Chasing Winter Away
Here in Cleveland, we’re doing it like the Slovenians
The vernal equinox falls on March 19th this year, but in Northeastern Ohio, it will be spring in name only. It’s not unusual for Cleveland to experience snow well into April.
As I write this story in the third week of February, I’m fairly certain it will be weeks before winter fully releases us from its hoary grasp.
Thousands of miles away, in the city of Ptuj, on the Drava River in Northeastern Slovenia, a carnival rages on. It’s Kurentovanje — a festival, rooted in ancient traditions, that’s all about saying goodbye to the colder months.
Slovenia, which borders Italy, Austria, Hungary, Croatia, and the Adriatic Sea, is a mostly mountainous nation, largely forested, and with a primarily continental climate. The exceptions are the northwest, which is alpine, and the coastal region, which is sub-Mediterranean.
Kurentovanje, which has been called the Mardi Gras of Slovenia, is a ten-day spring and fertility festival with the symbolic purpose of chasing away winter and ushering in spring. Kurentovanje leads up to Shrovetide (the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday) and involves a smorgasbord of parades, performances, artists, musicians, feasting, and drinking.
While most of Slovenia doesn’t need to fear an extended winter as much as we do on the banks of Lake Erie, the mission of this celebration resonates around the world.
Ptuj is Slovenia’s oldest city. Its modern version of the carnival has been occurring since the 1950s, though it is clearly rooted in pagan traditions. Some 150,000 people attend Kurentovanje each year.
The festival’s name comes from the mystical pagan creatures called the Kurent, or Kurenti. They are large, hairy masked beasts whose furry attire features feathers or horns adorning their heads (depending on which part of Slovenia they’re from), a sheepskin hat covered in ribbons, red or green leg warmers with black boots, and cowbells attached to their belts.
In ancient times, the Kurenti, with their clanging bells and the wooden spiked clubs they also carry, were believed to have the power to vanquish winter. Traditionally, only unmarried men were allowed to don the costumes, but in modern times, everyone can participate.
Living in a port city on a Great Lake brings myriad benefits, but I’ll wax eloquent about the rest of them another time. Our focus, for the purpose of this story, is the cultural melting pot that exists in such cities, where generations of immigrants settled to find jobs.
Being a bit of a mutt myself, I relish experiencing, learning about and immersing myself in different cultures. Cleveland’s diversity offers regular opportunities to do so, and our version of Kurentovanje is a perfect example.
Cleveland Kurentovanje, a volunteer-organized program of the Slovenian Museum and Archives, was founded in 2013. My husband and I attended the very first parade and immediately fell in love with the concept.
According to its website, the mission of Cleveland Kurentovanje is threefold:
(1) Culture: to promote and celebrate Slovenian culture (2) Merry-Making: to create a fun and lively experience for all festival-goers (3) Growth: to use the energy from our event to contribute to the momentum in the St. Clair-Superior neighborhood, which historically was home for generations of Slovenian immigrants.
This local version of the carnival has grown since that first parade, boasting crowds of up to 7000 each year.
It’s impossible to pick the best thing about Cleveland Kurentovanje. I dare you to attend this boisterous event and try not to smile. Trust me — I made the attempt (one year when I was feeling cranky) and deemed it a lost cause.
When you’re part of Kurentovanje, the world is your oyster and nothing is impossible. You’re joyful, exuberant, elated, and you simply can’t stop grinning from ear to ear.
Is it the Kurenti? The polka band, or the roving concertina players? The tantalizing aroma of sausages on the grill?
It could be the vendors, selling t-shirts that say “Partied my bells off at Cleveland Kurentovanje”. Perhaps it’s the crowd itself, dancing descendants of Slovenian immigrants, from tiny tots to grandparents with canes, kicking up their heels for hours.
Or maybe it’s the homemade slivovitz, plum brandy served by two guys I like to call the Smiling Men. Either they’re just really happy dudes, or they’ve sampled their own wares by the time I make my first purchase of the day. It really doesn’t matter — either way, their presence lights up the room.
Once I taste my first sip of this magical potion, this elixir of cheer, I’m smiling too — laughing, chatting with strangers and planning my trip to Slovenia (they also have a potato festival — don’t you want to come along?). While I sadly have no Slovenian lineage, on this day, I’m their adopted daughter.
Winter still has her claws in us, here in Cleveland, but with a celebration like this, we don’t mind very much at all.
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Kathryn Dillon is a 40-something Cleveland Heights, Ohio-based author, rekindling her passion for writing after a 20-year hiatus. She resides with her husband and their very spoiled cats in a ridiculously large 1910-built home that they are slowly attempting to renovate. She is a product manager by day and holds an MBA from Roosevelt University and a BS in Magazine Journalism from Ohio University. She believes life should be lived to the fullest, and particularly loves baseball games, craft beer, rock concerts, art museums, and the symphony, not necessarily in that order.
