Word(y) Wednesday: Camping in Ohio

Last weekend, my children, husband and I made the over 7 hour drive to Ohio.  It was the midway point to Maryland, so that some of his family could meet us there.  It was also the location of another event which my husband enjoys, a mud run.

The most memorable moment I had personally on the trip was visiting Conkle's Hollow.

Driving along the country road from our camp site, I saw a thick dark unending pine forest.

There was a hush coming from the woods.  It beckoned me, pulled at my blood memory.

The forests in Poland looked like these woods.

Thick towering trees blocking out the sun, needles pillowing the ground, ferns uncurling their greenery as they have since the Age of Fishes, before the Dinosaurs.  Life quietly growing, undamaged by Man's hand.

Mushrooms waiting for the right rains and temperatures so that they can ripple the pine needle floor and peek out, fairy tales and legends recited on them by Krasnoludki.

The eyes of creature residents, unseen by us, yet I know they are there.  There is a slight tingling sensation that I am being watched by something.  Something that knows what I am, human, creator of fire and death.  Perhaps it's a flock of deer, a chipmunk, a bear.  They know of me, of my kind, of how we tear apart the Earth and claim it all as ours for the taking.

Shhhhh...  The wind blows, the tops of the trees sway, the forest remains quiet.  Calling me.

We move down the road, the forest on my right side, steady.

On the trail, our group of seven spreads across the trail, adults stepping in stride with the children, teaching them.  How to watch for snakes, to stand in silence a moment around water so that you can see that the creek is indeed teeming with life, to find new life on plants, to touch a tree and look up and to rightfully feel the awe of this wondrous life, brown and green and strong.

Reminders to stay on the trail, not to disturb the life there, to know that in Nature, animals live here and that we are entering their house.

Little needles on the ground, green with two white stripes, eastern hemlock, a species from the end of the Ice Age.  On tiny fingers, eyes absorbing the details quickly, ears hearing the hush and our voices.

A turn of the head and we see a Native American couple walking the path, slowly, looking at all that is around them, in traditional dress.  They are beautiful.

I smile at them, knowing that here we are doing the same thing, conversing silently with God.  And sharing with the next generation so that they know as well.

My mother-in-law bravely approaches them and asks if we can take a photo of them, which they agree to.  Conversation naturally flows, like the creek a few feet from us.

The woman tells me they are Cherokee.  The man is quiet but his eyes shine with wisdom and his words carry weight.

She speaks words that could have come from my mother, my father, my grandparents, my cousins.  From across the ocean, from Poland. 


"Nature is important."


"This is our church, God is here."


"Each tree and rock is unique, has it's own characteristics, just like people."

We agree that it is a wondrous thing to see people walking in the woods and teaching the next generation to behold Nature and enjoy it.

She talks about giving thanks throughout the day for the Sun, for a new day, for the rain, and everything else around us.

In my heart, their wisdom hits every chord of how I want to mother my children, what impact I want to have on my great great grand children.

It's a moment of clarity, refocusing me.

I didn't catch their names but we ended up agreeing that perhaps we will see them at a Pow Wow sometime.  I hope we do.  They truly blessed me that day.

Na razie...

 

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Word(y) Wednesday: Garden Inspiration, Cabbage and Violets (Chicago Botanic Garden)

Teaching Children About Poland (recommended site)

The Holes in the Walls

I realize more and more how differently I am changing as a person as I grow older and lose more and more pieces of my ancestry, my nation's and family's history. How little I know and understand. 

I'll probably never know because the chance to move back to Poland fades away further and further with each day and with each piece of this beautiful yet tragedy filled heritage that I am losing.



When I was pregnant the first time, I went to Poland to visit my family and attend the wedding of one of my dear cousins.

My cousins, their husbands, and I went out one night for a few beers together.  I only drank mineral water with fruit syrup in it but toasted with them just the same, since I was pregnant.

We went to the Rynek in Wroclaw and sat at a table in one of the very narrow outdoor corridors of the Cloth Hall.  We sat for a few hours, laughing about everything and just enjoying the company of young family. 

After a while, we had to leave because a resident above the corridor complained that we were being too loud.  We were truthfully not being very loud.  However, a group of loud drunk German tourists had just walked by singing German songs with all their might.

As we walked back to our place, I saw some holes in the walls of a few buildings right off of the Rynek.  I had never noticed them before.

It looked as though 1 inch circular chunks had been knocked out in an odd pattern at the height of a person's head.

They had been painted over many times in a green color.

It didn't dawn on me what they were.  I have not lived for a long time around history.  And with history, comes the death of those who passed before us.

