Month: July 2010

Basilica of the Holy Trinity (Krakow V)

“You know what I’m looking forward to?” I asked K before we left for Poland. “The smell of an old church.”

“Oh, me too,” she replied.

It’s an odor of slightly metallic dampness, old incense, leather, wool, and a thousand other notes that probably only a sommelier or blender of fine pipe tobaccos could notice and describe but which merge for us mere mortals into “old church.” It is to be in the midst of history: the structure is older than America. It is to be in the midst of profound calm: even in the most tourist-filled church, there is reverent silence.

A day in Krakow, responsible only for myself. I decide there is only one thing to do: go into churches. I begin with one of K’s favorites: the thirteenth-century Gothic Basilica of the Holy Trinity.

With so many churches in the Old Town of Krakow, it’s surprising how many masses the Basilica has. There are more on a weekday than on a Sunday at an average Catholic church here in the Old South, a clear illustration of the difference in relative demand. Then again, this particular church is popular among university students in Krakow.

So many of the churches in Krakow — they begin to blend together after a while. That’s the tourist view, I’m sure. To parishioners, there’s a history and a relationship.

Yet, there are little details in each church, little architectural touches that set each one apart. The basilica, for example, has a small upper chapel.

The view provides a little different perspective. Instead of looking up — a common action in gothic churches, and very much by design — one has the opportunity to look down. Somewhat blasphemous in a certain sense: we mortals are to be looking up to God, and here I am looking down. And on what?

A young monk explaining an upcoming ceremony to four young men. I can’t hear what they’re saying, and every picture I take turns out later to be completely, irredeemable blurry. I make a logical assumption: these young lads are about to become monks themselves, but I’m not certain. I can’t eavesdrop without making it obvious, and something prevents me from simply walking up to them and asking. What’s stopping me?

The conspicuousness I always feel as a tourist certainly has something to do with it. Walking around, snapping pictures, changing lenses, taking more photos, changing lenses again — I’m simply a cacophony.

What’s worse, unlike the Catholic tourists, I don’t genuflect as I pass the altar, and I don’t cross myself on entering. I surely stand out, but what’s the problem? We all stand out.

Is it false modesty or simply an overactive ego?

Festival

The church we attend is Saint Mary Magdalene Catholic Church, and since it was recently the Feast of Mary Magdalene, what else was there to do but have a festival? Never mind that the temperature was 101, with humidity that made it feel ten to fifteen degrees hotter — in spite of all risen mercury, the turn out was fairly impressive.

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It did make for some challenges. The inflatables were hot to the touch — so hot, we were afraid L would burn her feet without socks, so we didn’t let her romp about on them. (After she touched one, she didn’t want to either.)

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The other rides probably weren’t much better.

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Due to the high attendance, though, I didn’t usually find out. I wasn’t too upset about missing the whirley ride, though. Dizziness mixed with heat would be potentially embarrassing. How odd: such rides rarely turned my stomach as a kid. As I get older, though, I get more sensitive, which is itself odd: the general trend in aging is to grow less sensitive to so many things.

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As always, the highlight for the Girl was the dancing. L will dance — and has danced — to just about any music: bluegrass (one of her favorites), traditional Polish highlander music, Bach’s “English Suite No. 2”, the Grateful Dead, Sonny Stitt, etc.

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One of the things I like about the Catholic church in America is how it tends to draw so many cultures into its community, and these communities often have a strong sense of their heritage, which they pass through the generations. It’s most evident with the Hispanic cultures, but that’s probably more a question of demographics than anything else.

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Santa Claus Melon

It’s summer — time for watermelons.

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We try a Santa Claus melon. “At seven bucks for a football-sized melon, it’d better be good,” I think.

“Tastes like pure honey,” K says.

Perhaps a bit too sweet, though.

Anyone try one?

Ну, погоди

Ну, погоди (Nu, pogadi) -- Just You Wait!
Ну, погоди (Nu, pogodi) — Just You Wait!

Every time L meets Babcia (here or in Poland), Babcia turns L onto a new cartoon. This visit it was Wilk i Zajac (Wolf and Hare). In the classic tradition of the Roadrunner, Tweety Bird, and Tom and Jerry (to name but a few), it is the continuing attempt by a mildly evil character to capture (and presumably consume) an innocent character.

