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Month: June 2015

Drain, Rain, and a Snail

Saturday 20 June 2015

Our crawl space flooded at least five times in the last couple of years, and our half-basement itself flooded once or twice as well. It quickly became clear what was the cause: two downspouts of our gutters were gushing water straight into the foundation, which meant that our drainage system (already redone twice) was insufficient, clogged with roots, dirt, and who knows what. So earlier this year, I replaced the system with a temporary fix. An ugly fix. But it solved the problem. I knew I'd have to do it for a second time (the first time was done by a contractor before we moved in, part of our closing deal), but I as in no hurry.

"Your number one priority while we're in Poland," K clarified, though, "is to redo the drains in the front." So for the last few days, I've been digging, tugging, leveling, and getting everything ready for a final fix. I knew it'd be overkill, but I also figured I'd rather not do it another time, so the replacement system is with three-inch schedule 40 PVC pipe. But before I could get everything set, the sky began to gray, and I decided I might need to reattach the old temporary system, just in case.

What followed was a storm unlike anything I'd seen here. "It would have been the perfect test," I muttered to myself.

Yesterday and today, though, I was able to get back out, finish up the leveling, and finish up the project, by and large. I decided to include two clean-outs in the plan just in case: I do not want to do this yet again. I reattached the hose to the spigot, rammed it down it not the newly constructed system, and turned it on. Perfection.

"Now if I could only get a real test," I thought. Wish granted: another storm blew through this afternoon and everything worked like a charm. All that's left is packing a bit more gravel around it and replacing the mulch.

Job one, done. More or less.

But who cares about drains and rain when across the ocean there are snails and soccer games?

K took the kids and Babcia to visit A, K's sister-in-law, and their kids, who live just outside of Krakow. There was soccer and silliness until L discovered a snail -- "na prawda duzy slimak!" K assured me (though probably with better grammar) before I'd had a chance to see the pictures -- and that entertained them for a couple of hours.

L has fallen back into Polish with no problem, K tells me. In fact, she's eager to accompany her cousin S for a two-week camp up at the coast. The Boy, though, is a different story. Though K speaks almost exclusively in Polish, he's still not really speaking that much Polish. I would imagine he feels a little left out as a result. "I translate for him a lot," L explained today during our Skype time, but there's something about this picture, his hands held in front of him as he watches, that makes me just want to hug him and assure him that he'll be able to jabber away in no time as long as he makes a real effort. Or maybe there's something else entirely going on with that picture. Maybe he's just hungry, ready to head to the kitchen for some chicken and potatoes.

Or maybe not.

First Pics from Abroad

Friday 19 June 2015

"How will I send you pictures?" K asked before leaving with the kids to Poland. We worked out a couple of different ways, but uploading directly to MTS seems to be the best method.

And so now I begin the shift from blogger to historian, for I'm writing about pictures and events where I was absent. I can look at the pictures, make an educated guess about what was going on (informed by what K told me via Skype), but by and large, I'm still just a historian.

So I look at the pictures and think, "Hum, at the airport." And I think further: Charlotte or Munich? It doesn't look like the terminal from which we've always left from Charlotte, but it looks less like the Munich airport. Still, the carpet, the handicap sign (why are my children sitting in a seat for handicapped people?), the general surroundings, the alertness of the kids -- it must be Charlotte.

The other pictures are easy: I recognize the spot immediately, and more importantly, K told me about their shopping trip to "downtown" Jabłonka.

The clothes are another clue: Charlotte was 98° when they left; Poland was in the 50s, with the 5 AM morning temperature (Babcia is an early-riser) being a refreshing 32° F. Still, you'll notice in L's hand an ice cream cone. Apparently they're continuing the tradition we started in 2013: if you go to the village centrum, you must get an ice cream cone. Still, you'll also notice in the background that children returning from school are wearing shorts. It is, after all, June. Summer in Poland.

Here and There

Thursday 18 June 2015

Two stories, one family. Or maybe one family, one story, temporarily told in two parts. The highlight of the day came in the morning, without question. Mug of coffee in hand, I headed downstairs to chat with the better portion of our family. They’re finishing up lunch; I just had breakfast.

The Boy began with the important information: new additions to the toy collection. With money from Babcia, he bought an entire set of air-travel-based toys: airplane, cargo lifter, the stair-mobile that we occasionally see but almost never use. Except at Krakow’s airport.

He put a couple of toys down in front of the computer and proclaimed that I could play with those. I suggested we might have to wait until the family is reunited.

In the meantime, the Girl has dashed up to her room (which means bolting up four sets of stairs) and back to show me what she chose with her money from Babcia: a small Nerf-launching pistol to go along with her Nerf-launching bow that’s still here, in South Carolina.

It’s likely to be a daily or near-daily occurrence. “What kind of plastic nonsense will she have next Wednesday, when you guys go to the flea market?” I ask. L just jumped in joyful anticipation.