I asked my oldest cousin why they had not been fixed, perhaps plastered over.

She gave me an odd look, not a look of disgust or irritation, perhaps more of confusion that it wasn't apparent to me what they were.  She said "Kasiu, that's where people were killed by the Nazis." 

I immediately apologized and realized what they were.

Bullet holes. 

Either they hit the target or passed through it.  The target, the victim, most likely a Pole.

In the near darkness, suddenly the holes became clearer to me and I saw many many more around us. 

It dawned on me that I had seen many many more in my travels through Poland and had just never realized what they were.  Because where I live now, where my parents brought me, the biggest reminder of war is on the news in lands far far away from me. 

We kept walking by the holes in the walls. 

Na razie...




Related Posts:

My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday

A Love Letter to My Home Town, Wroclaw

Wordless Wednesday: My Own Place

This is my spot in the house. It's not just a spot with pictures. It's not just a spot that looks beautiful. This is more than that.

This is a shelf on one of my overloaded bookcases, set aside just for me.

Each piece specifically thought about and placed in it's spot.

The picture of Madonna of the Goldfinch painted by Giovanni Batista Tiepolo was beloved by my mother and I use it to remember what sort of Mama I want to be for my children.

The cross is from my husband's now deceased grandmother. It's nothing special. It's plastic. But I use it to remember her.

The ikon to the left is a gift from the parents of my old bosses, from Greece. They bought it in their travels to gift to me. It is a Greek ikon version of the Black Madonna of Czestachowa.  As they handed it to me, they held my hands and said "Remember, you are Polish. You are Catholic. Never forget these two things. I hope this brings you much blessings in life."

The red rosary draped on the Greek ikon was purchased by me in my wanderings throughout Paris when I was a teenager. It was bought after entering one of what felt like hundreds of churches during that trip to France and Poland. I had a sense of connection to those churches I never felt so much in most churches in the US. I could feel the blood, sweat and tears those European churches were built with, the unwavering faith, the hopes for a better afterlife, the centuries of feet wearing down the stones and bricks by the faithful, echos of whispers across the years. I bought that rosary to remind myself of that connection.

The palms peeking from the back of the Greek ikon came from Holy Cross PNCC, my church in Baltimore. My husband weaved them into the designs they are in now. I also look at it to remind myself that he is also Catholic.

The Rainbow Study Bible was handed to me by Father Bieganowski when we left Maryland to come to Illinois. The Holy Sacrament of the Mass was always used by me to follow along.

The white rosary was another purchase I made in Poland while visiting another church. I remember the smells, the brick, the wrought iron, the towering ceiling, the overwhelming sensation of belonging and of timelessness.

The small ikon in front was a gift from Father Bieganowski when he returned from his trip to Wroclaw, where both our families were from. I think of him and his wonderful family often.

The statue of a man holding a child is one I know nothing about except that it came from my husband's family. It's beautiful. I hope it reminds him of his family's faith.

The black rosary, draped over a framed document, I purchased at a nunnery in Poland. I remember the smiling nuns looking at me with curiosity as I purchased it. I had short dyed red hair, black clothing and makeup on. I'm sure I didn't look very Catholic. But appearances can be deceiving.

The framed document acknowledged my husband's deceased grandmother and grandfather's membership into the Archconfraternity of Our Lady of Perpetual Help and Saint Alphonsus.


The ikon in front, as far as I know, nobody in my husband's family knows the meaning behind it or where it came from besides from his grandparents.  I look at it to remind myself that we will one day all be forgotten and that all that is remembered is what we did before we left.  Whether we were kind and therefore raised kind children who kept that gift in our world or whether we were selfish and therefore raised selfish children who did nothing for the benefit of the world.


And the most precious of all, the ikon in gold.  A miniature of the Black Madonna.  My Babcia brought it for us when she visited us in the late 1980's in the US.  It was the first time I ever met my Babcia.  This ikon always held a special place in my house growing up and was eventually passed down to me.  One day, I want to make a pilgrimage to Jasna Gora. 

This ikon and my Bible are what this spot are based on and built around.  It is my sanctuary.  It is in our living room, immediately to my left when at the computer so that I write or cook or play with my children, I can look over and find something to look at and rediscover my strength and inspiration.


Do you have a spot like this in your house?  Do you use it to find your strength and inspiration?


Na razie...

A Polish Children's Song to Start the Day

My older daughter woke up at 7:15, rubbing her eyes and complaining that she was very tired. Normally, she wakes up at 6:30 with a bright smile and is ready to tackle the day.

I racked my brain of everything I remember as a child to get her charged up and ready for school.