It’s not a Polish cartoon, though. It’s from the Soviet Union, with the first being created in 1969. The Russian title was “Ну, погоди¸” (pronounced “Nu, pogodi” Ну, погоди” is translated “Just you wait!”). It’s easily translated to other languages (I’m sure Poland wasn’t the only Soviet bloc country to have this imported) because about the only words spoken in each episode are “Ну, погоди¸”. The Polish versions translate that as “I’ll show you!”

L watched the DVD so many times that she basically had them memorized. She wasn’t the only one in the house who came to have the cartoons seared into memory. By the end of our stay, I could tell which cartoon was playing just by walking by the living room.

Spike

At the beginning of last month, we had quite a spike in spam over three days.

Day 1: 1,037; day 2: 2,881; day 3: 581

Three day total:4,499.

Garden

Summer means gardening for us. I wish I could say that without the knowing smile, for our “gardening” is still quite rudimentary. It’s about like saying I’m a cyclist because I manage to hop on a bike once or twice a month.

Our gardening consists of a few pepper plants, a watermelon vine or two,

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perhaps a cantaloupe, and maybe a few spices, especially basil. Next to cilantro, basil has to be the best, freshest-smelling herb that exists. Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so: K came in today with a caterpillar who’d devoured a basil plant.

“Why are you upset?” ask L.

“Because a beast was eating our basil!” K responded.

“What’s it for?” L inquired further.

“For cooking, not for caterpillars,” explained K.

“But you should share,” replied the sage.

The trouble is, we don’t have enough basil to share. We don’t have enough watermelon to share, nor cantaloupe. Our peppers are sparse too, but that’s really for a different reason.

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The tomatoes. The only thing we have enough to share is taking over our small raised beds. One vine alone requires six to eight stakes: each fork in the vine turns enormous and fruit-laden.

We head out daily to pick the tomatoes. We’re growing three varieties, including sweet, bright cherry tomatoes. Most of these rarely make it to the house:

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we munch on them so while we’re picking the rest of the tomatoes that hardly any are left when we make it back to the kitchen.

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All the same, two days can produce enough tomatoes to overwhelm quickly.

This is what K tried to explain to L this evening: “We do share. We give tomatoes to Nana and Papa, to A and P, to the chipmunks and squirrels…”

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And still we end up with so many every couple of days. Then again, who can complain about this? Quarter a fresh tomato and sprinkle salt and pepper: a perfect summer snack.

Introduction to Chess

The first steps usually happen simultaneously: learn the pieces and the layout of the board. The next step: learning how individual pieces move. L’s got two of the three done, and she’s started on the third, with the most basic: the pawns.

(I might add that L has taken the initiative entirely on this. I’m not some freakish dad pushing his own obsession on his child.)

The Sound of Respect

A friend posted a link some time ago to Anthony Esolen’s article at InsideCatholic.com about The Sound of Music and how it would resonate (or rather, fail to resonate) with today’s culture. The article begins,

Recently my family and I watched The Sound of Music for perhaps the twelfth time — probably the last great musical that Hollywood ever produced. It made me wonder if I could list the reasons why such a movie could not now be made. These reasons I offer below; but it seems to me that they can all be united under the single assertion that the intellectual, imaginative, and emotional palette of the American people has suffered a terrible constriction, a reduction to the tedium of lust and greed and the thirst for power. It is not so much that Hollywood would not make a movie like The Sound of Music as it is that the people themselves would be hard pressed to understand it.

Inside Catholic

He lists a number of reasons:

  1. The movie takes for granted that some things are holy.
  2. There is such a thing as innocence — and it is not the same as ignorance.
  3. There are such things as children, thank God.
  4. There are such things as boys and girls, and men and women.
  5. Today, no one can sing. No one knows why people ever sang.

Many of these reasons are fairly convincing, and all of them are clearly argued (even if one doesn’t agree with the conclusions).

