Trekhprudny Lane

The meeting/rehearsal last night was of course bizarre and terribly interesting. Moms and dads, weary from work, took off their shoes (one grandmother wore elasticized plastic bags on her boots instead) and danced  and whirled each other arm in arm and clapped time, in a spare classroom. We all stood in a circle holding hands, running forward to crush together and then backward to stretch the circle wide again. Lengthy debates as parents' memories of how the old dances should be (does the rooster, the devil, or princess come first?) were not unanimous. The best part was the dozen Russian folk songs about bliny -- sung in that old Slavic shout, with stomping, and so solemn, perhaps they are really about lenten hunger. I have a lot of memorizing to do... the festival, once it happens, in a few weeks, should be amazing. A straw doll will be burned along with all the extra pancakes; we will paint the snow; hobby horses will give sleigh rides. 

This is succinct and wonderful:

http://www.denversyntax.com/issue2/fiction/muldoon/burned.html