I had been waiting to sing this song to her to wake her from bed ever since she started school but she has always been out of bed before I could wake her.

In front of her, eye contact, and...


Ćwierkają wróbelki od samego rana
Ćwir, ćwir Hej ty, Kasiu, gdzie idziesz kochana? 
A Kasia śpiewała, śmiejąc się wesoło
Szkolny rok się zaczął więc idę się do szkoły!


Translation:

Sparrows are chirping from the early morning
Tweet, tweet Hi you, Kasiu, Where are you going, my love?
 Yet Kasia sang, laughing to herself happily
The school year has begun so I'm going to school!



I gave her a hug and a kiss, said Goodmorning to her and asked "So, do you feel awake now and ready to go?"  She gave me a big smile and bounced away to get dressed quickly.

My toddler reached for me and I picked her up.  She bounced in my arm, "Again!" and I sang it to her, her smile making me feel like a SuperMama. 

It was just a little song my Mama would sing to me and my brother while we would get dressed to go to school, the birds singing in the branches of the tree outside our apartment window.  I can't believe I remember these words.

And now for something fun, I found this on youtube and played it for the girls to dance to as soon as they were both dressed and they loved it.








Time for breakfast and the morning scramble.  Have a great day!  Dzień dobry i...

Na razie...



I used Kasia in the song since it's my first name. 

Where Do You Go To When It's Time To Escape?

I have been having a bit of a writing block lately.  I have a lot of stories and recipes to share but sometimes, I hold my hands over the keyboard, ready, my mind whirling with the most eloquent words about to pour from my mind through my keyboard onto the screen, and then...

"Mommy!  I peepee!"

"Mommy!  Chokit Mook! (Chocolate Milk for those uninitiated into toddler-speak).  Poshe (Toddler-speak for Prosze which is Please in Polish)!"

"Hi, Mommy, did you see what the weather is yet so we can go play outside together?"

"Mommy!  Outside!  Play!"

Or, the conversations with my husband that can never seem to wait until I am done writing and, honestly, just aren't important.  Yes, that's right, they aren't.

And then the wonderful idea falls out of my ears like invisible ghosts blown away by a breeze.  Gone.

Playing outside, a mountain of laundry, cloth diapers, another attempt at writing during snack time interrupted by little fingers needing washing, "tea party", a run to the store for the milk that seems to disappear faster than I can make a cup of coffee.  By the time nap time comes, I have no idea what to write about at all.  And by then, the rest of the day requires attention.  Dinner, cleaning, school paperwork or supplies or volunteer hours, baths, story time, bedtime, and by the time my own bedtime comes, I am done.  D-O-N-E.  I don't want to talk or think about anything.  Let alone blog.

So, where do I go when it's time to escape?

I would say my blog.  Writing.  Reading.  Or if I just can't get more than 2 or 3 minutes for that, I close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else.

With my children.

At the end of a long car ride filled with listening to Bach and Chopin watching red fields and towering churches and villages and poppy flowers fly by my vision.

Taking me to the side of a mountain. 

I smell smoke from a chimney.  Grass and animals under the sun.

Stalks of wild grass and wheat bending and bowing.  The Pole, the fields.

I hear the sound of the forest near me, the breeze blowing through the leaves.  Whispering.  Ancient sounds that move me Come, walk in our shade on this path that countless others have travelled.

Past the kiln used by the villagers in the glen below for many many years before and now, just a solitary relic.  Standing, watching, remembering what was.

The scent of pine needles and tree leaves decaying.  Mushrooms preparing for their next appearance.

My belly filled with kabanosy, real hearty bread, plums, tomatoes, butter. 

Walking, just walking.

On the side of a mountain.  Outside a village that hardly anyone has ever heard of outside my family and the villagers below.  And I want to keep it that way.

Or, perhaps...

I close my eyes and visit Wroclaw.

Sometimes, it's harder to visit there in my imagination.  But during labor (natural labor both times, once induced for multiple hours with no pain medication), I closed my eyes and pretended that it wasn't happening to me.  I was on that mountain.  I was in the Rynek.  I was not there. 

Until I was holding my babies for the first time and looking into their eyes and the world melted away.  The ony thing in the world at that moment was my children in my arms for the first time. 

The trees could have been whispering on that mountain, knowing that I promise to return.

My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland: In the Mountains With Chickens

I had been writing about my older daughter's first trip to Poland when she was 3 years old in a sequential order but have decided at this point to just write about it as the memories come back to me.

We are in the mountains of Poland visiting my Wujek's property.  My Wujek, Ciocia, my middle cousin with her husband and two children, youngest cousin and her boyfriend, my Tato (Father), my daughter and myself have been spending the day enjoying the day.

