matching tracksuits

It promised to be a lovely morning: after a day of snow, the forecast was for cloudless skies Saturday morning. I opened my eyes and realized I had to get outside with camera and tripod as fast as possible.

But it was hardly any fun alone. Since we finally had snow, K and I were both eager to get the Girl out into it.

Once outside, L was keen on imitating K and me: in short, she began cleaning. First, seeing us knocking the snow off the car with a broom, she needed to help. But weightier obligations awaited her in the back.

The deck.

When we had a snow an ice day, L enjoyed knocking the ice off the banisters and deck chairs, and she was eager to get to work. In the course of a few minutes, she’d just about knocked off all the ice.

Yesterday, she applied her expertise to snow. She banged it a few times as experience had taught with the ice, then knocked it off.

If only we could keep this urge to clean in imitation going for another fifteen years or so.

As it was, the cleaning bug lasted only a few more minutes. She knocked some snow off trees and shrubs, then headed to the front.

The great sadness was that the snow was too dry to make even a small snow ball, let alone a snow man.

Still, snow angels seemed doable.

“Watch and learn,” I told the Girl, then gingerly lowered myself onto the ground. I’d forgotten how quickly the snow invades shoes, sneaks up jackets and settles into just about every article of clothing.

L took a more direct route, and with a flop was wallowing in the snow.

She didn’t mind the snow working its way down her boots, up her jacket, around her neck: by the time we forced her back inside, she was covered with it.

Lights are an integral part of Christmas. Certainly everyone breathed a Christmas sigh of relief with the proliferation of electricity: no more candles on dried firs. And outdoor displays enter the realm of possibility.

Add the invention of the airplane, digital cameras, powerful flashes, and unleaded fuel and you get the perfect Christmas image — post-Christmas, of course.

Most of the Christmas exhibition at Roper Mountain was open to cars only, though — how thoroughly American.

We walked through the small pedestrian portion,

took some pictures, and still more

before getting back in the car and continuing on the winding road through the lights. Stopping was prohibited, as was exiting the car, so the pictures end here.

What a shame we couldn’t have the option of exploring it all on foot. Then again, much of that would have entailed L in arms, so perhaps it’s for the best.

Though her birthday was three days ago, L’s birthday party was today. Her first birthday was a much more adult-centered party. Her second birthday party was still dominated by adults. This year, it was all about the kids.

There was pizza and ice cream and candy and juice, but most importantly, there were games.

I believe we were seeing a little bit of L’s school side, As mentioned earlier, L’s teachers always comment on her mellow, compliant nature, something we don’t see too often here.

Whenever we try to play a game with her, there can be tense moments of an attitude that can be described as a typical toddler egoism: “It’s mine; I’ll do with it as I please.”

Today, there was none of that. L exhibited a simple graciousness that never demanded to be first, never begged to have it all, never stated that it must be this way and not that. She was the perfect host. It was her party, and she didn’t cry because apparently she didn’t ever want to.

And who could blame her? L’s two best friends from school were there, and what’s more, there was dancing.

The three candles were out in a flash, and the party seemed to wrap up even faster. I glanced at the clock and saw it was, in fact, two hours since the first guests arrived.

In a word, a success. “See you next year,” said one parent as a best friend was leaving.

We’re looking forward to it — especially the Girl.

Today, you turn three. You hold up your fingers, struggling to hold down the thumb and pinkie, and tell me — show me — that you’re three.

In the morning, we celebrate your threeness with activities arranged into trinities: three hugs, three kisses, three tickles. As we head to the kitchen, you decide you want three jumps, so I stand at the base of our small staircase and catch you three times as you leap, in complete trust, three times into my arms. We go back to your room and you want three pushes: I sit on your rug and you gradually, with steady pressure, push me over, landing on me with giggles.

For three years now, we’ve been three. While it’s hard to accept that it was three years ago that you rushed into the world after only an hour of your mother’s labor, it’s equally difficult to accept that it’s only been three years. It seems like so much longer. This is undoubtedly due, in large measure, to the simple fact that you’ve developed more — cognitively and physically — in these three years than you’ll ever develop in your life. You’ve learned to talk, walk, run, dance, tickle, fix chocolate milk, sort things by color, chose your own clothes, put on your jacket, and a million other things that you will take for granted in the future but are in fact life changing advances. you have, in short, become more independent.

In the beginning, there was dependence. You could do nothing for yourself except burp and mess in your shockingly small diaper.

Each year, you’ve grown more independent, and more stubborn.

You’ve gone from having things done for you to insisting on doing everything for yourself. Insisting to the point of utter frustration at times.

And now, we celebrate your completion of three years. You’re starting your fourth year with us.

We bring you a small cake — Babcia’s work — and clap as you blow out the candle. Your first year, we did it for you.

