Daytrippin to Zator (a family post, gather the kids, they'll want to see this)!

There are probably several very lovely reasons to visit the city of Zator, Poland. I don't know what they are, there's something about Carp in there (the fish), a family connection of some sort I think, and I'm sure others exist. But in our family, our house, our hearts, there is only one *real* reason to ever visit Zator...

Dinozatorland.

A land so wondrous, so miraculous, so amazingly awesome, that words cannot do it justice. I must show you.




 If you've ever wanted to compare your children to life-like dinosaur eggs...





...have them ride a T-rex (who wouldnt?)...





...have them squeal in delight (at all the other stuff besides dinosaurs)...





...and have them scared out of their gourd at 18 months...




...or at 2.5 years...



... then Dinozatorland is clearly the place for you.



P.S. No children, born or unborn, were hurt in the making of these films.
P.P.S. Did YOU know that you can no longer Embed videos drectly from Youtube on Blogger when you switch to the new editor? Hmm, did you? Well you do NOW! And so do I...

June 25, 2005 : Reflections on a sound bite.

So, today, June 25th, is Martin and mine's (what is the proper way to write that? very awkward.) wedding anniversary. (woohoo! kick your knees up step in time, kick your knees up step in time... ) This day always seems more special to me than any other personal day. It outshines even mother's day, (which has an entire meaning based around my life's adventure --- wiping noses and bums), and I look forward to it even more than my own birthday (which is always the best excuse to buy something ridiculous like new cowboy boots... mmm... new cowboy boots...). I think it's because it is so much more than one day, and Martin and I can celebrate it together as something special, just for us. It's nice. It's a good day.

On the very first night I was married, three or so hours after the ceremony, well into our reception, Martin and I were shaking hands and accepting "congratulations" and thanking people for coming to celebrate with us. Many people made gracious comments, such as, "It was the most beautiful wedding I have ever seen," and " you guys just look so happy, congratulations," really wonderful and warm and just all around joyful. Good stuff, you know? But then there was one comment that snuck (how do you spell snuck? or is it snook? is there even a real word like that... figure it out spell checker!) its way in , and has never left. A comment that stood out amongst all the others, and not necessarily in a good way....

As Martin and I were smiling and shaking hands and engaging in polite conversation, a woman, who shall remain nameless (and who was not a part of the family... you know, just so you know it wasn't an evil mother-in-law lurking about, I have a lovely mother-in-law and, as far, as I know, she's not a lurker), pulled me aside a bit and said this exact phrase...

"I hope you appreciate all he has given up for you."

Egads people. Egads.

Now, before all you loyal fans of me ( Olivia), and my life and my feelings, and my WEDDING DAY ( my wedding day!!!!) jump up and pretend- punch this person or throw some unseemly string of words at her through the screen while you picture me standing in the background weeping, please take a deep breath and try to control yourselves. I did. And that is why she is still alive and I am not in jail at the moment (although I know if I had a sympathetic judge I could totally get time off for temporary insanity).

(This is the point where i am supposed to throw in that MARTIN (who was not there for the comment) swears that of course she didn't mean it the way it sounded... There, I said it. That's all you're gettin' buddy.)

Didn't mean it the way it sounded? Are you crazy? I don't give a flyin' flip about the way it sounded. To me it sounded like exactly what she said, I mean maybe that's just me, after all I did just get married, perhaps the happiest day of your life to that point ALSO comes with some sort of temporary hearing loss. NOT (a blast from the past, but still rather pertinent in today's vernacular climate)!

Of course, I knew instantly what she was referring to. All of you who have read a handful of posts on this here blog know what she was referring to... Martin is in denial, that's fine, he's entitled now and again... But I knew what she meant then, and now. I stuttered out something sort of awkward and polite like, "uh, yes, yes, of course I do." I was so taken aback that I really couldn't think of anything clever like, "uh, yeah, well, why don't you and I sit down and have a little chat about all *I've* given up for Him." (dudes, I would totally never do that for real, even if I had thought it, that would be rude... but I *could* have, dang it!) Or something like, "hey lady, it's my WEDDING DAY, back up, regroup, and try again." (again, I would never do this, but I know Melissa McCrary (nee Barrett) would...Melissa, at the renewal of our wedding vows you are *so* being my bouncer... )

But really folks, when it comes down to it. Who cares? That was six years ago. Why dwell on it? Sure, it was my wedding day. One of the happiest days of my life. A day that has led to 6 whole years of me being married to my best friend, my "better half", the guy who hides Dr. Pepper's in the back of the fridge when I give them up for Lent so that he can surprise me with it on Easter morning and realizes that when morning sickness is really bad that instead of waiting until Easter he goes and gets it and surprises me with it on a random Tuesday, in the middle of Lent, because he loves me that much (and does so because he knows that it is a proven combatant to my morning sickness... NOT because he wants to lead me into sin...)

