Tenth Party
party
Christmas 2019
A few shots from our Christmas walk with friends.
Few pictures from the party with the same friends because we were to busy having a Christmas party: eating, drinking, singing, talking, laughing, repeating.
Pre-Christmas Family Reunion
Christmas 2018
During a proper party, a proper family gathering, time seems to disappear into an eternally present “now” that blends effortlessly out of the last moment, imperceptibly into the next, a continuum of laughter. A proper Christmas day, then, should be like a proper party. And what better way to start the smiles than a pile of hot waffles.
And what better activity after breakfast than to help with the Lego set the Boy got yesterday? Truth be told, it was a challenge for me to understand those instructions at times, so it’s no surprise that high on his priority list was getting some help.
We build this knowing that as soon as the snow plow is completed, it will be a focus of attention for a few days and then disappear into its constituent parts into the growing box of Legos that now must contain well over a thousand blocks, what with all the sets he’s gotten and the Lego windfall he got from his sister a year or so ago when she decided she was too old for Legos. Of course, you’re never too old for Legos, but there is a period called adolescence when you might think you are.
In the early afternoon, we all went to spend Christmas lunch with Nana. We ate some split pea soup and chatted while the children took turns rolling about in the wheelchair in Nana’s room.
Back home for the afternoon, we passed the afternoon at the table with talking with Papa while the kids played in the backyard, E still in his nice Christmas clothes that required some work when he returned because there was no way he was going out to play and not wind up at the creek that forms our rear property line. If you’re a six-year-old who has a creek in your yard, you use it.
Finally, around four-thirty, we headed to our closest friends’ house, the godfather of E (and he’s proud to remind us of that regularly) taking with us E’s godmother — K’s sister in everything but name and DNA and so for many reasons, the closest thing we have to Polish family here.
And so the evening just began slipping away, punctuated by grand food, silly kids, discussions of camping and finding cheap flights to the Old Country, hot toddies and black coffee, jokes, singing, and just enjoying the fact that we have such good friends.
(Click on images for larger view.)
But the Boy didn’t make it. He put up a fight, tried to stay awake the entire party, but there was just no way.
Party
Christmas 2017
So often in life, things come to an end and we don’t even realize that we’re living through last moments of this or that. Someone might lose a job and the whole family leaves, and you never see them again. More tragically, someone might pass away unexpectedly, and we regret deeply that we didn’t know that the last time we were with that person.
When an end comes and we know it’s the end, then we tend to savor it all the more.
Friends are moving to Connecticut. Good friends, for the last several years. Christmas, Easter, and Halloween we have always been together for the last several years. And tonight was the last time we’ll all be together for Christmas, perhaps for good. Sure, we talked about going up to Connecticut for a visit, but the chances of that happening, of us all being together like that, are quite honestly very slim.
It added a gray lining to the rest of the evening.
Christmas 2016: Nostalgia
I’m not quite sure where they got it — maybe we gave it to them, or perhaps they just bought it themselves. In a way it doesn’t matter. What matters is that when E found the little Leap Frog play house that was just like the one he played with as a little toddler (“Daddy, I’m not a toddler any more. I’m a little boy.”), he was utterly enchanted. He took the little house over to the small couch in the sitting area just off of the dining room in our friends’ house (they do Christmas; we do Easter; another family has taken Halloween, even though it’s not a traditional Polish holiday) and just played with it as if it were the greatest thing. I wondered for a moment if perhaps he was experiencing his first little bout of nostalgia.
I always wonder about that: what will set my kids off when they’re adults, what will send them back into the past with a certainty that times were somehow better then and a strange emptiness with the realization that those times will never return. Or maybe that’s just the stuff of romantics, and perhaps my kids won’t grow up to be nostalgic romantics.
But there are worse things than being nostalgic romantics. Nostalgic romantics get to sing Christmas carols with an abandon that others lack. The act is a time machine.
It’s what makes movies like White Christmas so charming almost seventy years later.
And that’s all I’ve got for this Christmas…
Christmas 2015
It’s a good sign that there are so few pictures to choose from: more time talking and singing and laughing and less time documenting others doing it.
