Instructions
1. Scrub.
2. Rinse.
3. Scrub again.
But be wary of the dog, just waiting to steal your brush.
the girl
Friends and Landscapes
D has been K’s best friend for as long as I’ve know K, and at least ten years longer. She was K’s guardian angel during our wedding, always fixing K’s veil, K’s hair, K’s dress — always fixing.
Today, we went to the village D and her family now call home: Pyzowka. I could go on and on about this and that, about how it’s such a beautiful village situated perfectly in hills that look on mountains. About how the girls loved the visit, especially the time wih D’s daughter. About how the time with good friends always ends up with smiles and laughter.
I could go on and on about all that, but the pictures speak for themselves.
Pyzowka is a village that in a sense no longer exists in Poland. Villages that used to rely on farming and were powered by horses are no longer either. What has happened? A mass exodus? Demographics? Perhaps a little of both.
My own experiences in Lipnica — itself a time machine — many children paid special attention to English lessons because they promised the possibility of escape.
One former student told me, “One woman I clean for asked me, ‘Where did you learn to speak English well?’ I replied, ‘I had a great English teacher.'” I was flattered, to say the least. And I saw for the first time how I sold the only ticket out of the village.
“It’s better than working in the fields.”
Often I saw my students working in the fields over the summer. For them, a summer break made sense, for they still lived the reality that inspired the summer break throughout the Western world. In the States, I’m not so sure it’s necessary.
And so everyone wanted to escape. And I returned. And probably would return again if the stars aligned themselves.
After all, who could ever think of escaping views like this?
“If I lived in Pyzowka,” I told K, “I would to for a walk every stinking day.”
“I know,” she replied.
“Today didn’t stink!” proclaimed L from the back seat.
Point taken.
Still, if you had views like this, wouldn’t you head out for a stroll as often as humanly possible?
And if you had friends like this, wouldn’t you visit them as often as possible?
The Cold and the Rain
Rain, ten degrees Celsius — you might say that it’s a perfect Polish summer, but that would be too pessimistic. Yet rain or shine, the cousins must swing.
And play in the small play house Dziadek built.
Yet there is a bit of frustration. L understands Polish perfectly; her willingness to speak it is a different situation entirely. As they’re swinging, S asks, “Dlaczego ciagle mowisz po angielsku?” “Why are you constantly speaking English?” “Dobra pytania” I respond, yet L says nothing. Instead she begins the international language of three-year-olds: she begins making as many odd sounds as possible.
In the end, the swing was the hit of the day. With aunt Dominika, Kinga, and I, the girls must have swung for ten hours straight. Perhaps that’s an exaggeration, but not by much.
In the meantime, Babcia chases the newest member of the family — a little mixed puppy — for digging up her flowers, for about the tenth time. “Ja cie dam!” cried babcia, half seriously, half in jest. “Ja cie dam!”
Poles would call such a day “dzien barowy” — a bar day. But we’re not here to sit in a bar. We’re here to visit, and visit with determination. And so we head to the school where I taught for seven years.
I meet several colleagues with whom I worked even in 1996, but we’re all a little older, a little more experienced. The exception is a young lady who was still in middle school when I arrived fourteen years ago (eighth grade) and now teaches high school. My replacement, one might say, but I guess one would be wrong. Time passes and replacement become irrelevant. All things being fluid in the twenty-first century, talk of replacements is useless.
As we wonder through the school, I begin thinking about how little has changed, which is the nature of teaching: one spends years in the same grade only to realize that, from a certain point of view, one has been running in place. I stay forever in eighth grade now; in Poland, I stayed forever in high school. The results are, more or less, the same.
There are some things, though, that can’t be replaced, like a virtual Mama. After dropping by the school, we stop by to visit the family with whom I lived for some time after returning to Poland in 2001. I’m greeted with hugs and “Synku!” It’s like a homecoming. It is a homecoming.
We meet the two chicks my Polish Mother (PM for future references) saved from certain death when they fell from the nest and made just enough noise for her to hear.