So, yeah, I don't know why she said it. Maybe she just wanted me to realize what a great guy I had. Maybe she said it because she thought I wasn't good enough for him. (Martin in the background, "that would be impossible!" Isn't he sweet?)

Perhaps she said it because she thought I should live the rest of my life thanking God for bringing this amazingly wonderful, selfless man into my life who, despite all my failings and shortcomings, still wanted to marry me, 6 years ago today. If *that's* why she said it, then gosh darn it. She was right.


P.S. ON. MY. WEDDING DAY!

Date Night, Part 2 : Uncle Freddie to the rescue

These last couple of weeks have been...well, um..."difficult*."
The kids have been, for lack of a better word, "challenging**."
Everyone has been "under the weather***." (again)
And the weather has been... "hot****."

* pushing the limits of all my patience and goodwill
** trying to drive me insane, one sleepless night and screaming tantrum at a time
*** coughing like their next breathe will be their last, as their sinuses relieve themselves all over my new shirt
**** like living in the depths of hell (except not Dante's version, because at this point I might welcome anyone fanning me with their wings, no matter how evil)


So, you know, it's been a little rough.

The perfect cure for these kinds of days, weeks, months... is "date night!" (I hate the term "date night." Why do we have to have a cutesy word for a married couple going out together without kids? I also don't like "play date." But this is the accepted nomenclature of our times....)

Of course the first obstacle to "date night" is finding a babysitter. Martin and I are lucky to live in the same city as both our sets of parents. This means, potentially, 4 other adults who are capable of caring for our children. Grandmothers are great at babysitting, especially if one of the kids wakes up because then the kid immediately thinks it has died and gone to heaven. Grandma has replaced mommy and daddy? Score! Where's the chocolate? But around these parts, Grandmas are not always available on short notice. I know, I know, they should be at home, ready to jump at our every beck and call but alas, neither of our mother's got this all important memo in their grandmother packet. So, what do we do?

Well, there's always a stranger. Martin has an aversion to this option for all of the obvious reasons, you know, strangers, in our house, with our kids. At the same time, we both see it as a waste of time to meet and interview any local teens who have email addresses that begin with toocute4you or localhottie13 (which I really hope is just an arbitrary number and not her age, God help us). These girls leave fliers on our door occasionally...we never quite "connect."

I bet now you're wondering how it is that we get out of the house? How do we find the time for Martin to teach me to drive his car, or drink beer, or play darts? Well, wonder no longer my friend. We have another option. An option that is fail proof, an option that is trustworthy, an option that leaves us with such peace of mind that we don't even have to call home to "check up on things." That's how *awesome* this option is. This option's name: Uncle Freddie.

Uncle Freddie. Our children's beloved uncle. Felek's godfather. My younger, and much wiser, brother. On a weeknight, I can call him at the last minute and he'll "be right over." On the weekend, if I call in advance a couple days, he's "more than happy to come over for a bit." He doesn't require payment aside from the occasional home-cooked meal (and a 20 dollar bill I slip in his pocket), and He loves my kids, doesn't drink *all* our beer, and his email address begins with "fpdanze"... that's it! Don't you wish *you* had an uncle Freddie?

On the night in question, Uncle Freddie was indeed babysitting our children. He came promptly at 7:30. We left by 8, drove around, played some darts, and came home. Now, before we left we gave Fred some instructions, as we always do with babysitters. We told him about Hejjo's possible nosebleeds and what to do about it. We told him that Kacio might wake up but that he'll go right back to sleep after a couple minutes of fussing, and that Lina might want a sip of water and she has a cup by her bed. ( "little surprises around every corner... but nothing dangerous...don't be alarmed")

Well, 11pm rolled by, we walk in the door, and it. was. a. madhouse. Hejjo is standing over the sink with blood pouring out his nose, Lina is yelling for Taggie (the tag on her blanket which is in her lap but Fred didn't know that and had spent the last 20 min. looking for something he thought she was saying in Polish and had no idea what it was), and Kacio is screaming in his crib. I think Felek was still sleeping. And there, in the middle of it all, stood Uncle Fred, with a big smile on his face, and a little laugh in his voice. "What happened Fred?," I asked. Fred responds, "nothing really, Lina woke up asking about Tah-gee, or something like that. It woke Hejjo up and he tried to tell me what it was, but couldn't quite tell me clearly, then his nose started to bleed, and Lina's screaming woke up Kacio. I haven't gone to him yet, he's still crying. No big deal."