Christmas 2014
“We’ll take Easter,” K explained, “because we have the big yard for the Easter egg hunt. K and B will switch off with A and P for Christmas.” This year, it was K’s and B’s turn, and since A and P went back to Poland with their family for Christmas, it was a small affair.
K and B have a new attraction, especially for the Boy: Little K has grown up a lot. She’s toddling around, making messes, taking things from others’ hands, being a young toddler.
E tries to talk to her, but to no avail. “She’s not talking,” he exclaims sadly. “She can’t talk. She’s too little.”
For L, it’s a different story. A’s and P’s absence also means F and K are not there. Which means that L is the big fish. Which means she needs something to do.
So she ends her day as she began it: playing with a new Christmas toy.
New Year’s 2014
Christmas 2013
When I was a kid, my family used to drive from southwest Virginia to Nashville almost every year for Thanksgiving. In the mid-eighties, when the speed limit everywhere was 55, it took just over six hours.
Six hours in the car for a ten-year-old was utter living Hades: it was never-ending boredom in the days before smart phones, portable DVD players, and iPods.
The trip there was bearable, for there was something to look forward to. The trip back was hellish because all the excitement had passed.
Six hours in a car — a long, long, long time.
Six hours with family and good friends on Christmas day, though, passes in a flash.
E’s First Birthday Party
Almost three weeks have passed since the Boy turned one. Three weeks of postponing a party because of illness, because of Memorial Day, because of whatever. So the party is not just a year in the making; it’s a year and three crucial weeks in the making.
We’d planned an outdoor party with games for the kids to correspond with Dzien Dziecka in Poland. A simple plan: potato sack race, water balloon toss, foot race, egg race, and other outdoor favorites starting around three in the afternoon. Afterward, an early dinner and cake.
All outside. I mean, we have a dual-level deck, a carport (that actually used to be a screened patio), and a fairly abundant yard.
It was a week of beautiful weather that we spent in school and at work. But this party shone in the near-future as a reward for all our time inside that we really wanted to be out. And then the updated forecast yesterday: good chance of scattered showers.
By one this afternoon, the chance of showers turned into a certainty of a seemingly-extended downpour. It rained, and rained, and grew drearier and grayer.
“This is just like our wedding,” I grumbled to K. We’d had a week of glorious weather until the morning of our August wedding, when it began drizzling, then raining, then drizzling, then spitting.
“It’ll stop,” K reassured.
“No, it won’t. It will be like this all day,” I replied.
I tend to be a pessimist in such situations. It’s not that I hope to be right; it’s simply that I try to expect the worst so I can be pleasantly surprised if anything brighter emerges.
As it turned out, we were both right, both wrong.
It stopped shortly after all the guests arrived.
We made a quick plan: cake first, then outdoor games if the rain continues to slack.
After cake, we rushed out, finished the games, and as the last shot flew toward the goal,
as the last velcro-covered ball floated to the target, the drizzle returned and wen headed back inside.
Lunch/dinner was a mix of smoked meats, salads, bread — fairly typical Polish fare. The kids picked, the adults ate.
Meal completed and ice cream served, we moved to the living room for presents.
It’s an ironic process for a one-year-old. There’s not much unwrapping he can do. And often the packaging is as entertaining as the toy itself. Yet it’s a birthday: part of the highlight is the unwrapping.
Such was the case today.
The most thoughtful gift: a broom. J, who keeps E during the week, lives just up the street, and she came with her daughter, mother-and-law, and a broom.
“He just loves our broom, and I thought he’d like to have one his own size.”
But there was no time to play with the broom — and no room, for he likes to swing and sway with it in a most dangerous way when the room is so crowded. Never mind — there was plenty to distract him.
New toys. semi-new friends. (How much can a one-year-old remember of another toddler he hasn’t seen in ages?)
The mess afterward was truly enormous. But that’s the sign of a good party, a good mess.
The rain, though? It returned in full force shortly after we went inside and continued into the evening. The older children resorted to that old-fashioned play technique: creativity and imagination.