I myself watched the film again a few weeks ago, and I tried to imagine my students’ reactions to the film. Much like Esolen, I came to the conclusion that many of them would find it incomprehensible. There’s one more reason, though, that Esolen hints at but never directly discusses. Most contemporary young people would not get the gist of the film because the idea of submission and respect toward authority (even when it seems unfair) is completely foreign to many of them.

The first time such respectful submission occurs is when the abbess suggests to Maria that monastic life might not be where God’s leading her. Maria protests, giving all the reasons why she she feels she must stay. She grows animated, slightly frustrated, and very insistent. The abbess brings her to complete silence simply by calmly saying her name: “Maria.” The young Maria grows silent instantly, demurely responding, “Yes, reverend mother.” And that’s it. The end of the discussion.

Many young people today would not respond thus to an adult no matter who the adult was. They have rights, see, and they are equal to adults in every way — except paying bills and providing for a family. Many would see Maria’s reaction as cowardly, as a lack of self-respect. Others would simply say, “I’d just turn around and walk off…”

The next time we see this type of submission it is even more tellingly dated. Captain von Trapp blows his whistle to summon the children, who form a straight line and march down the staircase in time to von Trapp’s whistle’s chirps. For most intents and purposes, they’re in the military, and that’s the point: no warmth, no real family ties, just the appearance of discipline.

Maria is horrified, and rightfully so. It is the one time she truly stands up for herself.

I could never answer to a whistle. Whistles are for animals, not for children. And definitely not for me. It would be too humiliating.

Clearly, she is also defending the children against humiliation, actual and potential. She gets away with it, but not without von Trapp commenting on it. But the children? They’re undoubtedly humiliated by the treatment, and they long for a true relationship with von Trapp. Indeed, that is the whole point of the film. But there is no sign of disrespect, only painful hope in the children’s eyes. “Perhaps if we get it right, Father will notice us,” their body language seems to say.

I’m not suggesting that we go back to a time when children were meant to be seen but not heard. However, the other extreme is too prevalent today.

The children long for attention from their father, but how do they get it? Through insolence? Through rebellion? No — by playing childish pranks on the nannies hired to care for them. Many attribute student disrespect to attention-getting measures. Perhaps that’s true. Yet the need to make such a hypothesis is just more evidence of the incomprehensibility of the film. Today’s neglected children go about getting attention from adults in an entirely different manner than in the idyllic times of pre-war Austria.

Another scene that might well be almost impossible for modern viewers to understand is when the children fall into the water after one of their day trips. Maria has gained the children’s trust, and they show their childlike nature around her. There’s mutual respect and even love. Von Trapp steps back into the scene with his whistle, and all returns to “normal”. The children snap to attention and grow silent immediately.

If there is ever a time in the film to protest their father’s callous behavior, this is it. The children could protest about their treatment, pointing out how much they’ve learned with Maria and reminding their father that they are, after all, just children. Indeed, they fell into the water due to their childlike excitement at seeing their father: they all stand excitedly, rock the boat, and fall in. Von Trapp begins by yelling and humiliating them, but the children say nothing. Not even a respectful, “But Father…” Not a word.

Again, this is not a model of my own parenting, but such complete submission to a parent (or any other adult) is, in my experience, a rarity these days.

It is also at this point that the only semblance of disrespect appears: Maria tells von Trapp the truth about his children and their longing for him.

She finally sheds her modest submission and stands up, not for herself, but for the children.

von Trapp: Is it possible, or could I have just imagined it? Have my children, by any chance, been climbing trees today?

Maria: Yes, captain.

von Trapp: I see. And where, may I ask, did they get these. . . .

Maria: Play clothes.

von Trapp: Is that what they are?

Maria: I made them from the drapes that used to hang in my bedroom.

von Trapp: Drapes?

Maria: They have plenty of wear left. We’ve been everywhere in them.

von Trapp: Are you telling me that my children have been roaming about Salzburg dressed up in nothing but some old drapes?

Maria:And having a marvelous time!

von Trapp: They have uniforms.

Maria:Forgive me, straitjackets. They can’t be children if they worry about clothes

von Trapp: They don’t complain.

Maria:They don’t dare. They love you too much and fear–

von Trapp: Don’t discuss my children.

Maria:You’ve got to hear, you’re never home–

von Trapp: I don’t want to hear more!