LOVE. IT. Awesome. Best babysitter EVER. I only wish he would take me up on my offer to have him accompany us to Poland. I have a feeling we are going to need A LOT of "date night's" and I could certainly use an Uncle Freddie. ;)

We love you Fred!

Date Night, Part 1b: Life partners teaching life skills

Quick story: Every once in a while Martin and I will get a gift certificate to Whole Foods from one of my generous Aunts. I love Whole Foods, but I don't love their prices. So Gift Certificates are always lovely (ahem). So, one time, Martin and I decided to browse through the pastry section, take a stroll down their mini cold "beer barn" (do you know what I'm talking about? it's awesome right?) and treat ourselves to a luxurious, close to $6, fruit smoothie. I got the most innocuous one they offered, banana and strawberry, so as not to spend our precious free money on something that I might not like. (I may be boring, but I am thrifty and rarely disappointed) And Martin, well Martin likes to live on the wild side and got something with Acai Berries in it, whatever that is. We are standing and waiting on our smoothies, and we notice that another young couple is doing precisely the same thing. Standing and waiting. Funnily enough, our smoothies and theirs were done at the same time. And, funnily enough, the other couple had ordered the exact same smoothies as us(There are at least 15 different combos, so this is not such a small coincidence). It just so happens that the woman and Martin ordered the same weird Acai drink and the man and I both ordered the normal flavored one. At almost the exact same moment we all realize the sort of co-winky-dink nature of this and mumble pleasantries like "great minds think alike" or something to that effect, EXCEPT for the other man. Do you know what he said? Man, talk about awkward, foot-in-mouth moments. He turns to me, in a fake private moment type manner and says...he says..."Looks like we married the wrong people, hehehe." Wow, that guy. Wow. You think that's one of the moments in his life he will always remember, that he was the one who said something so awkward to perfect strangers? Well, if he ever happens to read this... -don't worry about it dude, we still get a good laugh at your expense, you will always have a special place in our hearts... although you might want to talk to your wife about where you stand in hers.

Oh, standing in people's hearts and where you do. I love my husband. I really do. He is an incredibly intelligent, bright, practical person (and caring and sensitive and all that other stuff, but that's not pertinent here). He knows at least 3 languages fluently, can play the guitar fairly well, play a great game of soccer, do math, and is quite the writer. He is a renaissance man, he truly is....sigh.

And me. Well, let's see here...

I am practical, most of the time. I can speak one language fluently! and two others well enough to ask for the bathroom and a taxi... so there's that.
I played the piano for a bit, I know where to find the key called the "middle C." That's good, that's good.
I played the clarinet for a couple years, I'm proud to say I haven't lost it...it's still in my closet, yes, yes, good....
I can kick a mean soccer ball, field a grounder, and at one point I knew a cheer or two, that's alright... for a girl...
The last math I understood didn't involve numbers or require pencils and I made a C+, so I passed, yes, mmhmm, good...
I write this blog which ebbs and flows, ok, decent, good...
Are you done? Yeah, I'm done.

Martin does everything he knows how to do, really well. Generally, this doesn't bug me. I don't care that I can't read music, carry a tune or play an instrument. And I don't care that I can't do any math above a 1oth grade level. BUT, when it comes to skills that I *have* to know, and don't...this is where things get shady.

I know I have to learn a new language, learn to drive a standard (just in case) and a whole mess of other things, like knowing kilos, and celsius, and military time and what not. I know I do. And I will. I'm already starting. That's not really the problem. The problem is, that my spouse, whom I love and admire, already knows all of these life skills, and *he* is the one teaching me.

Have YOU ever had to have YOUR spouse teach you, what I would consider, "life skills?" Like, as in, things you *must* know? How does that make you feel? Does it make you feel excited? Does it make you feel lucky to have the teacher living right in your own home? Does it make you feel like you have won the lottery to have this "life guru" right there from which to glean wisdom and knowledge?