The rain continued, the children cleaned up the mess, the guests returned home (with Nana and Papa staying longer to help with the clean-up), and K and I set about getting the kids in bed.
Not a bad first birthday party. Perhaps when he looks at these pictures, the Boy will remember something, if only the feeling of excitement.
Christmas Day 2012
What if I were to take two full days off, so to speak? What if I were to use pictures and WordPress’s snazzy “Caption” feature to tell the story? What if I were to go veg on the couch instead of writing the obvious? It might be nearly as pleasant as the day I’d be writing about, Christmas Day.
Parties
Good parties always have short cigar breaks in them somewhere. And even if one out of the three to try a first (or almost first) cigar end up really enjoying it, one could consider it a success.
Christmas 2010
“There’s a forecast of snow,” was the rumor running through the house. “It’ll be the first snow during Christmas since the early 1960’s.”
By the time the guests arrived in the late afternoon, there were flurries. The temperature stayed above freezing, but the snow and festive mood led to the only logical conclusion: toddies for everyone.
The evening continued, as did the snow and conversation.
The usual gender self-segregation gradually developed: the ladies in L’s room,
the guys in the basement, and the children moving back and forth between.
Visiting friends’ dogs and the pool table seemed to have an inordinate draw for the kids. I remember as a child the fascination I too held for the concept of billiards. It seems like the perfect kid’s game, which I guess it is: flat surface, lots of balls, purposeful collisions. Sort of like a demolition derby.
I excused myself for a few moments to take some photos of the house in snow. I tromped through the first Christmas snow in almost fifty years, thinking about the privilege inside and out, that having close friends is as rare and dear as Christmas snow in the south.
Fourth
Time is a relative thing. Scientists tell us that we can travel so fast that time slows. In 1582, Pope Gregory XIII convinced the whole western world to skip ten days.
Yet it’s the smaller moments that have the true significance.
It’s the smaller moments that see a devoted mother spending an entire Friday afternoon baking a cake for a little girl and her guests.
It’s the sweeter moments that see the welcoming of a beloved friend with mutual squeals of joy and anticipation.
It’s the moment less than the flickering of a candle that we all remember, the moment that a little girl has been excited about for days.
It’s the moments that finds us surrounded by friends,
friends who have taken a few minutes out of their lives to come celebrate with us.
Within these series of moments, I catch a glimpse of the future. It happens every now and then: a pose, an expression, a gesture, and suddenly I see what our sweet daughter will look like in five, ten, fifteen years. A birthday celebration offers a hint of birthdays to come, and the bitter-sweet realization that these present moments are disappearing all too quickly.
The pony rides will disappear. “Oh, Tata — I’m not interested in ponies anymore.” It’s bearing down on us, this reality, and I both dread and eagerly look forward to it.
In the meantime, we — family and friends — enjoy the moments of helping and hugging, the moments of screams of laughter often followed too shortly by cries of frustration. There’s a big girl inside our L, but she’s still a little girl. Almost one year older now, but a little girl all the same.
“Technically, it’s not your birthday,” I try explain to her.
“You mean I don’t have my birthday party?” she replies, in a panic.
“No, you’re having your party today, but your birthday is Thursday.”
“But Mama said today is my birthday. Today is my party!” There’s a certain panic in her voice that tells me that time is such a relative, elastic thing — after all, in Asian cultures, children are born one year old — that I can shift time and calm a panicking daughter with few repercusions.
“Well, Mama was right,” I relent.
“You were just joking,” L giggles.
Perhaps, but not about this: happy early-birthday, our sweet daughter. May all your birthdays be raspberry-covered and laughter-filled.
Party! (Again?)
K’s last full evening in Jablonka — what else to do but go for a little party? This one is a little different. For one, we’re going out, not staying in: less clean up. Second, we have live entertainment, an amazing string band (video coming later). Third, it’s a smaller group: more intimate. Finally, I’ve agreed not to be such a prude and drink a little. Which means, with live music, that I might be induced into dancing. Or I might shock everyone and initiate it.
