matching tracksuits

fun in threes, sometimes fours

Easter Monday

The guests have left. The Girl has fallen asleep behind me.

Certainly it’s exhaustion from yesterday’s activities: with two girls her age arriving in the early afternoon, the Girl was a bundle of hyperactivity.

“We’re going to run there and here and there and here!” L proclaimed just before the girl’s arrival.

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After eating an enormous lunch, that’s just what they did as they searched for eggs.

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The younger girls were overwhelmed with excitement each and every time they found an egg. Their joy was a lovely thing, but it meant that the older children had more time to find eggs: they were very utilitarian in their celebrations, whooping on their way to the next egg instead of stopping to show off their discoveries.

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Slow and steady might win the race in parables, but in the cut-throat reality of an Easter egg hunt, slow and steady wins only a light basket.

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Often, though, the younger girls trailed behind the older children, following in almost lock-step.

“Honey, why don’t you look in different places rather than following her?” I asked L. “You’re just going to find the places where she’s already found the eggs.”

She thought about if for a moment, then continued with her method.

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Still, despite the age difference, the little ones found several eggs, often simultaneously.;j

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But the prize, the big egg, the egg L had been excited about all weekend, the egg that L proclaimed she simply must have — well, too much celebration for life’s little successes can give time for others to search out the big surprises.

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And as I anticipated, it left poor L devastated. She stopped her own search and sat down for some sad alone time (also known as pouting).

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But all was soon well. L’s disappointments rarely last longer than a few minutes, especially when the “offending” party shows some sympathy.

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Unless I am the offending party — then the grudge lasts a few minutes longer.

“Big” Saturday

Holy Saturday in Polish is "Wielka Sobota", which translates to "Great Saturday" (though not "great" as a synonym for "fantastic"). It's the final day of preparation for Wielkanoc, which translates to "Great Night." But nestled in the hustle and chaos of cooking, cleaning, ironing, and fretting is a great (in this case, synonymous with "fantastic") tradition: the blessing of the Easter baskets.

Dressed in the traditional outfits of Podhale and armed with two baskets overflowing with food for Easter breakfast, we headed to the church early in order to get our obligatory Easter family portrait.

When we entered the church, the Girl was fascinated: so many baskets, so many colored eggs -- which to choose? Only a quick eye and a quicker hand kept the Girl from pillaging and plundering.

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The baskets tell another story, though. The church wasn't filled, but there were enough pockets of English conversation in the generally Polish-expat crowd that it became obvious that others see the value and beauty of this tradition.

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The priest, Father Theo, certainly likes the tradition. He positively beamed as he spoke, and the joy of his kind embrace of the tradition was infectious.

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So contagious was his joy that he managed to talk a young lady into coming up to read the passage about the Passover tradition. No practice, no warning, just a kind smile and a compliment about her dress.

Another kind word and all the kids in traditional costumes joined Father Theo.
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After the blessing, it was a free-for-all,

on both sides of the lenses. As I was taking a picture, I felt the crowd gathering about me. I realized the real picture was about ten steps behind me.

Shortly thereafter, the shot was about twenty steps in front of me.

And when you're carrying around a large DSLR, everyone asks you for a picture.

Then again, Father Theo has good reason: his camera is a Canon that lacks a screen on the back and, rumor has it, records the pictures on a thin plastic film. I don't believe it myself, but I can attest to the camera's lack of a LCD screen. How in the world does he preview his pictures?

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How does he know, for example, that some outside shots need a little over-exposure?

How would he'd managed to slide his hand back into his pocket, concealing the remote shutter release?

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Or know that he'd captured the petals of spring blossoms falling snow?

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Or be sure that he's caught the conference of Polish women?

"Nonsense!" the Girl would declare. "All that matters is the tree I see the boys climbing and my first chance to try it for myself." With a nervous father always close at hand.

In the end, the best that could be said about such a busy day can't be said with words.

Happy Almost-Easter to all.

Polish Good Friday 2010

Polish Good Friday is a day of baking and cooking, of arranging, cleaning, and preparing.