Maria:I know you don’t, but you’ve got to! Liesl’s not a child.

von Trapp: Not one word–

Maria: Soon she’ll be a woman and you won’t even know her. Friedrich wants to be a man but you’re not here to show–

von Trapp: Don’t you dare tell me–

Maria: Brigitta could tell you about him. She notices everything. Kurt acts tough to hide the pain when you ignore him, the way you do all of them. Louisa, I don’t know about yet. The little ones just want love. Please, love them all.

von Trapp: I don’t care to hear more.

Maria: I am not finished yet, captain!

von Trapp: Oh, yes, you are, captain! Fraulein. Now, you will pack your things this minute and return to the abbey.

Yet she says not a single word about how the captain treats her. Her protests are completely selfless.

Of course Maria doesn’t return to the abbey, just yet. Von Trapp hears the sound of music — literally and figuratively — and the music mends his wounded soul. She has saved the family, yet remains on the periphery, by her own choosing. It’s a private family moment, and it’s not her place to intrude. In short, it’s not respectful.

Many today don’t have this sense of respect so clearly illustrated in the film. Respect is not something one has automatically by being an adult or being in a position of authority. It’s something to be earned, and any perceived disrespect — a teacher telling a student to stop talking, for instance — provides free license for whatever (verbal language or body language) the individual might deem necessary to “defend” oneself.

Respect has become a token, if that, and in such a world, a film filled with unquestioned, unconsciously-given respect is utterly incomprehensible.

Busted

Parking in the Krakow Old Town can be hard to come by. Just ask this driver…

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Up (Krakow IV)

Krakow, like all European cities, is a mix of the old and the new. Young people walk along ancient cobblestone street checking email and updating their Facebook status on their cell phones. McDonald’s sits on an ancient street in a building that is at least twice as old as the chain itself.

Often both are present at the same moment, in the same building. Visiting such an old city is a reminder that often, what’s at street level is the least interesting sight. Or, perhaps more accurately, that which is above is at least as interesting as that which is at eye level.

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As I strolled along, taking a meandering walk from the rynek to Kazimierz, the old Jewish quarter, I began to pay attention to the balconies.

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In an urban setting, balconies are often the only part of one’s property that has anything at all to do with the out of doors. Parks, beautiful as they are, are after all public property. A balcony is the only “yard” a city dweller might own.

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A few flowers and it’s positively garden-like.

Storage is another balcony option. I had a good friend in Warsaw who had a “balcony” at his apartment that couldn’t have been more than ten square feet: just a little spot to stand. He stored his bike and a couple of other items on the balcony. After all, what else could you do with ten square feet? As a non-smoker and non-coffee drinker, he couldn’t even enjoy a morning cigarette (if such things could be enjoyable) and cup of coffee on his balcony.

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As in most urban areas, space is at a premium. Some decide to turn their little bit of outdoors into an additional room. Then neighbors get balcony envy and enclose theirs,

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resulting in an alleyway of enclosed balconies.

Given the size of some apartments I’ve visited, it makes perfect sense.

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Still others, with a more classic balcony, simply leave it alone. Then again, if one’s balcony is the size of others’ apartments (and I have been in apartments in Warsaw that tiny), one probably has enough apartment on the other side of the balcony to make such a conversion unnecessary.

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Yet not everyone has a balcony, especially in the Old Town. This is not to say they haven’t carved out their own little outdoor garden. Some, more extravagantly than others.

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It makes for a bit of color in an otherwise gray setting.

Many, however, just leave well enough alone. Perhaps they figure it’s not worth the time. Perhaps the reason that there’s not much use, given the state of the pre-war facade.

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With all the renovation going on all over the city (thanks, European Union), it’s only a matter of time before such sights disappear. In a way, that’s sad: such decrepit facades bear witness to history. They show the gritty underside of Poland, and they serve as a reminder to visitors that, as with much of Europe, the city hasn’t always been filled with days of Italian ice cream and walks in the parks.

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It also shows one of the paradoxes of modern Poland. The building above is literally on the rynek: the most prized location in Krakow real estate. Yet the roof is literally pathetic. It’s the same as in Furmanowa, the meadow overlooking the Tatra Mountains in Zab: prized real estate that’s used for cultivation.

