more… Childhood, and there I am, chubby, jumping around Vašarište. I enter the yard, and there is an oak branch waiting for me. I take the yule log and knock on the door.

“Come in, your “položajnik” has arrived!”

A s I woke up and arrived at Naka and Balet’s place, it was almost noon, but they made an effort to let me be the first to cross the threshold. Bale once waited for the postman halfway through the yard to avoid being the first one to enter the house, as he planned to warm up with coffee and rakija. I entered the house, approached the “Smederevac” stove, lit the fire with a yule log, and uttered some “magical words.” The only thing I remembered was: “… as much fire, as much steam… ” and I didn’t feel like searching the internet. Let there be enough money and artistic talent to keep us unbothered, or else someone will get a smack!
Since I bought a Time Machine for 20 dollars, keeping a journal will depend only on my laziness.

January 2023. Boki’s visit

Since Saturday, we’ve been checking what Mr. Google Search says about it. The term was first used by the Romans in the second century as a day dedicated to the planet Saturn. In most countries, it’s the first day of the weekend, while in Australia and New Zealand, elections are exclusively held on Saturdays. In Israel, nothing is done on this day, in Sweden and Norway, only children get candy on Saturdays, and in Nepal, it’s the only day off, which, like Jews, is considered a holiday. Saturdays are the day of remembrance of the dead, or as it’s called in different cultures.
The wall clock opens the doors of its time machine. Since childhood, I remember Saturday as the day when we remember dear people who are no longer with us. The first death of a loved one was when Grandpa Bale died. I remember we often went to his grave. Candles, flowers, and a mandatory cigarette placed on the monument. Once I went with my mother, and there was a woman sitting next to Grandpa’s grave. She was unknown to me. I see Boki has changed. It made her uncomfortable. When she saw us, that woman quickly crossed herself, kissed the monument, and left. Many years later, when I grew up, they told me that was Grandpa’s mistress, who they jokingly called “stepmom.” It seems that Bale did well when that lady came to his grave.
Nana Naka died shortly before our wedding. She was a woman of modern views and did not obey the rules of general narrow-mindedness. She knew she was suffering from a serious illness and begged us not to change anything about the wedding: “My grandson is getting married, that’s a great happiness for me, and it will be as you imagined!” she told me.
Bami died a few years later. She welcomed great-grandchildren and then lost the will to live. She had a hard life, but she never gave up until the very end. The biggest fan of Toma Zdravkovic and Zvonko Bogdan, a woman who hummed, whistled her favorite melodies all day long, suddenly lost her life optimism and strength to continue. Baba would say in her style: “I lost my driver!”
Boki left us many years later. In the midst of that pandemic miracle and the Arizona summer, on the Christian holiday of St. Elijah. Unlike me, she was tied to saints and other Orthodox customs. She was buried in the presence of a priest, and we raised two monuments for her, one in Sumadija and the other in Arizona. At first, I rarely visited Boki’s grave. I was struggling with some of my own problems and, like all selfish sons, was focused on myself. Recentley, hings have changed.
Every other Saturday, when I go to the cemetery, I make a little event out of it. I prepare a good book to listen to so the drive passes more easily. I take out a folding chair from the trunk and light a cigarette. I still have a pack of Ronhill cigarettes that Boka used to smoke. I think there’s only one missing. When she stopped enjoying tobacco, I knew it was the end. I quit smoking about ten years ago, but I “share” a cigarette or two with my mother. I remember once she said to me, “Everyone has a flaw, politicians steal, you like red wine, and I like cigarettes!” In the meantime, I’ve given up wine and other alcoholic derivatives, so this cigarette on her grave means a lot to me. It’s our secret connection through which we connect two worlds with smoke. I sit for a while and then take a walk. The cemetery is quiet. The silence encourages reflection. I design, clarify, and complete the stories I’ve started in my head. I find new twists in the novel. I finished the first part. I boasted to Boka in my thoughts. She was always my loyal reader, and I’m sorry I can’t hear her opinion. I’m not one of those who speak to the deceased as if they are alive because they’re not. Our loved ones are in our thoughts, and that’s how we communicate. The walk takes a long time. I look at graves, compare monuments, and find some with Serbian names. In my ears, the audio book “Hobo,” and suddenly, towards the end of the novel, a scene at the cemetery when the main character visits his brother. Coincidence? I doubt it! After several laps, I return to the chair, fasten the flowers in a concrete vase next to the monument. I sit for a little while longer, and then it’s back to the car. See you soon, Boka.