Nope, it sure doesn't. At least not for me. It should. And yeah, I feel guilty about that. But, I can't be excited or happy about it. I can do it, and be ok with it. That's what I can do.

It's no fun to have the person that is supposed to be your teammate in the game of life teaching you things, and watching you flounder through them. Stalling cars, and using the wrong verb tense, and adding 64 and 32 incorrectly. It's embarrassing, and condescending (he's not condescending, but it feels like it) and , and, well... humbling. Grumbling.

And generally speaking, it makes me feel like this...



I don't know.

In a nutshell... It's like having to learn to speak, recognize numbers, and walk upright all over again, and being taught by the one person you want sitting next to you in class, not up at the front writing stuff on the chalkboard.

Does that make sense?

Sigh...

Naw, naw, it's cool... But I promise, if he figures out a way to give birth, I am NOT learning how to drive a stick shift. So THERE!

Prayers for Texas

I had a couple other posts that I was working on for today and tomorrow, but I Have to post this first. It's that important.

I know that there are many things in this world for which we pray. People suffering from illness, child abuse, hunger, homelessness, personal intentions. At our house we have a running list of names that we mention in prayer every night. The Divine mercy Chaplet is our personal go-to meditation for families and individuals in need.

Today, the children and I are going to be saying our Chaplet for Texas. For rain. For calming of the hot winds that fuel the wild fires, and a little relief from the 100+ temperatures that are refusing to leave.

It's gettin' a bit scary folks. I'm not gonna lie.

So, if you have the time today, please join our family and pray the Divine mercy Chaplet, or a Rosary, or you know, if you are pressed for time, just a simple Our Father or Hail Mary. And if you're not the praying type, how about just throwing up a special thought for Texas.

In all things, may His will be done.

Nuts and Bolts: Passports

"Wheel-spinning." I think we all know what that is. For those of you who don't, perhaps the Polish contingent out there who may or may not be reading any of this dribble, ... "wheel-spinning" is when you work really really hard at something and get nowhere. Think cartoon characters running really fast, in place...Velma, from Scooby-do, that sort of thing.

Some examples to help illustrate: When you take all four kids to Target by yourself, get the cart loaded up, managing to not break anything or lose anyone, and then realize that you left your wallet at home. Shining your kitchen floor til you can see your face in it, and then have your 2 year old walk in and throw up all over it, five minutes later. And Lastly, getting all the paperwork together to go to the Post Office to get passports for the children, pictures, forms, waivers, copies of driver's licenses, birth certificates, all 4 children, 2 of which are sick with fever, only to find that you need TWO of one of the forms and your efforts are in vain.

Ah, wheel-spinning, the arch nemesis of the multi-tasking housewife.

So, in an effort to aid you in YOUR progress, moving forward, I wanted to include a list of DO's and Dont's on getting passports for children. I have done this 3 times (not counting today), and despite my inability to close the deal first time around, I consider myself somewhat of an expert.

Do's

1. ...Make an APPOINTMENT 3 months ahead of time. You have to make an appt. I like to allow two months for the Passport to get here, just in case. And you don't want to have to cancel plane tickets because you didn't get it in time. Also, there can be a really long wait for an appt. So do it way in advance.

2. ... have the ORIGINAL COPY of the LONG FORM of their birth certificate*. This is different from the little official one to get into schools and what not. You have to have the LONG FORM, ask for it specifically at the Vital Statistics Bureau. Costs the same.

3. ... have the SIGNED AND NOTARIZED copy of the spousal consent* form. This is a yellow and white form that says that your spouse consents to you getting this Passport. You must have 1 form per child, even if they have the same dad and you are there, gettign two passports at the same time. 1 copy for each child. (if you and your spouse are both there, you don't need this)

4. ... have a copy of the FRONT and BACK of the missing spouse's drivers license or other valid photo I.D. It says this in the fine print on the yellow form but no one actually tells you this so here it is. You're welcome.

5. ... have passport pictures BEFORE HAND. I realize that the Post Office provides this service for a minimal fee but it is way easier to go to Walgreens on a lazy afternoon and get the photos taken without a line of people waiting on you and your (possibly disgruntled) children to stand still and smile for pictures, taken by the Postal Worker who apparently has never seen a (possibly disgruntled) child, and can't understand why they don't just listen when you tell them to stand still. I don't know dude, I don't design them, I just birth them.

