the girl
Madeline
Classic opening lines:
In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines,
lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.
They left the house at half past nine […]
The smallest one was Madeline.
Madeline is fast becoming one of L’s favorites. We only own one book (Madeline’s Christmas), but we’ve borrowed several from the library, all of them hits. And what’s not to love about them? Lovely stories and a recurring theme: don’t judge by appearances.
Lately, L’s been fascinated with the Madeline cartoon. So far as adaptations go, these cartoons are wonderful. Christopher Plummer as the narrator has a warm, grandfatherly voice.
It seems to worm its way into your heart and stay there:
This show hasn’t been popular since I was in kindergarten. I am almost thirteen now, and sometimes, when I am up late, I stumble across “Madeline” on the Disney channel. I loved this show when I was little and I wonder why they don’t show it at times when little children can see it. It’s a lot better than the junk they show on “Playhouse Disney” these days. (Koala Bros., Higglytown Heroes, etc.) If they could bring this show back, it would be just as popular, if not, more than it once was. I think that Madeline had a big influence on children between the ages of two to six. Heck, I would still watch it. I hope to see Madeline on Disney Channel really soon. (IMDb)
The best part: the theme song. We’re all going around singing it.
Drawing on the Drive
All this time we’ve had the chalk and yet, to my memory, we’ve never used it for what it’s intended.
Sure, one can make the argument that chalk was invented for chalk boards.
As a teacher in Poland, I made my fair use of the chalkboard, coming back to the teachers’ room with my hands covered with chalk. Chalk dust on my clothes, on my shoes, everywhere.
Yet I never understood that Edward J. Chalkster (or whoever the inventor) really intended chalk for entertainment, not pedagogy.
Had I known, I certainly would have lodged a protest: chalk abuse. Chalk misuse.
“It’s for outside use only!” I might have protested.
“It is, above all else, intended for one, single, aerobic function.”
Hop-scotch.
Now we all know. I don’t think it will be the last time. This week.
Downtown Asheville
We left the mountains of Madison County late Sunday morning and headed to Asheville, our home of two years.
Such an odd place, Asheville.
When we decided to move to Asheville, a quirky friend of the family warned us that there is a lot of Wiccan activity going on in Asheville and that we might want to rethink our decision. I’m not sure what she was expecting: fields of Wicca-ness that float about the city, turning unsuspecting passersby into pagans, but there is a different atmosphere there. In the heart of the mountains, not more than fifty miles from the rhinestone on the buckle of the Bible belt that is Bob Jones University (here in Greenville), Asheville is a hippy-filled, laid back, liberal island.
The Girl fell asleep during the drive so we drove by the apartment complex where we lived.
Changes — three new buildings, and the whole complex feels, well, cheaper. The old buildings were brick veneer and looked a little classy; new buildings show the cheap way out: one-third brick, two-thirds siding. It’s so crowded and sprawling. It was not the place we moved into almost four years ago.
We headed downtown when the Girl woke up, doing a little window shopping on the way. “I want some!” L cried when we saw slab of fudge and explained to her just what it was. For a girl who didn’t like sweets for a very long time, she has grown positively obsessive about them.
Our time in Asheville was not meant to be idle sight seeing. We had a goal: buy a apartment-warming/wedding gift for dear friends of ours in Warsaw. We went to the galleries in the Grove Arcade.
The building never ceases to fascinate: built in 1924-29 by Edwin Wiley Grove, who also built the Grove Park Inn. It was a bustling little place until the Second World War, when everyone was evicted and the building converted to wartime use. In the 1970’s it served as the National Climatic Data Center. When my family would visit Asheville in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, the building was vacant but alluring. It reopened in 2002, filled with shops and restaurants.
Unfortunately, said shops had nothing for us, and we already had lunch plans, so the restaurants went unnoticed. (I don’t think we ever ate there in our two years in Asheville, in fact.)
We went to the Kress Emperium, where we attempted to sell our photos. We had been hoping to make enough money eventually to buy a digital SLR. Our lack of sales and the monthly rent turned opportunity into irony: we simple lost enough money to buy a digital SLR. Still, it’s better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all.
We went to Woolworth Walk, which, as it sounds, is an old Woolworth store converted into galleries. Still, nothing. In the end, K had a brilliant idea, but it required being in Greenville.
Yet all was not lost: we got an old fashioned milkshake at Woolworth Walk; we got our fill of lesbians (of which Asheville has an enormous population; maybe that’s what the Wicca force fields do!); and the Girl got to run about a bit.
