Certainly not a strictly-Polish phenomenon: the occupied yet unfinished home. (Not the best example, but this house has had an unfinished upstairs since at least 1996, when I first saw it.)
Likely a phenomenon most common in Poland: the finished yet unoccupied home.
Certainly a purely Polish phenomenon: the two houses side by side.
The first of many. “Your job, your daily responsibility,” Babcia explains, “is to take the dog for a walk daily.”
We begin the day in bed: L and I are so exhausted that we sleep most of the morning away. When we finally get going, we take Babcia to the cemetery to tend Dziadek’s grave. We clean off the candle holders and light new candles, pull weeds, water the flowers.
We walk around the cemetery afterward, looking at graves dating from the beginning of the last century, graves so old that the name has disappeared from the grave marker, whether iron or stone. Who cares for these graves?
Do any family members still live in the area? Does anyone even remember?
Clearly someone remembers: there are flowers on some of the seemingly-forgotten graves.
Maybe the nuns take care of these graves. There’s one walking through the cemetery, and from a distance, it looks like she’s walking among the graves praying a rosary. Perhaps she is — there are apps for everything, including prayers. Perhaps. Or maybe she’s checking her Facebook page.
Everywhere we’ve gone in Poland thus far, we’ve seen the changes that accompany becoming a richer country. Instead of Polski Fiats and Trabants, there are more Volkswagens, a few Fords, significant numbers of BMW’s and even the random Porche or Maserati.
Cemeteries are no exceptions: they show the signs of increased affluence, including some family graves that would have cost likely tens of tens of thousands of zloty.
Yet Babcia has other concerns. Markers require work, upkeep, dedication. She doesn’t want to burden others with such responsibilities.
“After all, what is that? A pile of stone.”
Afterward, we head to a local shop for ice cream, then wander over to the kindergarten where L will be spending her mornings these first two weeks. She’s a bit nervous about it, perhaps because she still doesn’t feel confident with her Polish.
When we enter the foyer, though, I see that all her fears are for nothing.
“The principal of this preschool was a student of mine,” I explain to L. “She speaks English very well. In fact, she was an English teacher before she became principal here.”
Fears partially assuaged, we spend a bit of time on the playground.