Cousin It
Cousin It 9 July 2008

And yet the irony: so many Poles lament how so many of their compatriots have turned so materialistic in the last few years.

Learning Space

Do much course work in education and you’ll soon find yourself covering some of the same names in various classes: Piaget, Vygotsky, Erikson, Binet, Skinner, Kohlberg, and the list goes on.

It’s frustrating to cover the same material in course after course, but the advantage is that it sits solidly in your head, and you find yourself thinking about it at the oddest times.

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For example, L and I sit down to play chess. Our chess is usually random motions of random pieces, but instructive all the same: she learns that we take turns, and that the object of the game is to defeat your opponent by taking pieces. It’s fun, but her attention span usually only last a few minutes before it’s time to have “tea” or feed her baby or any number of other priorities.

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Today, we try something new. I tell her I’m going to set up pieces on my end of the board, and she needs to try to copy them on her end. A real challenge, to be sure. It is quite taxing on her spacial intelligence, for I am asking her to create a mirror image, which requires quite a bit of mental spacial manipulation.

I think of Piaget and Erikson — does she have the mental development for the task at hand. Technically, those gentlemen would probably say, “No.”

“She’s still at the very beginning of the preoperational state,” Piaget says.

Forget ed psych — let’s have some challenging fun.

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The beginning is slow, and it takes her a good ten minutes to figure out that she’s supposed to be mirroring my pieces. But she puts everything together slowly, and it’s obvious she can do it.

More importantly,  she loves it. And I figure it must be in her “zone of proximal development,” for she’s having great difficulty, but slowly she’s mastering it.

“Let’s do it again!”

And so we do it many times. Each time, I alter the order in which I put the pieces on the board. First one pawn, then the other, then a knight and bishop beside each other before moving to the other side. Sometimes a mix of major pieces and pawns.

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Toward the end, I give her the real challenge: most of the major pieces and some of the pawns are on the board when I tell her, “Figure it out.”

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She looks at my pieces, looks at her own, back at mine, and suddenly, in a flash, her side of the board is perfect.

Once we get the piece positioning down, we’ll start learning how the pawns move.

Music by the Lake

It’s almost over: only a couple of concerts remaining, but we finally made it to Furman’s “Music By the Lake” free concert series tonight. It’s an odd crowd: college students who stick around for the summer, families, and literally bus loads of elderly from local nursing homes.

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Of course, as soon as the music strikes up, the Girl wants to head to the lake and look at the ducks. We wander down, listening to the strange echo: enormous speakers in the clock tower transmit the concert over the entire campus, but there’s just enough time delay to make a cacophony of otherwise fine playing.

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Even behind the stage, it’s noticeable. Not to mention annoying.

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The best place: midway up. Good sound, and lots of room for the Girl to run around, dance, fall, and be a three-year-old.

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And there’s a lot of reason to dance tonight: the Andy Carlson Band is playing, and Andy Carlson can play a fiddle like no one I’ve ever heard. Classically trained (he’s a professor of violin, after all), the man brings a deep understanding of music along with phenomenal playing. It makes for bluegrass of a rare quality.

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Of course, who can go to Furman and not take a picture of the clock tower?

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Top Floor

K’s parents have a large house. They have to: they run a little noclegi business — something like a bed and breakfast, but more often than not, without the latter.

This is the view from their highest balcony.

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All the quirks of Poland, on display. The relatively rich live beside the poor. They both live next to an enormous flea market, where everything is available, and all prices are negotiable. All framed by the mountains that give the region its beauty and its culture.

In Motion

During K’s next-to-last night in Poland, we went out for a little family-and-friends party. I posted several pictures, but only now have I gotten around to the video.

Who could listen to this and sit still? Apparently, not many…

Girls Singing

The Girl loves to sing. It turns out her cousin does too, as does the daughter of her godmother.

Two Polish songs and a number in English about butterflies.