6. ... have your CHECKBOOK (ga goin' bAck in TIme...) The Department of State does not take credit or cash. It's around $80 to them and $25 to the Post Office, per Passport. Bring the monies.

7. ... have the Passport Application* filled out IN ADVANCE. This may seem obvious but I've seen people show up with everything else and then want to fill the form out there while they wait, and then realize they don't have their kid's social security number memorized, or what have you...very frustrating.

8. ... have the CHILD PRESENT who is applying for the Passport. They won't give it to you unless they can see that child's face. I guess they want proof, aside from the other 6,000 forms, that this person does in fact exist and that you're not just trying to smuggle large hams out of the country dressed in baby clothes...I don't know.

9. ... bring your OWN I.D. That seems obvious doesn't it? You just never know.

One big life-saving tip you won't want to miss:

(10.) ...If you do use the Post Office for photos ask them in advance if they do BABY PHOTOS. Mine doesn't. If you go someplace like Walgreens, bring a clean white shirt, lay it down on the counter of the photo area, lay the baby down, face up, and have the photographer stand over the child to take the pic. They will have a much easier time getting the child to look at the camera. Some places have other set-ups for babies, but I've had three done where they had no clue, and one where we figured out this little trick.

DON'T...

1. ... take any extra people with you, especially ones under the age of 5 who don't need to be there and sound like they are dying from Tuburculosis every time they cough. If you do have to bring others, bribe them with treats...

2. ... arrive 20 min. early because you think you'll be ahead of your game this way and want to make sure you aren't late. There is absolutely nothing to do at the Post Office for children under the age of 5. Nothing. You can only educate them about P.O. boxes and the "package door" and the hallmark cards for so long. And everyone will just stare and stare. Arriving 10 min. early allows you enough time to get the middle kids in the double stroller, the baby strapped to your chest and the 5 year old helping with all the doors. Or, you know, just the one kid in the stroller or strapped to your chest if you aren't an insane masochist like me.

3) ...tell the guy helping you that you speak, or that your children speak, Polish , or any other foreign language, unless you actually do. Because for whatever reason, there is sure to be someone standing right next to you that will lean over and test that fact. At the post office. On a Thursday morning. In the middle of "bubba-land" Texas. What....... the heck?

So, there you go. You are all set to have a peaceful, smooth experience when you go apply for a Passport for one of your children under the age of 16. Right?

That's right. Unless you're me, and you didn't know that you need a copy for each child of the notarized parental waiver form , only to find that you *don't* have everything so you have to come back *tomorrow* and do it all over again...that's right...

Unless you're ME, the QUEEN of "wheel-spinning"...you'll be, just fine.

* you can download, and print out, these forms online, but I like to get original colored copies from the post office so they are easier to spot in the paper shuffle.

Date Night, Part 1a: Learning to drive and Harp Lager

Two questions:

1) Can you drive a stick shift?

2) Do you have a favorite "watering hole?"

The answer to question #1 is simply a yes or no answer. The answer for me is, "no." I can't. And apparently I *need* to be able to drive a standard when we move to Poland. (because my list of things I need to do before we leave apparently wasn't long or daunting enough already...)I haven't quite gotten a straight answer as to "why" yet. I mean, I've survived this long avoiding ever having to drive a stick shift. I think I can do it for another 30 years. I'd like to try. I've been asking Martin for, let's see, about 15 years now to teach me. We just never really have the chance to spend quality time doing it and neither of us want to go to the trouble to get a babysitter just to spend that precious time ruining the transmission on his car.

side note: Martin has a car. A whole car. An ENTIRE CAR, that I can't drive. Can you believe that? What family owns an entire vehicle that half the licensed drivers in the home can't drive? Ridiculous, I say! (ridiculous NOT because I don't know to drive it, but because he bought the dang thing in the first place, knowing full well that I couldn't...I sense an ulterior motive here...) end side note.

So, Saturday night, we took some time to ourselves, planned a "date night" and Martin surprised me with a little impromptu driving lesson. It was sweet at first, it felt a little like high school when he would let me try to drive his Tercel around the block and I would run over curbs and barely miss small animals and we would just laugh and laugh...yeah... that was nice...sigh...and then 2 min. later, when I stalled the car with a rather loud grinding shuddering noise, just as a woman and her dog were walking by, the nostalgia ended. Let's just chalk this up to another experience that just isn't as fun now as it was when you were fifteen. Like rollerblading, or seeing how many warheads you can eat at one time, or, you know, just about everything you thought was fun when you were fifteen.