January 2023. David Sedaris, Đuza, and music-sports shenanigans.

While reading David Sedaris’ book “Theft by Finding: Diaries (1977-2002),” I was drawn to his description of brutal Saturday afternoon drinking. In the morning, David would stock up on tonic water, prepare lunch, and clean the house. When his favorite radio show started at five o’clock, he would put down the vacuum and pour himself his first glass of vodka. He would enjoy the radio antics for a while, then after who knows how many drinks, end up slumped by the armchair. Similar things happened to me on other days. Since we both gave up alcohol, we now consciously and responsibly enjoy art. A sober brain helped me recall my Saturdays from childhood onwards. Interestingly, both radio and Saturdays played an equally important role for me.

I was very young and spent most of my summer vacations at Naka and Balet’s. Mr. Balet had many hobbies, dominated by “3S” – spritzer, womanizing, and printing. Naka spent most of her time by the radio, in addition to medical journals Elixir and Health. Her favorite shows were Radio Doctor and Radio Drama. While I didn’t care much about medicine with open eyes and especially ears, I followed radio adaptations of famous stories and novels as well as original dramas written especially for radio. Over time, I fell in love with many programs, among which Radioskop, Nobody Like Me, and Encounters… remained in my memory, and on Saturdays, in the morning, Weekend Magazine, hosted by Zoran Stanojević, whose brother taught Roman law in Kragujevac (favorite quote: “The funny side, Weekend MagazAna!”). This show evokes associations with the beginning of the weekend and cheerful, relaxed gatherings with parents. Joint trips to the city, to the park, to the market…

In the afternoon, I listened to Đuza’s Fun Magazine (quote: “In the opera loGe? No! It’s pronounced loZhi!”). While my parents rested, Vlastimir Đuza Stojiljković, with his time machine and travelogues, took me through space and time. Towards the end of the show, the grumpy characters “From the opera box” Nikola Milić and Slavko Simić would appear, created in the image of the unlucky old men from the Muppet Show.

Every other Saturday, I finish an article for Kragujevac newspapers. Honestly, I like this sweet obligation that I voluntarily chose so that my time wouldn’t pass in vain. One nice thing never comes alone. Since I started publishing articles again, the desire to write has awakened. I increasingly return to the novel, so “Zimnica” progresses, and I have started keeping a diary regularly.

January 2023. Walk, Prikan, Šušumiga, and “Sabbatarian” religious beliefs.

I write intensively, and I’m most creative in the morning. I’ve turned my morning walks into “work activities” because I use my breaks at work to take a few laps around the building. On weekends, my walks are longer and more productive. Sometimes I like to listen to a book, other times a podcast, and when I need to solve a literary dilemma, I take a walk without headphones. At first, my brain does its job and jumps around like a goat. Nothing can be forced. I analyze daily events – should I have done something differently? Maybe it was better if I had kept quiet? What am I going to have for dinner? It’s such a nice day today! Some jerk let their dog poop in the park. “Excuse me, sir, did you forget something?” I point to the dog poop. I need to buy a stapler. I’ll check online, maybe there’s a cheaper one? Oh, look at that beautiful lady in pink tracksuits! Sometimes it takes half an hour for my thoughts to settle down. Then the creative process begins, and solutions appear out of nowhere. There’s a lot of reflection, philosophy, and beating around the bush before I come to the simple conclusion that I should walk more often and never wear headphones. And yet, I don’t want to spoil the magic. Maybe that would kill the charm?!