Readjusting

Coming back to the States after a few weeks in Poland requires a few adjustments. Among them:

  1. Driving a car with an automatic transmission. My left foot is bored, restlessly searching for a non-existent clutch, and my right hand wanders to the gear shift every time we approach an intersection.
  2. Hearing English everywhere. This always surprises me: I get used to having to do a little, occasional mental work to understand what’s going on around me. Hearing rivers of voices that are all intelligible to me initially feels a little intrusive.
  3. Hearing other languages everywhere. I go to the grocery store, and I hear Spanish, German, Hindi, and Arabic.
  4. Seeing different races. In the passport check line at the airport, I saw all the colors that make America. In Poland, I see a non-white walking down the street, and it’s difficult not to stare.
  5. "Saggin' and Baggin'" by MalingeringSeeing boys’ underwear in public. On the way back home, we stopped to grab a little something for the Girl to eat because she didn’t eat too much during the journey. Waiting in the check-out line: two adolescent African American boys with their pants seemingly at their knees. I’d mentioned this style in Poland: it seemed incomprehensible to them. It seems incomprehensible to me.
  6. An entire row of paper towels in the supermarket. American consumerism is all about choice. What could possibly be the difference among the towels?
  7. Having someone bag your groceries for you. Perhaps it’s the ultimate sign that Americans are in some way spoiled, but it still surprises me when I go into any grocery store in Poland and have to frantically bag my own groceries before the next customer’s purchases start sliding down into the bagging area. Why not bag as the cashier working? That’s another thing to get used to:
  8. Not having to pay for the bags used in the process. No one provides free shopping bags. The cost is nominal, but the cashier always rings the bags up last. It doesn’t make sense.
  9. Not having potatoes with every meal. I don’t want to see a potato, in any form, for at least a month.
  10. Being warm. In the early morning, temperatures in Jablonka could be in the high forties. During the first week, the temperature seldom rose to the mid-sixties. The warmest it ever got was seventy-five. Back in South Carolina, it’s almost seventy-five when we wake up. It takes some getting used to.

Caution

In the process of saving a Leyland cypress from being utterly destroyed by a vast infestation if bagworm moths, I’ve been removing and killing hundreds (possibly closer to a thousand by now) of bag-encased larvae. Violence in the effort to save a tree.

I discovered a new risk today.

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As I was working to trim the tree and remove the bagworm larvae, I heard the constant call off a bird. It was a distressing call, and I realized I must be near the nest. I moved my ladder a few feet to the east, climbed up, glanced down, and was started with what I saw.

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I only made a slight motion, and the three chicks suddenly raised up about four inches, mouths open, willing to ingest whatever was placed there.

My old addiction
Makes me crave only what is best
Like these just this morning song birds
Craving upward from the nest
These tiny birds outside my window
Take my hand to be their mom
These open mouths
Would trust and swallow
Anything that came along

It’s not just the risk of willingly accepting anything as food that makes a small bird’s life precarious. As they raised their almost featherless bodies from the nest, they swayed, nearly blind, their heads too heavy for their underdeveloped necks. It seemed miraculous that they didn’t fall out of their nests.

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For over two hours, I was working not more than three feet from a nest chicks so young they were barely beginning to get feathers. Had I situated my ladder eighteen inches to the left, I probably would have destroyed the nest.

Irony?

In order for solar water heating to work,

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one has to install them in a country where there is just a little bit of sun. On a vaguely regular basis.

Bags Packed

Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr. made the sentiment famous: bags are packed, and L and I are ready to go, next post from the States, yet mixed emotions linger.

“I want to go home” became L’s refrain a couple of days back, and talking to K on Skype only worsened the situation once. There were variations: “When are we going home?” “Are we going home tomorrow?”

I, too, am ready to go: vacation is great, but returning home is the true heart of any journey. K awaits, as do infected trees await, a likely overgrown lawn, a course to begin Monday, and a host of other things. One can only sit around doing little for a very short time before the feeling of uselessness sets in.

And yet, leaving Poland is always bittersweet. “Would you want to move back?” friends and family asked. Or “When are you all moving back?” Would we move back? Yes, and no. When are we moving back? Soon and never.

I wonder if other countries produce such mixed emotions among its ex-pats and virtual ex-pats?

Cleaning

Instructions

1. Scrub.

2. Rinse.

3. Scrub again.

But be wary of the dog, just waiting to steal your brush.