Theoretically, the house should be turned upside down, shaken well, then scrubbed top to bottom. It's sort of like Christmas cleaning. Since I can't bake (or at the very lease, K wouldn't let me try on Easter), the cleaning was my responsibility.

And I certainly didn't mind. Just look at the kitchen list for yesterday:

  • paczki,
  • four babkas,
  • a regular cake,
  • two salads, and
  • cauliflower soup.

There were also flowers to arrange.

And on to tomorrow: basket blessing, more cleaning more cooking -- seems we need a holiday.

Painting

It's an annual event at our house: the Easter egg painting party. We've had some large crowds for it in past years, but this year, it was a family affair.

The Girl loves painting, so we weren't surprised when she ended up working on eggs for well over an hour. She approached the task with a Jackson Pollock eye: layers and seeming chaos were the themes of her eggs.

As was "getting paint all over oneself." But what's the fun of painting if you don't expand the canvas?

K took a more disciplined approach.

Posted

"No trespassing," he said. "It's posted no trespassing."

I'd ridden my bike over to a construction area to snap some shots of the site.

It turned out that I wasn't the only one curious: a family was cycling here and there, just as intrigued as I was. They bumped their way down a staircase, and the girl called out "Hello, fellow biker!" as she rode below.

A security guard emerged from one of the buildings, followed the family down the steps, said something, and left. It was all very civil. They wandered about for a while longer before they left, so I don't know what he said, but it seems obvious that it wasn't, "Get out now!"

Mystery building

Since I was in the area, I decided to cycle on over to the Mystery Building: a long structure that had the air of a conference center but was eternally empty.

It was as I was leaving that I had my encounter with the security guard -- different site, different bloke. This one was driving a battered Ford that appeared to date from the late '80s. He waved at me as he approached, so I stopped.

"No trespassing. It's posted. You can't ride a bike here." He said it as if I were riding into a wedding reception: full of indignation, shocked that I would even consider pedaling through the parking lot.

Many possible replies ran through my head, most of them sarcastic.

  • I "can't" ride my bike here? Well, clearly I can, because I'm doing it. Perhaps you meant to say, "You're not permitted..."
  • There was no "No Trespassing" sign at the entrance; therefore, it's not "posted."
  • (Ignore him and ride on.)
  • Rats! This was my absolutely favorite place to ride.
  • Can you hold that pose for a moment. I want to get a picture for my blog.

It's amazing how quickly I end up sounding like my students. Yet I managed to control myself and simply say, "Okay."

The security guard drove off, stopping again to talk to a woman walking through the parking lot. For my part, I stopped to look carefully -- oh so carefully -- for a tell-tale sign. Nothing.

I ended the short ride at the new Clemson University International Center for Automotive Research facility.

I don't know how occupied it currently is, but they have parking for a lot of cars...

Which I guess is somehow appropriate.

March Bookshelf

March was a slow reading month. Too much student work to read. In fact, looking back on the month, I'm not even sure what I finished reading.

AuthorBook
John PolkinghorneBelief in God in an Age of Science
Gary PaulsenNightjohn

Productivity

Spring break has arrived, and as always, I am certain I will make it a productive time.

First, planning: I fire up my word processor of choice and begin planning the creative writing course I'm teaching when we return for the final quarter of the year. Nine weeks, three major topics: creative nonfiction, poetry, and short stories. It's a bit ambitious, I'm sure. One adviser recommended that I stick to poetry. "A short story is such a complex thing to write." Perhaps, but I'll give it a try anyway. Yet no matter what, I'll change it substantially before next year's session: I just can't leave well enough alone.

The yard needs some work. Our neighbor has been kind enough to share the massive amounts of chickweed and dandelions that have utterly conquered her once-magnificent yard, and the only way to get rid of weeds -- as with so many other issues in life -- is to pull them up by the roots. Even then, I'll be out there again in a week, fighting more.

Our kitchen faucet is leaking. The whole thing probably needs to be replaced. Our back sillcock, freshly replaced, needs to be replaced yet again. "Faulty manufacturing," the gentleman at Home Depot tells me when I take it back. I exchange it with another one, same model. It's a crap shoot, I'm sure.