Your first birthday’s presents were of a simple kind: they made noise, or flashed, or rattled. We unwrapped the presents for you and showed you how they work.

Now, you unwrap your own presents and excitedly examine them.

We still help you, though. It will be that way for a very long time. Hopefully, a very, very long time. You’ll understand that desire when you have children of your own.

Going to the airport for an international arrival is a game of waiting.

We stood at the end of a long corridor and wait as the passengers trickle out, one by one, two by two, a group here and a group there. With three simultaneous international arrivals, it makes for a long process.

We saw several lovely reunions as we anticipate our own. An uncle arrived from Italy to a niece and nephew running to him full speed. A father returned to a mother and smiling baby. A sister came from German for a visit.

Finally, it was our turn. L ran to meet Babcia, who scooped her up and gave her a long hug.

K joined them for a three-generation, all-mother-daughter group hug. It caught the attention of others, just as earlier reunions brought smiles to our face,

More hugs followed.

Now L just has to start speaking Polish…

Emptiness inspires dancing — the echo of footsteps is always impressive.

With the sofa and love seat sold and the remaining furniture stowed throughout the house, we now have a ballroom.

Conversely, the acoustics inspired music making, with L taking the lead.

With a three-year old and no travel plans for Thanksgiving, we planned dinner around her nap. That gave us the whole morning to work around the house. As L grows, she’s increasingly eager to help.

1/200, f/7.1, 20 mm

It’s impossible to put beans into the coffee grinder or tea into the infuser without L calling, “I want to do it! I want to help!” When I stir something in the sauce pan, when K sweeps the kitchen, L is there, ready to help.

Indeed, if we don’t let her help (either intentionally or accidentally), it sometimes leads to a mini-meltdown.

1/200, f/7.1, 10 mm

When we arrived at Nana and Papa’s for turkey and the fixings, they had a surprise for L.

“We’re tired of making a tent for her,” Nana explained earlier in the week when I dropped by. It was, I would imagine, a well-established ritual: ottomans pushed together, with a blanket spread over it to create a small space for L to wallow in.

1/60, f/5.0, 11.5 mm

As planned, it kept the Girl busy while everyone helped out with the final stages of dinner.

1/60, f/5.0, 10 mm

Turkey with dressing and giblet gravy, with sides of rice, casserole, and cranberry sauce. What could be more American? Indeed, as I ate dinner, I remembered when, living with a host family in Poland, I was asked to create a typical American meal. I mentioned the Thanksgiving feast; I was relieved when told (this was 1996) that getting a whole turkey would be, at best, difficult.

After dinner was play time (until the turkey overwhelmed Papa and he began his post-dinner, in-seat nap).

1/60, f/5.0, 10 mm

It was the first Thanksgiving without any extended family at all. No traveling; no sleeping in strange beds; no absolute dread if it was a rainy day in South Carolina, requiring us all to stay inside with four generations of smokers. It was Thanksgiving without any of the negatives. It also lacked some of the positives that certainly accompany large family gatherings.

1/60, f/4.2, 11 mm

Yet, for one of the first Thanksgivings L will probably remember (at least for a few years), it was perfect. Especially the Mlenmorangie Papa brought out after dinner.

Looking back over my childhood, I remember family reunions occurring with some regularity. All the aunts, uncles, grandparents, great-aunts, great-uncles, great-grand parents, cousins, and significant others would rent some place or another and come together for an afternoon of horse shoes, fried chicken, gossip and sweet tea.

It’s been years since I’ve been to one. Saturday, the streak was broken.

Most, if not all, of the family reunions I attended were for my father’s side. Saturday, it was Nana’s side’s turn. Because I know Papa’s side of the family better, it was an odd feeling, in a room full of strangers who constitute an extended family.

There was food and there was gospel singing:

“One thing about the W family,” said Papa. “They can sure sing.”

By the entrance there was a table of old photographs, including one of my maternal grandfather with his two brothers (essentially in the left-center of the picture below).

I never met him as he passed away long, long before I was born. I honestly don’t even know very well what he looked like, but Nana informed me that there was an uncle who looked very similar.

Everyone hovered around the picture table, though. They were the only record of many like my grandfather: people who would have loved to have seen how a small family grew into a small army company’s worth of people.

Seeing I had a fair amount of camera equipment (and associating equipment with skill, I suppose), a gentleman approached me to take some pictures of old faded images that he’d like to have copies of.

Of all the pictures snapped Saturday afternoon, these are worth more than all of those combined. These are the ones that somehow truly fulfill the role photographs are supposed to play in people’s lives.

A look at a time so far removed from ours that it might as well be a different world. And truly, it was a different world. Without the instant, worldwide communication, the pre-Twitter, pre-YouTube word was more insular.

Safer? I don’t know. After all, the Cuban Missile Crisis showed how a little Twitter can go a long way — or at least a direct line of communication between mutually powerful countries.

