When Memory Revisits My Babcia

I'm not sure what triggered my Babcia a few days ago on the phone.  But, suddenly, she recalled her parents full names.  And where they were from.  And when they left Poland.  And so much more.

My Babcia's mother was from Grodno when it was still Poland.  Now, Grodno falls in Belarus.

My Babcia's father was from the Bialystok area, and she told me the name of the town.

They both left Poland before World War I and fled to France, where they met in a small village.  My Wujek remembered the name of the village and what my pra-Dziadek used to do there.

My Babcia was born in France in the interwar era.  After WWII, they returned to Poland to Wroclaw.  Where she met my Dziadek.  And had my Tato, who had me.

I found other people while looking online that lived in those towns with the same last names around the 1850's through the beginning of WWII.

When Alzheimer's veils the memory, it's subtle but keeps claiming more and more.

I'm planning on writing down as much as possible of my family history so that when it happens to me, my children's children won't be left wondering what stories were lost to them.

Na razie...

Calling Babcia: Snails, Kidneys and Tai Chi

I love calling my Babcia.  I wish I could live near her and visit her often.  She is, to me, the definition of a wise woman.  A true Babcia.


This time, when I called her, I also had my Tato on the phone with her.


We talked about Christmas and the winding Pre-war stairs of my cousins apartment in Wroclaw.  The house was one of many which were once probably owned by nobility or merchants.  There is a courtyard with doors that, if you stop and just look, you could imagine a horse drawn carriage coming home from some event and entering the courtyard to prepare for night and rest.


My Babcia walked up the stairs with some of my family to celebrate Christmas together.  The building was once beautiful.  But it has fallen to some neglect.


My Tato and Babcia discussed politics and why the building is not being restored the way I dream it could be every time I visit. 


In my eyes, I envision discovering the original paint color under the current flaking layers.  I imagine the stairs being repaired and the banister re polished and properly attached to the walls.  Walls which probably once bore family portraits.

I imagine the rotting wooden family crest of whoever once owned the house being carefully researched and restored.


I imagine beautiful light fixtures bringing light to the dark corners that always make my breathe stop in fear.  Imagined figures always hide in those recesses waiting for me.


I imagine the house is made a historical site and so much more...


My Babcia tells me that she has mailed me two recipes for Kidneys which should be tasty.  She chuckles as she says this and I tell her how I traumatized my children with the last attempt.


The conversation leads to her time in France when her family tried to avoid WWII and it's atrocities.


She and my father both said that they could never imagine eating snails.  That perhaps it's because they have some sort of attachment to those green shelled garden residents that every Pole sees throughout the warm days of summer.


I told my Babcia that I have eaten snails.  Slimaki.  Hiding in a lot of garlic, butter and parsley.  At, of all places, a restaurant in Western Maryland called Old South Mountain Inn (I love that restaurant, by the way).

That my East Coast hippy husband, who had never eaten anything like it, had ordered it immediately thinking of me and that we had all really enjoyed it.  Even my then 2 year old older daughter.

That it tasted like... well, a garden.  There was something in the taste that reminded me of clams.  Wonderful.  I was pronounced an adventurous eater.


My Tato reminded me that the snails eaten in France are actually harvested in Poland.  I had once watched a television show discussing the snails of Poland and why the French could not raise and harvest their own snails.






My Babcia found that to be very funny and we talked about various dishes we loved and which we didn't. 


My Babcia told me that she missed doing Tai Chi everyday.  That she would go to the local park and do it with a group of other older residents and that it cleared her eczema.  I have decided that I would start doing Tai Chi again as well.


Na razie...

My Babcia on Volunteering and Children

I called my Babcia yesterday.  During the usual questions she asked me, she found out that I am a lunchroom mom again this year like last year.

I found out what she thought of volunteering at school.  That it was every parents responsibility to help at school in some way.  That children's education does not and cannot fall squarely on the shoulders of teachers. 

My Babcia told me that she volunteered every week at my father and Wujek's school, even when they were in Teknologia (Technology school which some students did instead of high school, the education system in Poland is entirely different from the US education system, with students beginning work skills training at a younger age and for a longer time into college). 

My Babcia often helped the teacher with writing the papers, after all, this was before computers, before printers.  Hand outs, paperwork had to be typed and written each piece at a time.

My Babcia worked full time all this time, made home cooked meals every single day, went to church every single Sunday, had a small garden that she tended and used to grow much of my family's food.

My father and Wujek were clothe diapered at a time when all children were in clothe diapers, when clothing was washed either by hand or using machines which were essentially tubs that were handfilled with water from the tap and had a "wrangler" on the top.  Machines that had to be emptied by hand.  My Babcia did all this and made her own baby food because that was just what you did.


I have to add that my Babcia fled Poland to France at the start of WWII, then came to America, not to return to Poland until the war was over.  She then met my Dziadek, married, and had two children which were raised under the USSR's rule and Communism.  Poland was a burned shell of what she had left and had to slowly be rebuilt.  Food lines were common.  Store shelves bare of food were a common sight.

My Babcia told me she was proud of me because perhaps my presence at the schools will inspire other parents.  And perhaps I can be an inspiration to some child there who perhaps isn't as fortunate as my daughters, this in my Babcia's words translated to English.

My Babcia then went on to tell me that she was finally working on throwing away old cans of food that she had made over the years.  So much food had she carefully cultivated in her garden, harvested, brought home on the bus, washed and canned.  And placed under her bed because there was no room for a pantry in her apartment.

All to be thrown away because now they were old and she was all alone and couldn't eat it all.

I wanted to be there with her to help her.  But I can't.  I am here instead.

We ended our conversation after a while with the same professions of love that always end our conversations.  A reminder from her that I am the first grandchild.  A reminder to her that she was my first and most beloved Babcia and that I would always remember that she was the one who brought me home from the hospital. 

My telling her that I prayed that the old house would soon sell so that we could come see her again and her saying that she would pray for that also very much because she really missed us. 

Wishes for colorful dreams. 

Love all the way to Heaven. 

Buska Buska Buska Pa.

I can't help but draw inspiration from her.  And hope that I can see her again.  Soon.

Na razie...



Other Posts:

Calling Babcia

The Dolls I Left Behind