Productivity, then, seems to be temporary, cyclical even. After all, if I fixed a leaky faucet and it stayed fixed, what would I do in three weeks' time?

Two Recent Portraits

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Inevitable

It's a nightly occurrence: a few minutes after we put the Girl to bed, she calls one of us. It's usually "Mama!"

We take turns answering the call, and L doesn't seem to matter who responds.

"Yes, sweetheart," I say as I open the door, and I immediately one of several possible answers. Sometimes it's just a fragment of a story she remembered; sometimes it's something straight from her imagination. It could be that she needs juice or that she wants to rock with me in the rocking chair for a moment. Occasionally she's not pleased with the sleeping music.

"Yes, L," I say tonight as I enter her room.

"We didn't rock," she replies calmly.

I take her out of her bed and sit with her own my lap. Usually she's a little squirmy. Tonight she's too tired to squirm.

Out of the blue, she opens the age-old conversation: "Tata, I don't want to grow up."

"You don't have a choice. None of us do." I think this, but I certainly don't say it. Instead, I simply ask her if she likes being three.

"Yes," she says quietly. She snuggles a little closer, pauses, and leaves me speechless, whispering, "Three's easy."

Handmade

While Babcia was here, she kept busy. Luckily for us (or should I say "Luckily for L"), the way she usually keeps busy is through crotchet. Her visit gave Babcia just enough time to make a dress and cap for the girl.

Let’s Go Fly A Kite

March is a month for kite flying. Though I rarely flew kites, it was always a favorite pastime for me as a kid. Perhaps it's the indirect flying. We introduced kite flying to the Girl this weekend, much to her excitement.

When shopping for our kite, there was only one criterion: there must be a princess on it.

"I'm not a _____! I'm a princess!" L is fond of saying these days. In the blank can be just about anything, even "little girl" (or "big girl" for that matter). Once the princess kite was assembled

and launched, L was fascinated.

For about three minutes.

Much more inviting were the rocks and twigs scattered about.

Myrtle Beach

If there is a town with kitsch as the central design premise, it is Myrtle Beach.

As a kid, I'd always wanted to go there. All my friends went there during the summer, and for us southwest Virginians, it was at least a seven-hour journey. It was not a place where one merely spent the weekend.

I finally went to Myrtle Beach this weekend for a middle school conference. It was everything I expected.

All decor seemed to have a heavy-handed marine theme, especially for the restaurants

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and the stores. My companions and I wondered about the warmth of being invited into a shark's mouth for a little shopping

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Given the fact that all such shops are peddling to tourist, it seems somehow perfectly appropriate.

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The kitsch extended all the way to the oceanfront, with hotels painted colors that only rarely occur in nature.

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And then there were the mini-golf courses. We counted at least twelve on the main road, each with a different theme applied to the same goal: knock a golf ball through some obstacle.

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"Who knew that the market could support this number of courses," I muttered as we passed by yet another.

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But we weren't there for entertainment but for education, and we all received enough information to make us wish we could turn back the calendar to the beginning of the year and start again. In that sense -- as well as the collection of mini-golf shots -- it was a greatly successful weekend.

February’s Books

AuthorBook
Richard NeuhausAs I Lay Dying: Meditations on Return
ShakespeareRomeo and Juliet1, 2
Donald SopotoIn Silence: Why We Pray
Alf MappThe Faiths of Our Fathers: What America's Founders Really Believed
Yann MartelLife of Pi1

Romeo and Juliet

Every year I teach this I learn something new about it. This time, I noticed some symmetry in Juliet's lines when she learns that Romeo has killed Tybalt and Romeo's response to the opening scene's brawl. Juliet describes Romeo in III.ii:

O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
Despised substance of divinest show!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,
A damned saint, an honourable villain!

These oxymorons mirror what Romeo says in I.i:

Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire,
sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!

And I was struck, ever more forcefully, by Romeo's utter immaturity. He whines and cries in III.iii, learning of his banishment, as if here were a toddler who'd had his toys taken away from him. In fact, that seems to be all Juliet is in that passage.

