the girl
The Girl Reads
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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?
Or know that he'd captured the petals of spring blossoms falling snow?
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.
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!"
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.
Two Recent Portraits
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.
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.
The highlight, of course, was in the barn.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."