A constant, consistent attraction during our visit.
“I want to see the birds!”
And as a result really get no rest during our visit.
But panic builds instincts and reaction. Or so I’m told.
So I’ve heard, but what do I know? That an evening of football (aka soccer) and assorted liquids makes one less than perfectly willing to blog at eleven o’clock…
Posing and Playing
Sunday Afternoon
We thought about going to the beach today. None of us really wanted to — well, none of us who would have been doing the driving and paying. We ended up going to the park for some bike riding:
And then to McDonald’s for shakes and a televised softball game:
We all felt thoroughly red, white, and blue.
Running Club
When I was around six, I was obsessed with Star Wars (especially the action figures), and my father was obsessed with running. I shared my obsession with him (naturally), and he came up with a way to join our interests: incentivized running. For every mile, as memory serves, that I ran, I got a new Star Wars figure. Most often, I managed to make a lap around the quarter-mile track before heading to the long-jump pit to play in the sand. It took me a long time to get a figure. (Then I discovered that holding my father’s hand as I ran made all the pain disappear: I got figures more quickly soon after).
The Girl is starting even earlier than I, through her own choice. L’s school has established a running club. For the children L’s age, this means stretching out and running some laps around the parking lot every Thursday. At first, she wasn’t keen on the idea. Then, as she saw her friends heading out every Thursday, she became curious. Finally, she asked, “Mommy, can I join the running club?”
Today, we had our first run. It was probably less than a quarter of a mile, but for three-, four-, and five-year-olds (and the occasional older child), it was quite something.
It was not entirely surprising that said older children — especially the boys — took off at full speed.
The rest, accompanied by parents, took a more leisurely approach.
“Way to pace yourselves!” I called out as they passed.
I was particularly proud to see the Girl’s fine running form: relaxed, pumping the arms, taking good, long strides. She was running with a purpose: not to win any race (indeed, the adults constantly urged the kids not to think of it as a race but as a test of endurance), but merely to finish strong.
And she did, with a brief walking break.
Afterward, the celebration began, as did the rain. Rather than decrease excitement, however, the rain was merely an added bonus: what three-year-old doesn’t love stomping in puddles?
And more.
Toward the end, the water balloons appeared, and the morning’s DJ was a favored target — not without some encouragement from the DJ himself.
The Patch
So many enjoyable things require so little effort or money. Thinking of what to do this afternoon, K suggested we go strawberry picking. The Girl was soon excited, then disappointed when it began raining, then thrilled when it stopped.
“Can we go? Can we go?”
Half an hour later, L had her first fruit.
Within less than fifteen minutes, we had two buckets of berries.
We probably would have filled the buckets even sooner if we weren’t snacking so frequently. L used the 1-2 method: pick one, eat two.
It is a favored method…
Big Bed
We’ve measured the Girl with her beds all her life.
From the strange, transparent bassinet of the hospital to her latest upgrade, L’s bed has served as a constant against which to measure her growth.
For most of her life, she’s had the same crib, though. In the early days, the mattress was high: she couldn’t move about, so there was no danger, and it put her within easy reach. She soon outgrew it, though: as soon as she began rolling around and pulling herself up, we had to lower the springs that suspended the mattress.
But it seemed like she was able to crawl out of it almost instantly. We began thinking about changing it to a day bed, but we never quite made it. Instead, we jumped straight to the full.
“You’ll have a new bed when you get home,” K told the Girl as she took her to Nana and Papa’s house today. We were eager to see her reaction: would she be frightened (L doesn’t like changes) or thrilled?
The response:
squeals and shrieks.
The next test: would she like the bedding selections? After all, there was not a single princess to be seen.
But there were flowers — almost as good.
There was little left to do but practice snoring in the big bed.
Pathetique
When we got our tax return, K and I decided to invest a small amount into a piano. We considered a Steinway Concert Grand, but at close to a thousand pounds, we thought the floor might not agree. We settled for a digital, and the three of us have been playing away.