Farm on the Hill
A visit to the Asheville area is not complete without a visit with Mike and Pia, our friends from the farm on the hill.
Their farm has grown considerably since our last visit. Their chickens have grown, they have a goat, and they added two bunnies to the fold.
For the days preceding our visit, L continually talked about going to see Mike and Pia “and the goat, and the chickens, and the dogs, and the bunny rabbits.” When she finally met the goat (whose name is Little Bit or Leadbelly, depending on whether you’re talking to Pia or Mike, respectively), L was a little apprehensive. It’s her usual modus operendi:be terrified for a few moments, then strike that and reverse it.
The chickens, all grown, have their own house now. The Girl was not at all interested in going inside, which is to say she would have been had we given her enough time.
The sight of all those chickens, scurrying about, clucking and flapping was too unpredictable for L to handle, so she simply waited outside.
Once a chicken was isolated, though, the L was eager to pet and giggle, giggle and pet.
The sun finally set, and with L in bed, we sat around the porch, then around the kitchen, talking, laughing, imbibing this and that, until after midnight.
One of the negatives about moving out of Asheville was leaving behind friends. Yet there is a sweet note to the bitterness: the semi-yearly visits become all the more precious. We all bounce out of the house crying, “We’re going to Asheville!” It’s the classic dilemma/blessing.
Zoo School
I took L to zoo school — an instructional program for kids at our local zoo. It was short and sweet: just what a group of toddlers needs.
We began by exploring various animal artifacts, including a turtle shell that was almost as big as the Girl. This, it turned out, was only the keep-them-busy-while-the-others-arrive activity.
The topic was “Big and Small” and it was simply designed to get the kids thinking of the relative sizes of all animals. The highlight was when everyone got to touch a millipede.
Though the Girl was initially nervous about being in a room with strangers, she showed no anxiety about touching the millipede. That’s both good and bad: good for the obvious reasons, bad because a dose of caution around unknown animals is always a good thing. Let’s hope she doesn’t get inspired to try to pick up any crawling beasts she might find in our yard…
At the end of the program, L showed her leadership ability by cleaning up the pile of crayons another child had created, dumping an entire tub of them on the floor. In classic Tom Sawyer fashion, she convinced everyone it was fun and soon others joined in.
L’s eagerness to help constantly takes me by surprise. The trick now: how to maintain it through childhood.
Meet Big Wolf
She’s been telling us the story for months now, and we’ve been pretending along with her about her imaginary friend, Big Wolf. At the zoo last weekend, we had an idea.
“Big Wolf is right over there,” K whispered when we were in the gift shop. Sure enough, a pile of stuffed wolves. “She hasn’t seen it yet,” K continued.
“You keep her distracted,” I replied, “and I’ll buy the wolf and sneak it into our bag.”
We took her outside, had her sit down, and told her there was a surprise in the bag.
She looked in the bag and was immediately delighted. “Big Wolf!” she cried out, eager to show everyone.
After so many months of looking for Big Wolf, we finally found him. While most say the search, the journey, is the important aspect of any adventure, the actual meeting — the goal — was a moment of pure, unsurpassed joy.
Since then, Big Wolf has been her daily companion. He accompanies her to daycare, and even joins in the morning circle, the teachers tell us. “We’ve all gotten used to Big Wolf joining each and every activity,” Miss Brenda told me.
L constantly reminds us of the trick to life: find joy in the simplest things.
Repair Work
L’s bike seat needed some adjustment. She was eager to help.
“Hand me that,” I could ask, and she would, occasionally. More often, I was asking her to take this instead of that, asking her to bring this back, calling her name out several times in rapid succession when she was reaching for a nut or bolt I’d be needing shortly.
Required: a seat adjustment.
Reason: it’s obvious, isn’t it? She’s grown significantly since the last time she pedaled around. I raised the seat about two inches.
An initial fitting showed that a raised seat wouldn’t suffice. I slide the saddle back as far as it would go.
Result: a happy little girl.
Yet another image that hints at a five-year-old L.
Summer Plans Begin
In Polska, K and I were both avid cyclers. Here, we haven’t been so much. Having a beast of 2.5 years makes that difficult.
The solution has always lingered in the back of our mind, brought forward afresh each time we were at a park with bike trails: buy a trailer for the Girl.
Add to this equation the decision we’ve made to have a relaxing, travel-resistant vacation on Edisto Island and one has all the impetus necessary to buy a trailer.
First, we had to sell her on the whole idea. That was not too difficult: we’d been pointing out such trailers every time we go to a park, asking, “L, would you like to ride in something like that?” The answer was always, “Yes.” (Or, until recently, “Tak.”)