All around, trees whisper in the breezes and in the meadow, the grasses bend their stalks gently rippling in the summer air. 

The slopes are calling us all quietly.  It's time for a spacer (pronounced Spah-tser, and meaning walk in Polish).

My Ciocia, middle cousin, her daughters, one wrapped in a baby wearing wrap safely snuggled against Mama and the other holding my daughter's hand, and myself all start the walk up the road.  The road is gravel covered and winding up the mountain.

We pass an old stone structure.  It is a Kiln from ages ago used by the villagers further down the slopes.  There is finally a plaque in Polish about it's history.  My borrowed camera batteries fail as I attempt to take photos.

Walking on, we are embraced by shadows.  The hazelnut and pine trees whisper to each other about the people walking in their midst.  I tell my daughter to keep her eye out for Krasnolutki and other fairy folk that live in these ancient woods.  Her eyes flit left and right in excitement, hoping to find some.

The girls chatter together, one in English, the other in Polish, as they have since they met each other, the adults walking together and just enjoying each other's company and laughing that the girls can communicate together since neither speaks the others language.

The true test of this will come soon, we are to find out.

After a short walk, both start getting tired but more so my daughter.  She is very used to long nature walks but the 6 hour time difference is affecting her energy constantly.  We turn around to walk back down the mountain.

A bit down the trail, coming out from the cool summer shadows, the girls look down the road and see chickens from the house next door walking around as is common.  They both begin to run.  And keep running.

I start yelling to my daughter, "Stop running!  Slow down!" but she keeps running.  I start to run after her but my pregnant belly moves strangely from the motion, uncomfortably, something hard bouncing around inside and I stop running immediately.  I call again, "Stop running!"  The girls keep running.

Further down the road, brown and white chickens roam freely, chasing bugs in the sunlight without a care in the world.  They look as though from the many bajki I read as a child and the folk art drawings my mother always treasured.
"Chickens!  Get out of there!  Come on (cousin), we have to stop them!" my daughter calls.

My daughter's cousin calls the same words, in Polish.

Running.  Running.  We start walking quickly behind, by now all of us calling for them to stop.  I start envisioning chickens attacking my daughter.  Not that chickens are mean, but provoked who knows how they could react to two small running assailants like our children.

Both Dziadeks to the girls, my father and Wujek, come running out onto the road, looking around and finding the girls.  They are quickly snatched up and lectured on running away from their mommies and asked why they did so.

A moment later, both "Dziadek"s are laughing loudly.  Even though the girls don't speak the same language, their stories completely match up.  They were trying to stop the naughty chickens from going into my Wujek's yard.  For the next few minutes, the girls are treated to hugs and kisses from the adults and we all discuss how amazing children are to not speak the same language yet be able to think along the same paths and communicate so well.

My Wujek then tells of the time he battled the rooster next door.  While I love chickens, he does not.  But then, he was awoken by this rooster for several years and it regularly enjoyed patrolling his yard and causing more grief than a rooster has the right to cause.

The two girls walk over to the overgrown fence and yell at the chickens for trying to enter my Wujek's yard, both in English and Polish.  The chickens argue back.  Both girls flap their arms like chickens and attempt to speak in "Chicken" to them and an argument between the chickens and the two girls occurs.  The girls end with a well timed "Buck buck!" and walk away, satisfied that they had lectured the chickens about trespassing into this yard.

The girls run around trees bordering the meadow, chasing each other and pretending to be wood fairies.  And the mountains look on in their ancient wisdom at us.


Related Post:  My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland:  Coming to Poland

A Children's Rhyme in Polish About a Miscu

I remember singing this with my mother and brother while holding her hand.  The pavement curves in front of us, leading toward my elementary school.  Birds sing and the air is cool.

"Jedziemy na wycieczkę,
bierzemy misia w teczkę.
A misiu - jak to misiu,
do teczki zrobił si-siu.

A teczka była chora,
więc poszła do doktora.
A doktor był pijany,
przykleił się do ściany.

A ściana była mokra,
przykleił się do okna.
A okno było duże,
wyleciał na podwórze.

Znalazły go tam dzieci,
wrzuciły go do śmieci.
A w śmieciach były szczury,
wygryzły mu pazury.

I doktor wreszcie wrócił,
na podłogę się rzucił.
A teczka boląc noga,
poszła do psychologa.

A doktor myśląc może,
chorobę przyniósł w worze.
A teczka nic nie wiedząc,
z doktorem siedząc...