I promptly exited the car and hung up my driving hat. Martin accused me of being embarrassed in front of the lady walking by. To show him that I was indeed embarrassed and not ashamed of it, I yelled out the window real loud to make sure she could hear, "Well, it *is* embarrassing to not be able to drive a stick shift at the age of 30!" I do these sorts of things. These are the sort of things I do. And yet, I found someone who was willing to marry me. There is someone out there for everyone, folks.

(this chick is obviously on some sort of drug.)


So, we will leave the driving to another day. Perhaps when the lure of fresh beer being drunk in a place not my living room in clothes that are not my pajamas is not so palpable. Clock is ticking my friends, clock is ticking... babies will wake.

Answer to #2: We don't. Not really. We did, but it got shut down. The rent was being raised, and of course the only type of place Martin and I would consider to be our "favorite bar" wasn't really a place many other people called their "favorite bar" so it couldn't pay the rent. This place had Pinball machines, darts, Foosball, pool tables, a *real* jukebox, a wood burning stove in the middle of the room (and it was lit in the winter) with a rocking chair in front of it and, of course, Big Buck Hunter. Many pitchers of beer and games of cricket were played there. But it's gone now. It's been replaced by a place called "The Local Pub and Patio." Oh irony of ironies.

BUT...we happened into a place that we had been before once, in college, that I thought we should try again. We walked in, realized we were the youngest ones there, and felt right at home. Darts, a pool table, and Soccer playing on the only T.V. in the place. I lost two games of darts, and had two pints of Harp Lager. Awesome.

(and you thought it was going to be a picture of beer... )


P.S. I misspelled the word embarrassing every time I typed it in this post. I don't apologize for that, nor am I ashamed. It is stupidly spelled. It does not need the extra "r" or the extra "s." And that's how I feel about that.

Oh, those silly Russians

One of the perks of being married to a man of European birth, is that he reads a lot of foreign publications, primarily Polish. The Polish newspapers tend to include a lot more news of other countries and situations around the world than our hometown newspaper here in Texas. I learn a lot from Martin and www.Gazeta.pl. One section of Gazeta is called "Deser" which is pretty much a cognate meaning, you guessed it, "dessert." A section devoted to "fun and gossip." I generally don't go in for international "fun and gossip" but last week there was something in there that I knew I just had to share with all of you. How else would you find it? How else would you know it exists? How else would you have these images burned in your mind to disturb you forever, just as they have done for me?

So I have taken it upon myself to introduce you to the newest fad in Russian wedding Photography:


Roslanie kochaja Photoshopa. Bez wzajemnosci [ZDJECIA SLUBNE] (accents missing)

(translation, more or less: Russians love photoshop but the feeling isn't mutual. [Wedding Photos] )




"No, no, stop running away,you sit right there and hand me the arrows when I need them. That's a good husband."



"Oh Look Honey, Hurrah, I caught a frog! Come stand awkwardly on these rocks and maybe you can catch one too!"

"I'm on my way!" "Hurrah!"



If you look real close you can even see their shadow on the cliffs below. No detail was spared...they paid extra.



As a member of local law enforcement, he's not above the law...he's bigger than the law.



"My dad said you were a good catch and to not let you get away. He was right. You're never getting away. Never. "




Taking the phrase, "sweeping her off her feet," a little too literally. Although I have to say they did a good job with the bodies in this one. She really looks like she is being carried. She really, really does.



No matter what happens in life. Job, kids, sporting events, his wife will clearly never play second fiddle. She *is* the fiddle.




I don't know what happened here. But I don't want you to miss the gun and roses (and harpoon?) and remember, that this woman, chained to the wall, is, in fact, supposed to be, his new wife.

P.S. This post dedicated to my friend Eric Kotara. A wedding Photographer. I DARE YOU to do anything this awesome.

Let's talk bloki.

