matching tracksuits

"How will I send you pictures?" K asked before leaving with the kids to Poland. We worked out a couple of different ways, but uploading directly to MTS seems to be the best method.

And so now I begin the shift from blogger to historian, for I'm writing about pictures and events where I was absent. I can look at the pictures, make an educated guess about what was going on (informed by what K told me via Skype), but by and large, I'm still just a historian.

So I look at the pictures and think, "Hum, at the airport." And I think further: Charlotte or Munich? It doesn't look like the terminal from which we've always left from Charlotte, but it looks less like the Munich airport. Still, the carpet, the handicap sign (why are my children sitting in a seat for handicapped people?), the general surroundings, the alertness of the kids -- it must be Charlotte.

The other pictures are easy: I recognize the spot immediately, and more importantly, K told me about their shopping trip to "downtown" Jabłonka.

The clothes are another clue: Charlotte was 98° when they left; Poland was in the 50s, with the 5 AM morning temperature (Babcia is an early-riser) being a refreshing 32° F. Still, you'll notice in L's hand an ice cream cone. Apparently they're continuing the tradition we started in 2013: if you go to the village centrum, you must get an ice cream cone. Still, you'll also notice in the background that children returning from school are wearing shorts. It is, after all, June. Summer in Poland.

Two stories, one family. Or maybe one family, one story, temporarily told in two parts. The highlight of the day came in the morning, without question. Mug of coffee in hand, I headed downstairs to chat with the better portion of our family. They’re finishing up lunch; I just had breakfast.

The Boy began with the important information: new additions to the toy collection. With money from Babcia, he bought an entire set of air-travel-based toys: airplane, cargo lifter, the stair-mobile that we occasionally see but almost never use. Except at Krakow’s airport.

He put a couple of toys down in front of the computer and proclaimed that I could play with those. I suggested we might have to wait until the family is reunited.

In the meantime, the Girl has dashed up to her room (which means bolting up four sets of stairs) and back to show me what she chose with her money from Babcia: a small Nerf-launching pistol to go along with her Nerf-launching bow that’s still here, in South Carolina.

It’s likely to be a daily or near-daily occurrence. “What kind of plastic nonsense will she have next Wednesday, when you guys go to the flea market?” I ask. L just jumped in joyful anticipation.

K and the kids are now somewhere over the Atlantic, on their way to Munich, where they’ll have ninety minutes to make a connection to Krakow, where K’s godfather will pick them up and drive them two hours south almost into Slovakia, where Babcia is waiting with chicken broth and homemade egg noodles. The ninety-minute ride to the airport went fine, the check-in process was flawless, and we even had time to sit and share an over-priced bottle of orange juice before they entered the terminal area restricted to those of us who lack a ticket. I wound through the line with them, ducking out at the last minute just before K and the kids had to take off shoes, belts, etc. The Boy came back over to the rope barrier and gave me another hug and kiss. The Girl followed, on the brink of tears, reminding me for the thousandth time to…