Recital and Tour
Chasing the Unseen
I know we’re entering a new phase in the Girl’s life: chasing. It’s not just that now, with her birthday last month, she’s in the double digits. There’s more to it than that. She’s not a tween, is she? Isn’t that eleven? Twelve? Yet there she was this afternoon, down on the hammock, talking to her male friend as he sat on the other hammock.
It’s not that I’m suggesting that they were discussing anything more mature than a ten- and eleven-year-old should discuss. She still says that boys are icky. (Hopefully that will last for another couple of years, when they can comfortably become iffy at best. Maybe a blossoming interest when she starts high school?) No, it’s not what topic they were chasing down; it’s that they were talking. They weren’t playing; they weren’t running; they weren’t being silly. They were sitting and talking.
The Boy doesn’t talk with his friends. They play. They play with an intensity that makes me envious, with an energy that makes me wonder if I ever had even a small portion of it. They’re talking consists only of what they’re playing.
“Pretend I’m a policeman…”
“Let’s go to the trampoline!”
If I had to bet what L and W were discussing, I’d say it’s probably Pokemon-related. That’s what they talk about most of the time. That’s their common interest. But still — talking, not playing.
We’ve started chasing her. She’s still a little girl, but that’s ending in the next couple of years. Given my shock when I look past entries from the “Time Machine” widget here on this silly site and think, “Dang, that was three years ago?!” I know that those two years will pass so quickly that I won’t even notice if I’m not careful. And then we will be chasing her. Chasing her growth. Chasing the unseen.
Later in the day, the Boy gives chase in a different way. Playing on the driveway, he crashes to the concrete as he’s chasing a ball. His palms hit with an audible slap, and I could feel the burn in my own palms.
But not a peep, only a little cry of panic as he saw the ball heading to the edge of the driveway, threatening to roll down the hill and into the creek that serves as the boundary between our backyard and that of our neighbors’ yards. He popped back up, scurried to the end of the drive only half a blink too late. Down the hill rolled the ball.
There was a time when he wouldn’t head down that far into the yard without an adult, just as L was at that early age. But today, he didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even look to see if an adult was anywhere around. He just slowed a bit to make it down the tricky part, chasing the ball with the certainty that he could catch it that only a four-year-old could hold.
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Przepalanka
The name comes from the verb przepalać, which means to overheat, blow, or scorch. For instance, when a lightbulb (żarówka) blows out, the verb of choice to chronicle the event is "przepalać" (with the reflexive "się" added to confuse foreigners). Likewise with a fuse -- they're still fairly common in Poland and in much of Europe, with the old buildings that still have old wiring.
It also means "scorch," though, as in to scorch sugar, as in to caramelize sugar. It's from this that the name "przpalanka" comes from.
I first encountered przepalanka when my neighbor, a fellow American who was getting married in early 1997, invited me over for a Friday evening game of chess. I still didn't know how to play chess, and he less so. We were basically just moving pieces around without any sense of strategy, but we could chat. And so when I entered, he greeted me with a strange declaration: "Look, we made vodka!"
We made it for our wedding, too. And it was the result of a jolt of terror during the wedding celebration.
"We're about out of vodka!" K proclaimed at about ten in the evening, when the party was just getting started.
Fortunately, she just meant przepalanka -- else it would have been the end of the party.
Candy Land
Sins of Omission
One of the things I like best about being Catholic is, ironically enough, confession. At first, it was a problematic concept for me. The idea of telling someone where you’ve fallen short is always an uncomfortable exercise, and for someone who grew up thinking, like many Protestants, that if it’s Catholic, it must be wrong (of the devil, even), my first time in confession was initially a little awkward. But having such a conversation — and any good confession involves conversation — left me feeling lighter, more alert.
It’s not just the confession that helps, though. The preparation for it, the examination of one’s conscience, forces me to look at my own actions with a critical eye, and critical examination of one’s life is always beneficial.
I find, though, that I tend to focus more on sins of commission than sins omission. I suppose it’s easier to remember things I did than to recall about the things I didn’t do. If I didn’t do them, I likely didn’t think about them, making it tricky to recall them.
Helping with the Zurek
The little man, helping as always.
Snowy Sunday
Even after a second day of sledding, this time in even colder weather, the Boy was ready for a bit of ice cream.
If only he could get it out…
First Snow 2017
Like most snow storms in the South, this one was the talk of news and neighbors for almost a week before it hit. The possibility of snow grew into the certainty of snow, and the depth of that certain snow increased as well. By the time I went to bed, meteorologists were predicting six inches for our area. That's like three feet of snow in northern climes -- something of note.
The kids grew increasingly excited as the projected storm's intensity promised to be greater and greater. E was squealing on a regular basis Friday night with excitement about the impending snow.
What we got in our area was somewhat more restrained, though. Probably an inch, maybe an inch and a half, of icy, hard snow greeted us this morning. The Boy was ready to go, though.
"I'm going to eat half a bagel for breakfast, then get dressed, then check the street, then go to R's house." By nine, he was out. Shortly after that, the Girl joined him. Shortly after that, the neighborhood joined them.
In the afternoon, with such a gorgeous blue sky, we had to go for a walk, and with the roads clearing, we decided to go to Conestee Park. Wearing his gum boots, the Boy had to walk through as many puddles as possible, and both of the kids had to grab, fling, kick, and toss every bit of snow possible. The result: two wet, tired kids. Exhausted.
Until we arrived back at the house and saw the neighborhood kids sledding. Amazing what that will do for one's energy.
The Neighbors, Redux
Some years ago, I wrote about a house we'd discovered under construction in the Asheville area. It's on the market now, for just over $10 million. The Trulia listing reads:
An elegant French chateau constructed of 3" thick limestone and the utmost quality styled for today. A complete Roman Spa, entertainment area with card room, kitchen, pool, wine tasting room and theater entertain guests and owners regally. Formal rooms abound including a very special oak bar. There are 4 full kitchens, 4 garages, HVAC is water furnace.
A blatant attempt to make one's own Biltmore, the house is certainly huge: at 15,000 square feet, though, it's not even 1/10 of Biltmore's 175,000 square feet.
