My great grandfather finished the Chata in 1972, that year forever engrained on an interior beam of the structure.  

My memories in and around the space are engrained in who I am.

Even now I can distinctly remember picking mushrooms in the forests of Jeseníky after days of misty rain, and making friends with the chickens in my grandparent’s backyard. Those summers were spent picking fruit from the trees around the family chata, built by my great grandfather. At the end of busy days, everyone would gather for nights of spekacky over a campfire at Bobrovník, where I would step in as výčepní (bartender) and serve draft beer for my extended family— at what Americans would view as an unusually young age. 

On other days I would observe my grandfather keeping his bees, with such care and a mutual trust so strong that he could handle their homes with his bare hands. After our hard work with the hives, my grandmother would teach me how to borrow, then strain and jar the honey. 

Two years ago, I was able to visit Jeseník for the first time in the fall. When I arrived, my grandfather was busily shredding a pile of cabbage from the garden, and I was soon told to wash my feet. I would be stomping 20 kilos of sauerkraut, which would ferment just in time for Christmas. Throughout the rest of my stay, I helped my grandmother jar and preserve foods from the garden that would last them the whole winter. 

These experiences shaped my love for the environment. My understanding of how ecological systems work and should be respected, and my appreciation for our interconnectivity with living things, no matter their size, stemmed from these moments. I will never forget the horrible realization I had when I was 13 that the králíci I had been playing with my whole childhood, were the same ones in one of my favorite meals. Yet, experiences like this are what taught me how to borrow and give back to the spaces around me, and to consider the impact of my every decision.