The memories of the winter nights near Christmas spent on my grandparents’ house are still living in my soul. I manage to remember my flushed grandmother inside the room where she was shaking up the fire that cracked in the stove. Room was decorated with floral carpets of different colors that were woven along the length of the war of tissue. On the spring ruled bed the pillows were stacked one over each other until they came to the ceiling.

We look forward to the end of the agricultural labor to start the season of working groups. These were meetings of women in a house from the village to spin wool, hemp, flax or feathers whack. In our area, in Oltenia, they are also called “socials”. In the evenings when they were organized in our household, my grandmother was stepping good fire to make bread on plate and plum brandy to boil. My grandfather was preparing the benches necessary to spinners to seat. Pending the start of the “social” I was sitting in bed, astonished by the variety of fragrances that were all around the little room and I was watching how the lights were playing on the ceiling after they escaped through the door crack stove.

Once darkness fallen, the village women were coming in the yard, receiving equally spun wool which had that night. To create a pleasant atmosphere, I was taking the tray with glasses of brandy and sweetened with honey and I was serving the workers to “release” their tongues. Women faces reddened by hot brandy and heat from the room began to tell riddles, sayings, stories and sing ballads.

When work was in full swing violin cheers and accordion sounds could have been heard from the street. The sound was coming from “graybeard” Vasile and his group of musicians, who was bringing good mood to “socials”. When they were entering the house, work was forgotten. Musicians, good knower of local customs, they were occupying their default places and they were beginning to interpret songs. The atmosphere was growing in the joy and elation. All the women came out to play and they had no place in the room, and were climbing the surrounding benches. Vasile sang until his bushy mustache looked like it started to spring and women danced until broke their shoes. Then my grandmother served them with meat and drink, women returned to work, and “gray head” Vasile began to tell us jokes.

When dawn knocked on the window, we started to dance again, but this time in the middle of the yard. Workers went happy with the musicians leading them home with procession to music.

I will never forget how nice were the long winter nights spent in the grandparents’ house, where joy was smoothly blended with tradition and work.