Bottom line, there was less — of everything. Somehow, that seems comforting.

Looking at these pictures, I regret I didn’t take the whole bunch out to the parking lot, lie them on the ground, and very carefully photograph them. After all, the pictures become fewer and fewer, as if somehow trying to pay tribute to the frugality of the times they capture.

When there’s a toddler in the family, life is a series of firsts: first time swimming; first time on an airplane; first time at the ocean.

This weekend, we added another one: first time camping, at Oconee State Park.

Oconee State Park was one of the many parks created during the thirties by the Civilian Conservation Corps. Given all the “socialism!” and “socialist!” and “socializing!” noise of the last days, it seemed oddly appropriate that we cut ourselves off from the civilized world by going to a New Deal project. I felt brainwashed when we left, but not indoctrinated.

Our “rustic site,” deep in the woods and far away from the hordes of RV-ers, was just that: very spartan. A semi-flat spot for a tent, a picnic table, and a fire circle were the only things non-native.

L was immediately thrilled, particularly with the prospect of roasting marshmallows on the fire.

“And now we can,” began K, and L finished, “Marshmallows?”

“I’m going to bring that from the car, then we can,” I said, and L finished, “Marshmallows?”

When the time finally came, though, it turned out that marshmallow preference might be genetic: like me, she didn’t really care for the marshmallow but greatly enjoyed setting them on fire. K and I ate one each; L burned most of the remainder.

It being L’s first time out, we decided to make every effort to maintain our daily routine. L was more than happy to watch the fire rather than read a book as she readied herself for bed.

The next morning, another first: mini golf. L quickly developed her own style, and her own rules.

“I hear they’re going to count that as a legitimate stroke,” I said to a father of two one hole ahead of us as we both watched, laughing, L gently push her ball to the hole. “If the ball remains in contact with the club’s face, it’s one stroke.” Our neighboring golfer liked the rule.

She seemed to enjoy putting it into her pocket after every hole more than the actual game itself.

For others, it was all about the game.

In the afternoon, we did the logical thing: go swimming. The man-made lake was shallow but cold. L didn’t notice, though.

The water’s coolness was quite possibly a relief to some, considering their trajectories toward the water and the smack! of impact.

It was an afternoon of “again.”

“I want to jump!” cried L. “Again, and again, and again!”

No mini-vacation afternoon would be complete without ice cream. As a younger toddler, L took a while to appreciate the sweet chill of good ice cream. These days, there’s no question, no hesitation, and no doubt.

“Want some ice cream?” we asked, though only rhetorically.

And the question had to be well-timed. The swim in the lake would have lasted all but five minutes had she known we were planning on having ice cream afterward.

We headed to a playground, where we were surprised once again at how quickly L can pick up a new skill. All it took was seeing one little girl slide down the pole at the corner of the playground and L was begging to try.

The paddle boat was a slightly different story, though. It’s odd: L loves water, but she’s always very nervous doing something new around the water. The ocean terrified her, and the lake at the park initially didn’t calm her anxieties much.

Still, she was willing to try, provided we took a blue boat.

A walk around the park brought the weekend to a close, and the water fountain at the end of the trail was a thrilling surprise for L.

As always, the best part, though, was the return. Lumpy, slanted nights’ sleep left all of us feeling we hadn’t actually slept at all. “I woke up every single time I turned over,” K admitted as I mumbled about how badly I slept.

It left us all jealous of creatures who can curl up comfortably wherever they are, and happy at the thought of our own beds.

“Just think: it will be soft, even, and flat.”

A visit to the Asheville area is not complete without a visit with Mike and Pia, our friends from the farm on the hill.

Their farm has grown considerably since our last visit. Their chickens have grown, they have a goat, and they added two bunnies to the fold.

For the days preceding our visit, L continually talked about going to see Mike and Pia “and the goat, and the chickens, and the dogs, and the bunny rabbits.” When she finally met the goat (whose name is Little Bit or Leadbelly, depending on whether you’re talking to Pia or Mike, respectively), L was a little apprehensive. It’s her usual modus operendi:be terrified for a few moments, then strike that and reverse it.

The chickens, all grown, have their own house now. The Girl was not at all interested in going inside, which is to say she would have been had we given her enough time.

The sight of all those chickens, scurrying about, clucking and flapping was too unpredictable for L to handle, so she simply waited outside.

Once a chicken was isolated, though, the L was eager to pet and giggle, giggle and pet.

The sun finally set, and with L in bed, we sat around the porch, then around the kitchen, talking, laughing, imbibing this and that, until after midnight.

One of the negatives about moving out of Asheville was leaving behind friends. Yet there is a sweet note to the bitterness: the semi-yearly visits become all the more precious. We all bounce out of the house crying, “We’re going to Asheville!” It’s the classic dilemma/blessing.