She played and played, went in and out and in again — “You close it, please?” “Open it, please.” “You close it, please?” Finally, we attached the wheels and pulled her around downstairs.
Monday, at last, we took her on the road.
Verdict: fun, but only when Mama’s around.
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.
Anti-Squirrel Device
It was squirrels digging up our garden, and being the eco-friendly folks we are, we went with a non-lethal but hopefully highly annoying and perhaps frightening deterrent: a motion-activated sprinkler.
It turned out to be great fun for the Girl as well.
The Girl’s Mother’s Day Video
I had the idea; L created the screenplay — more or less on the fly.
Drawing with Mama
Snack
Often, when L and I arrive home, we take a snack together. An eternal favorite is apple slices with a light spread of peanut butter and a shared glass of milk.
I don’t know how we began sitting on the floor, but we do now consistently — even when it’s a Saturday afternoon snack.
I hold the apple; L spreads the peanut butter. The cooperation is a blessing: she often insists on doing everything herself, and that can lead to frustration.
She also cleans up messes. Occasionally, the mess is bigger after she completes the task, but in the case of peanut butter on a finger, she does a thorough job.
Dress
Sunday morning, before church, there was some twirling and dancing in the backyard. I was there with a camera, of course.
For a brief moment, I look at this photo and think I can imagine what she’ll look like ten years from now. Every few months, I catch a moment that seems to be speaking from the future. “Prepare yourself, Tata,” she says in those moments. “I’m not going to be a toddler for long.”
Definitely not, but she’ll certainly be a dancer. She dances endlessly, tirelessly.
“All kids at this age like dancing and music,” says the lady at daycare.
“Yes, but you don’t understand,” I want to say. “She dances more than any other person I’ve ever encountered.”
But I don’t say it. She’s probably already heard it a million times.
Digging and Playing
A busy weekend. L’s confirmed cat allergy necessitated the re-thinking of our cat situation. She how sleeps in the basement. (The cat does, not L.) Part of the solution involved a cat door, but where to put it? Simple: in the basement window. That involved creating a framed enclosure for the door — yesterday’s project. There’s still a shelf to be built on the outside portion as it’s too high for convenient entry.
Sunday was planting day. Squash and melons. The squash looks heartier than the melons. In fact, the melons, while healthy, look almost miniature compared the the hefty squash plants. Don’t worry, melon — you’ll catch up and surpass your neighbor in our improvised front garden.
The day ended with another first for L — her first train ride. With beautiful weather and a jolly conductor, we were certain it was going to be a big hit.
L sat waiting, watching the train make a circuit and excitedly talking about getting on the train.
Once she boarded with K, though, it was a different story
It’s something we should have expected, for it happens often enough. We could have prepared her: it usually helps if she knows what she’s expecting.
Still, the swinging, running, sliding, jumping, and general frolicking undid the anxiety.
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.
Catch!
Coordination is developing.
Strength is improving.
Spring Evening
The trees in the backyard are slowly filling out; the sun came out today after two days’ rain. The only option was to get out in the warmth.
Swinging is always the start. Swinging sets the stage for everything else. It often bookends activities in the summer: it’s that popular with the Girl.
Afterward a walk — such a change from last spring’s walks.
Baby came with us; turtle had to stay in the mailbox.
Lonely, I’m sure.
Sto Lat
The Girl was unconsciously showing off her growing linguistic fluency the other day. Singing “Sto Lat,” she pranced around the kitchen, giving us quite a performance.
Sto lat, sto lat, niech zyje zyje nam.
Sto lat, sto lat, niech zyje zyje nam.
Jeszcze raz, jeszcze raz, niech zyje, zyje nam.
Niech zyje nam!
One site gives the following translation:
Good luck, good cheer, may you live a hundred years.
Good luck, good cheer, may you live a hundred years.
Good luck, good cheer, may you live a hundred years.
One hundred years!
Even someone unfamiliar with the language realizes that there is only a repetition of two lines, not three. A more literal translation (i.e., word-for-word equivalent) would be:
One hundred years, one hundred years, may you live, live with us.
One hundred years, one hundred years, may you live, live with us.
Once again, once again, may you live, live with us.
May you live with us.
That “jeszcze raz” is the key. “Once again,” or as L might say, “Try again.”
And so the second time through the song, L mixed things up for us a bit and sang,
Sto lat, sto lat, niech zyje zyje nam.
Try again, try again, niech zyje, zyje nam.