It’s rare that I’m among the first in the room that makes it to the dance floor. It’s even rarer when I initiate it. There are obvious exceptions. Fortunately, I know the required components, and I can stay well away from them if I don’t feel like making a fool of myself.
One component, which is honestly optional, is a little bit of alcohol. It lowers inhibitions, and that warm feeling after one or two shots of vodka makes my toes twitch. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Another component is having someone I really wish to dance with. K loves dancing, as does L, and they will dance with just about anyone, including solo dances. I take a more circumspect view of dancing. If I’ll be getting up in front of other people and wiggling my body in this or that odd, unnatural way, and perhaps enjoying it, it will have to be with someone who, at the very least, I like. Better yet, someone I love.
All that is to say I don’t love dancing.
K does.
K will dance with anyone. She’ll dance alone in our living room, tauntingly.
“You know you love this song,” she says with her bright eyes. “Why not dance?” I can give myriad excuses.
When she gets with someone else who’s equally crazy about dancing, the results are predictable and lovely:
Everyone is in a dancing mood. The only person who doesn’t get the dance he wants is Dziadek. He keeps asking L for a turn around the floor — and it would have literally been a turn for L — but she keeps denying him. Maybe she’s honing her skills; perhaps she’s just being a typical three-and-a-half-year-old.
At the heart of all the movement, and the number one component to getting me on the dance floor, is the live band. All trained in traditional styles, they have a flair for original touches of jazz, Gypsy, Jewish, and Eastern modes in their music. The result makes it difficult to sit still.
After filming several of their numbers (to be posted later, after I regain access to editing software), I take the bottle up to their table and pour a round or two for them.
“You guys are going to be on the Internet in a couple of weeks,” I laugh.
“On YouTube?” one asks.
“Of course.”
“What will be the title?” a second inquires.
“Really Good Music,” I tell him, but that is, as my father would say, a little tightened up from the original.
Multi-Purpose Party
Most folks don’t need an excuse for a party. We had two: first, it was my father’s-in-law name day recently. In Poland (as in many countries), that’s more important than a birthday. Second, the Americanized daughter returned for a visit.
As is often the case, pictures are better suited for describing a party than words.
Digging in the Dirt
An afternoon with friends led L and Franio to discover (or for L, to rediscover) the joys of mucking about with gardening tools. Our host stayed in the backyard with the kids for a bit, teaching them how safely to use semi-dangerous equipment. Naturally, I felt they might as well be playing with chainsaws and strychnine.
It became an object lesson for the Girl: bigger kids can do things younger children simply can’t. Or at least shouldn’t. Not when Tata is around, anyway. L was delicately working.
Franio was putting his back into it.
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“I do it like Franio, Tata!” L squealed several times. “No, you do it gently,” Tata replied.
It was another of many “you can’t protect them forever but ‘forever’ is not now” moments.
More significant than the digging or other fun was the sharing. Spontaneous, unsolicited sharing. “You try now,” was a common refrain.
The adults did the parental love and horror stories routine with the new parents. With us, all that advice and thos endless anecdotes do little except provide reassurance. Yet we tell the stories anyway.
Happy Birthday, Papa
Friday was Papa’s birthday: he’s doing 50 again. He thought about going up to 51, but I talked him out of it. “Fifty is such a nice, round number,” I argued. “Fifty-one has very little going for it. It’s not even a prime number.”
When Papa has a birthday, there’s only one kind of cake we can buy with a clear conscience: cheese cake. The Girl liked it too, but seemed to enjoy the act of shoving it into her mouth more than actually eating it.
Papa didn’t want to laugh — thought it might encourage her to continue — but he couldn’t keep the laughter in forever. In the meantime, he looked a little goofy.
Afterward, it was time to play. Papa had some trouble throwing the exercise ball up the stairs, much to the Girl’s delight. It’s always fascinating to me how something so insignificant, repeated ad nauseum, can give her so much joy.
Bubbles followed, and L followed the bubbles.
Inside, L showed her acrobatic nature while Papa showed his, well, Papa nature.