I’ve managed to pick up where I left off twenty-some years ago: the second movement to Beethoven’s Pathetique sonata.
I’ve been looking for different versions on YouTube.
Gould, in typical Gouldian fashion, turns it into something up-tempo. “Look how fast I can play this!”
The result is not adagio cantabile; it’s a march.
Daniel Barenboim gives a very thoughtful performance, but he leans a little too much on the sustain pedal.
For L’s part, she’s content just to bang. For now. We hope…
Meeting with Friends
It took some time, but the Girl finally got to spend out-of-school time with one of her best friends from daycare. With so much anticipation, there was only one fitting destination: the zoo.
“I have a lot of energy right now,” the Girl told me yesterday, pointing to her chest and adding, “In my body.” It’s common for three-year-olds, I suppose. Two of them together had an exponential effect. “Guys, slow down!” was the day’s mantra.
It was a day of firsts — not first-time experiences, but merely who could be first.
“Do you want a picture with the giraffe,” we asked, and they bolted to the first photo set, the Girl reaching it first and shoving her head and shoulders triumphantly through the opening.
“I’m supposed to be first.”
With some cajoling and physical manipulation, we managed to get them both in the frame. For all of 1.5 seconds, they sat still for a picture, then bolted off in different directions: the only sure way to make sure one is first.
The energy must have been contagious, for all the animals were unusually active. The reptiles were slithering about in their displays, and the four-year-old orangutan, Baby Bob, was climbing, rolling, and jumping.
Just more examples of the continuity among the animal kingdom’s pre-schoolers.
A Perfect Weekend
A perfect weekend might center around something like this:
Friends and family, good food and good conversation. That’s all the adults need.
L looks for something a little more active. Three dogs might just do the trick.
Three dogs and a swing raise the probability of satisfaction to nearly 100%
Three dogs, a swing, and a row of azaleas — well, perhaps we’re pushing our luck with that one. L loves flowers, but only insofar as they are pickable and portable. Lately she likes to pick flowers, tote them about a bit, crush them with affection (like the cat), then proclaim that she’ll plant them in a glass of water in her room so they can grow.
They rarely do, but she never gives up.
The Girl on the Funeral
We were sitting in front of the computer, watching the streamed footage of President Kaczynski’s state funeral when the Girl began asking questions.
“What happened?”
“The plane fell.”
“Why did it fall?”
“There was a lot of fog. They couldn’t see.”
“It was dark?”
“Yes, it was.”
“I know what happened. They forgot their flashlight.”
A simple explanation for the tragedy. Later, she asked for clarification.
“Did the whole plane fall?”
“The whole plane fell.”
“Did it fall on the road?”
“No, it fell in the forest.”
“It’s not good to go in the forest with an airplane. It’s dark. They can’t see.”
Photo: “Dark series #12 – the forest rouse” by Xavier Fargas
Birthday
“You say it’s your birthday?” It was tempting to sing the Beatles’ birthday to Papa yesterday when he turned forty-something (he was a precocious child). We settled for the old stand-by, in more ways than one.
The first old stand-by: the Girl is the center of attention, even when it’s Papa’s day.
Even when sisters come to make brother-Papa the center of the day, the Girl manages to charm everyone.
“You, and you, and you — watch this!”
The second old stand-by: the Girl makes most of the decisions, like who gets to wear the birthday hats and who gets a pass.
Cake is another stand-by, with Happy Birthday New Year candles.
When Papa turned forty-something (the first time, that is), Nana and I tried to put forty-something candles on the cake. It was a Herculean task to get them all lit before the first ones started going out.
“H-A-P-P-Y N-E-W Y-E-A-R” (what are they doing selling New Year’s candles in April?) was much easier to light.
And blow out, I’d imagine.
The ultimate, ever-new stand-by: Papa showing Nana that, even on “his” day, she’s still the center of his world. (Like the reservoir behind the Three Gorges Dam, though, the Girl puts a little wobble in that orbit. Just a little one.)
Kiss Attack
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.