After my walk, I visit Prikan. The women have gone to visit their grandmothers, leaving us to chat, gossip, and joke around. We drink coffee and reminisce about the week that’s passed. We boast about our grandchildren, and show each other respect. It’s nice to listen and be heard. It’s even better to have a relaxed conversation and allow topics to emerge naturally. At some point, our mutual friend Šušumiga joins us. The atmosphere immediately changes, and spontaneity disappears. Šule doesn’t talk about his grandchildren, even though he has them. He buys books but doesn’t read them. According to him, movies made after 1983 are just commercial products that don’t deserve the attention of a “great expert.” We’ve known each other for a long time, so we know what to expect during our gatherings. He has a bunch of pre-prepared phrases, stories that we’ve heard a million times before, and in which he’s always the main character. The stories have a loose plot, so they always sound the same. He asks questions but doesn’t listen to the answers. His favorite catchphrase is “When was that?” even though the time of the story has no real significance. Once he runs out of clichés, he starts feeling slightly bored, and then becomes mildly aggressive. The most important thing for him is to be the center of attention, even though there’s rarely a reason for it.

I come home, wanting to write, but something won’t let me be. I have to take a look at my Time Machine. I approach the clock, stand on my toes, and peer through the window of the past.

Teenage years. Kiza and I regularly skipped classes. We told our teachers that we couldn’t come to school on Saturdays because of our religious beliefs. And so, every Saturday, we’d dress up for school and head to Veliki Park or Šumarice. We scraped together some money to grab a slice of pizza. It was a real little holiday for us. Everything was going well until one morning when Bami showed up in the park.

She went for a walk. She had sunglasses, a coat, and a bag over her arm, and walked slowly. Kiza and I took the newspapers we always shared and hid our heads like in the movies. Bami, however, was not fooled.
“I won’t tell your parents anything, but now march straight to school,” she said.
At about the same time, the teachers came to their senses and at the first parent-teacher meeting, asked since when our families were “Sabbatarian” and what we could do together to make up for missed lessons. Our fathers found a solution right away in the form of leather belts that left marks on children’s behinds. It was good while it lasted!

February 2023 Sports Center

These days, my city has become the sports center of the world, at least when it comes to America. The Super Bowl, the biggest sports event of the year, is taking place, as well as the famous golf tournament. In addition, we found out that the Suns are getting a big addition. Kevin Durant is coming to us! Basketball has always been my favorite sport. I live in a city that has a decent NBA team that has even played in the finals three times. It seems to me that this generation has a good chance of winning the first championship ring. I would follow basketball regularly, but I’m too old to spend two hours in front of the screen just like that. Sometimes I watch the game without sound while listening to an audiobook, but I also avoid that because I miss the literary style in the book. While checking the results of last night’s NBA game, I looked at my magical wall clock. And there…

I started playing basketball for school in the seventh grade. After-school practices, weekend morning games. Halfway through the school year, we got a new coach. A former basketball player, a cool guy who instantly became a role model for a seventh-grader. We trained seriously, no slacking off. He brought us black jerseys with a red hem. I wear number 8, we look like world-class players. The material the jerseys are made of is a magical blend of wool and synthetics. Today, players would wear it as punishment, but for us, there was no greater joy. The coach came up with the idea to organize our games in the evening, after school. So, after the end of the fifth hour, we would rush to the court, and in the audience, there were teachers, girls in front of whom we wanted to prove ourselves, and boys who envied us.

On Saturday evenings, Radnički played. Kiza and I went to all the games played in Kragujevac, first in the Technical Hall, then in our elementary school, and finally in the Jezero Hall. Since Kiza’s next-door neighbor was the captain of the team, Kesedžija would sometimes take us to travel with the players to Kraljevo or Čačak. We were connected to the Radnički basketball players in different ways. One of them would later run the most famous ice cream shop with Italian ice cream. The second one would work with Daleta in Barjak, and the wife of the third one taught me chemistry. The fourth was a waiter in Šumarice, and the fifth was a math teacher.

Late at night, we would check the results of other basketball games on Sports Saturday. I’ll talk about Sports Review some other time since it aired on Sundays.