My, Our, and The

Wednesday 17 June 2015

It’s a sign of the times that I haven’t been in a bank in probably well over a year. Since almost everything can be done online or at an ATM, why bother? But a substantial withdraw before heading on vacation requires a visit in person, so I dropped off at our local branch and realized immediately upon entering that they’d created a new position since I’d last been inside. Standing at the entrance was essentially a traffic director: a young lady who looked to in her early twenties, fresh out of college, asked all entering customers what they needed and then directed them to the appropriate part of the bank. So essentially it was waiting in line before being told to go wait in this or that line. I knew which line I needed, but I waited patiently while the young lady helped the lady in front of me determine where she needed to go. Finally, it was my turn, and I was brief: “I just need to make a withdraw.”

“Well, if it’s less than $300, you can get it from the ATM,” she smiled, “but if it’s more, you’ll have to see one of my tellers.”

Such a loaded construction: “one of my tellers.” I stood in the second line, thinking of the young lady’s other options. She could have said, “You’ll have to see one of the tellers.” Alternatively, she could have said, “You’ll have to see one of our tellers.” But she chose “one of my tellers.”

I found myself wondering if this was scripted (i.e., the bank manager told her to phrase it that way) or if she made that decision herself. And the more I thought about it, the more I hoped it was the former and not the latter, for if I were a teller at that bank, I would think it would grate on my nerves all day long to hear this young lady refer to me as “one my tellers” when in fact she’s probably just as low on the totem pole as I am. Certainly she could be the manager, but that seems unlikely: too young, and why would the manager be doing such a job?

If it’s the latter, if she’s choosing to say “one of my tellers,” why? It undoubtedly sets up a hierarchy within the bank, with the traffic director placing herself above the tellers. After all, if they’re “my tellers,” I’m in charge. However, if they’re “our tellers,” we’re all subservient to someone else, either the abstract idea of the banking corporation or the specific manager. The final choice, “one of the tellers” makes it seem as if she’s not even really a part of the bank. Clearly “our” is the best choice. So why “my”?

Feed the Cats!

Tuesday 16 June 2015

K and the kids are now somewhere over the Atlantic, on their way to Munich, where they’ll have ninety minutes to make a connection to Krakow, where K’s godfather will pick them up and drive them two hours south almost into Slovakia, where Babcia is waiting with chicken broth and homemade egg noodles. The ninety-minute ride to the airport went fine, the check-in process was flawless, and we even had time to sit and share an over-priced bottle of orange juice before they entered the terminal area restricted to those of us who lack a ticket. I wound through the line with them, ducking out at the last minute just before K and the kids had to take off shoes, belts, etc. The Boy came back over to the rope barrier and gave me another hug and kiss. The Girl followed, on the brink of tears, reminding me for the thousandth time to…

Final Night

Monday 15 June 2015

It comes around generally every two years, but these last couple of times, there’s been a twist: the last night before leaving to Poland has been bittersweet because of the way we’re leaving. Last year, it was L and I who left, with the Boy staying home with K. This year, it is I who stays behind. At least temporarily. At least in theory.

Whether or not I go, and right now the latter is more likely, depends on a number of variables, some in my control, some perhaps less so.

So tonight might possibly be the last evening we’re together as a family for up to seven weeks. And what does a family do that last evening when they might not be together for a very long time? If they’ve just received a gifted trampoline, they jump.

Last Hurrah

Sunday 14 June 2015

It was one last hurrah before everyone went their separate ways. To begin with, I'll be alone next Sunday, so we had a Father's Day lunch with family and friends a week early.

More significantly, it was likely the last time L could spend time with her almost-cousins (though they just call themselves cousins) T and C: they'll be going to Poland later this summer and staying for the entire first semester of the school year. So this weekend was the last chance for them to play school (why is it that they always play school when they're together during a break?) for almost six months.

So during their visit, we did the only logical thing to do in during the hot South Carolina June: stayed inside or stayed in the water.

The downside of those hot South Carolina June days is the likelihood of thunderstorms every afternoon, which is exactly what happened today, which meant the kids were forced to find another way of entertaining themselves.

Somehow they managed.

The Bucket

Saturday 13 June 2015

The Battle

Friday 12 June 2015

With K's and the kids' departure to Poland nearing, we're spending as much time as possible at the pool. With L's swimming lessons -- and we were informed that it's time for her to move to the advanced group next time -- that meant that she was hitting the pool twice a day some days. And yet in spite of all this, getting out is the toughest part.

For the Girl, it's simple: she just doesn't want to get it. It's rare that she's the one who initiates the "when are we leaving" conversation. Usually, she seems willing to stay and stay and stay. And that translates to excessive lingering in the pool.

For the Boy, it's a whole other story: the towel is the challenge.

Up and Down

Thursday 11 June 2015

Trampolines, for the briefest of moments, allow you to break an otherwise unbreakable law, unbreakable because it's a physical not prescriptive cultural law: gravity. We go higher than we otherwise would be able, we seemingly float at our apogee for a half-moment longer, and the effects on our legs of all our weight crashing down are substantially diminished. Which is a long way of trying to explain the obvious: it's simply fun.

And tempting: as the Girl hurls her feet over her head, trying, again and again, to do a full front flip and land on her feet, I think back to a time ten years ago when, visiting a friend, I bounced about on his kids' trampoline and casually landed a forward flip. Nothing to it, really. Now, I jump, jump, jump, thinking of what my body needs to do to toss my feet over my own head, and while I know all the components of the action, my body says, "Well, maybe it's not so simple..."