Misiek strasznie pierdzi,
i mówię że to śmierdzi.
Więc przynieś butlę z tlenem,
wieczorem i też ranem.

My brother and I would giggle everytime.

Translation without rhyming:

"We’re going on a tour (trip),
We’re taking Teddy Bear in the suitcase/basket
But Teddy Bear like a Teddy Bear,
In the Suitcase/basket made pee-pee (cue children’s crazy giggling)

The Suitcase/Basket was sick,
So it was taken to the doctor.
The Doctor was drunk,
Glued her (the suitcase/basket) to the wall. (Again, the giggling)

But the wall was wet,
So he (that crazy drunk Doctor) glued her (the suitcase/basket) to the window.
But the window was big,
So he (drunk Doctor) threw her (the suitcase/basket) outdoors/into the yard.

She (the suitcase/basket) was found by children,
Returned her (the poor peed on and sick suitcase/basket) to the trash.
And in the trashcan were rats,
They bit his (the suitcase/basket is apparently a boy now, I don’t know, just keep reading) claws.

And the Doctor finally returned,
On the floor he threw her (the suitcase/basket is back to being feminine now).
The suitcase/basket’s foot hurt,
So she (the suitcase/basket) went to a psychologist.

The doctor thought that maybe,
The sickness he carried in a cloth sack (I’m lost at this point).
But the suitcase/basket knowing nothing,
Is sitting with the Doctor….

The Teddy Bear terribly farts,
And says that this stinks.
So bring a bottle of Oxygen,
For the evening and also morning."
I hope you enjoyed that.  Na razie...

After Chernobyl

It has been 25 years since the Chernobyl disaster in Ukraine, to the day. 

25 years ago, Ukraine, like Poland and other countries, was part of the USSR for 40 years already.  The details of that, I won't get into.  That is a discussion for another day and could be talked about for an entire lifetime without many changing their perspectives and grasping one another's feelings on the subject.

Instead, I will share with you my personal experiences regarding Chernobyl.

We had been in the USA for almost 4 years at this time.  My little brother was about 3 years old.  He is American born.  At this time, I was almost 6 years old.  Not yet in school.

My parents started saying words over and over which meant nothing to my young mind.  "Chernobyl", "Nuklearny", "Energia jadrowa".  And words I knew.  "Ukraine", "Sovieci", "Murderstwo", "Makabra", "Boga".

My mother was crossing herself and crying.  My father was smoking more cigarettes (outside, never inside around us children and always thinking we never saw it) than usual.  My parents were whispering a lot and glancing at us children playing and walking into another room to talk.

Phone calls to Poland were made.  I would hate to imagine how expensive that phone bill was for them, since I knew they easily paid $100 for a half hour phone call at the time.

The news was on a lot.

It was as though the air was electric.  Something was going on but I didn't know what.  I asked but my parents answered me the way they did when I asked about our leaving Poland.  "One day when you are older and can understand and not be angry or blame anyone, I will tell you."

They never explained it to me.  I was never told by my parents about the Chernobyl disaster.  Instead, I learned about it in passing in school and the subject called to me.  I learned about it on my own.

I learned that the sarcophagus now containing the radiation at Chernobyl has an expected lifetime of 30 years and that a newer, more long term solution should have started being created 25 years ago in order to meet the deadline.  I learned that as of yet, funds are still being raised for it.  I can't blame Ukraine.  But that is another discussion about a country's economic aftereffects from being under the USSR for so many years.

When the Japanese nuclear disaster occurred recently, my Ciocia revealed to me a bit about how my family was affected by Chernobyl.

She said thoughts that truly struck home with me.  "People would go outside and not be able to catch their breathe.  Some people got throat cancer suddenly.  Skin cancer.  Other cancers.  Teeth started suddenly falling out of the mouths of healthy people.  Hair fell out for some.  Old people got sick.  Children got thyroid cancer.  Babies bron a few months later, some weren't lucky.  Maybe it wasn't from Chernobyl but it was a terrible coincidence."

I didn't know what she meant at first, but learned later that there were some cases of elevated levels of Downs Syndrome and Neural Tube Defects, etc. in certain areas of population.  Of course, that made sense to me since fetuses are so vulnerable during pregnancy.

My Ciocia was not the first or the last to say such words.  But to hear a very intelligent woman who I respect highly and who I know is not a sensationalist or prone to hysteria in any way, that is what hits home.

I hope the world does not face such a disaster again.  But while hoping against such an event, the only solution I can ever think of is to say "No" to Nuclear power.  Yet, who am I?  I am no government official, I am not a rich company or investor.  I am nobody who can make a difference. 

So, all I can do is pray to God...