As I Lay Dying: Meditations on Return by Richard Neuhaus

This book opened my thinking in many ways. First, it introduced me to the writings of Simone Weil and inspired me to buy one of her books, Gravity and Grace.

The Faiths of Our Fathers: What America's Founders Really Believed by Alf Mapp

We often hear claims about the Founding Fathers' religious views, with those claims fairly accurately reflecting the religious and political beliefs of the speaker: conservatives claim they were all traditionalist Christians; liberals claim they were deists with only a token belief in God.

A few surprising things I learned:

  • Ben Franklin was positively polytheistic, believing in a supreme god who was over a lesser god, the creator of our universe.
  • Thomas Jefferson's books were not place in the Philadelphia Public Library's circulation as late as 1830 because of a belief that he was an atheist. He was, briefly, in his youth. Eventually, he became something of a Christian, though he rejected all notions of the supernatural. He even edited his own version of the New Testament, removing all reference to miracles.
  • Benjamin Franklin was a guest of the Hellfire Club at least twice, though according to some sources he was merely spying.
  • George Washington refrained from taking communion. There is some conjecture that he did so because he felt "unworthy", as defined in First Corinthians 11:25-29, with verse 29 being key: "For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the Lord's body."
  • John Marshall was famous for his Christian ethics and charity, but like Washington, he didn't take communion.

Life of Pi by Yann Martel

It used to be one of my favorites. When I learned about the charges of plagiarism, the book lost a lot of its sheen. Still, the combination of zoology and spirituality makes the book worth it on a basic level. (I read this during our daily Silent Sustained Reading period at school. I wasn't necessarily intending on re-reading it, but I needed to set the proper example, and that was the the only book at hand.)

1. Re-read
2. For school

Farm Party

Almost all children adore animals. Kids are attracted to the novel, and what could be more novel than another living creature?

L's love of animals borders on obsessive, and like many obsessions, hers leads to behaviors that seem counterproductive: she loves are cat almost literally to death (at least that's certainly the cat's point of view). And so a visit to a farm is simply perfect for L: she gets to experience animals up close, yet the familiarity that leads L to take so many liberties with our cat is missing.

Over the weekend, we went to a birthday party held at a local stable and farm -- brilliant idea. We petted chickens and fed goats.

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The highlight, of course, was in the barn.

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Like all good riders, the children got a chance to do a little horse grooming, learning how to brush the horses with the various brushes then applying their new knowledge.

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L is a curious mix of excitement and conscientiousness. She was eager to try the various brushes and wanted to use them correctly, but she never really took the time to try to remember -- to allow others to remind her -- how to the various brushes.

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She's a little like me, I guess: she dives in, fairly confident that she'll get it right soon enough that any mistakes made along the way won't be significantly problematic.

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Fortunately, the conscientious side of her took control when she was on the horse. She listened carefully and didn't deviate from instructions even slightly.

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Once it was all over, the swings outside the barn beckoned. L had had fun the entire day, but she seem a little relieved to be doing something she knew how to do. Novel is good, in small doses.

Symmetry

The Girl enjoys playing with the chess set I brought back from Poland. (If I remember correctly, a gift from Nana and Papa, when they came for our wedding.) She has invented her own little version that involves us using single pieces to push our opponent's single piece around the board for a few moments. She loves the game, but I've yet to discern the sublime objective.

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Occasionally she just gets all the pieces out and puts them on the board. There's usually a pattern: black pieces on black squares; white pieces on white squares.

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A perfectly impossible position, but notice: the white king is in check, forking the queen.

It's another example of the similarities between toddlers and older children with autism: pattern, pattern, pattern. Everything has its place, and to disturb that order is to invite chaos, in more ways that one.

We're more like that than we'd like to admit. A colleague once commented that we're all on the autism spectrum; it's just that some of us have very mild cases. Mine manifests itself in my obsession with seeing patterns in floor tiles and then feeling a compulsion to walk in accordance with said patterns.

That's probably why I looked at L's work, smiled, and said proudly, "Very symmetrical. Well done."