Bloki (pronounced: BLOH- key)



When you visit Krakow for the first time, perhaps to bring me cases of Dr. Pepper, or simply to stay in my awesome fancy guest suite in my house on the hill, you will marvel at the beauty around you. I promise you will. Poland is beautiful, especially in the spring and summer (the only two seasons I've seen it in, I can't vouch for the other two, but I'm sure they're lovely). The trees are lush and green, the lakes and rivers full to the brim. Flowers are everywhere, on every window sill and in every garden. The air is crisp, rarely too hot in the summer, cold in the winter, but bearable with the right clothing, (or so I'm told...this may be a lie, I'll let you know). There are happy people filling the highly efficient public transportation, coming and going, shopping and working, pleasant folk, quick to comment on the loveliness of your child and offer you a seat when you're 6 months pregnant. The buildings, especially downtown, are amazing. Dating right back to medieval times, original architecture with it's moldings and cornices and columns and all those other fancy architecture words, are on every corner. It really is beautiful.

And then there are bloki. Which are, to be completely honest, hideously ugly. And always sort of remind me of that song from Sesame Street... "one of these things just doesn't belong here..."

Pretty


Ugly


Pretty



Ugly

Pretty.
(Oh wait, the last picture is the inside of the fancy McDonald's down the street from where we hope to live...how did that get in there? How Embarrassing...

...look how fancy it is!)

See what I mean?

I think the first thing Martin did when I visited Poland back in 1999 was apologize for the bloki. He hates them with a passion. There are a few reasons. Not the least of which is that they are relics of a communist regime (which moved in after the Nazi's destroyed everything) that just refused to build anything beautiful for the people they forced themselves upon, and therefore, built these horribly ugly structures to house them all when they decided to push industrialization on a city that was primarily rural at the time. That's one reason. Another is, well, they're ugly. They are incredibly unimaginative structures, built straight up in a perfect rectangle. Small windows, small balconies, and all the color of dirty socks.And they are hard to miss. If you drive along any street in Krakow (and many other Polish cities) long enough, you are sure to see a few, rising out of the distance, looming in the background, gray and ominous. Reminding everyone that the communists had been there and this what they have left behind. (which in and of itself might be a good thing if we want to keep history from repeating itself...)

Of course, my first question to Martin after he goes off on how ugly and horrible they are, is "why don't they just tear them down." And, his answer, being the more practical of the two of us, was something boring and insignificant like, "there are people living in them." Ok, so not as easy as just tearing them down. Where would the people go while they rebuild? Who would pay to rebuild? What other, more beautiful structure could fit and house the same amount of people in such a small footprint, etc. etc.?

But Hark! Perhaps there is a light at the end of this tacky tunnel!

I received an email yesterday from Martin with this title... "there's hope." ( I was expecting a list of all the things he was going to do so that we could be independently wealthy overnight and he could stay home and help me with the kids...that's not what it said, but it could...some day...) Inside the email was a link to a story (this article is written in Polish but it's where I got the pics. below and wanted to share for any of those who actually speak the language...I have no idea what it says myself) about a man who has taken it upon himself t transform just such structures, in Germany...

Before


After

Before
After


Before and After


Now, I have a couple questions:

1. Why does Martin have time at his new and important job to find such articles, read them, and send them to me?

2. Why do these buildings, in all their newness, have to resemble the children's section of IKEA?

Whatever. They do look better. And less like 2x6 giant grey Lego's sticking out of the ground. So, it's a start. And you know the best part? For real? It makes Martin so happy. He loves his city. He hates what the Communists left behind, and I know that just the possibility of little things like this make his heart lighter, and his eagerness to live there and be happy there, a little more sweet.

Just a twinkle* in my eye

While all the children were taking a nap, (Yes, you read that right...ALL THE CHILDREN...AT THE SAME TIME!!!!), I was uploading some photos to Facebook of some recent crafts I had completed (And it reminded me of something...).

The hat Felix asked me to make that Hejjo used to sop up spilled glue two days after it's inaugural wear. Sigh.
Lina's Easter dress. A little sewing, a little Spray Adhesive, and a lot of prayer.

Used to be a king sized sheet. $.95 and some thread and elastic and it became my Easter skirt. It'll do (and no, I didn't have to use the *whole* sheet).

A cloth diaper soaker and matching hat for Kacio. He wore this a lot, and pooped on it every time...which means he likes it, obviously.


Now, before anyone starts thinking that I have any REAL talent, well... stop thinking that...because I don't. I have enough skill to run a straight seam and a zig- zag stitch to make simple skirts for a 2 year old and washcloths for babies bums. That's the extent of my talent with sewing. If I were forced to provide clothing for my children in the winter because we could only afford yarn (which is absurd, yarn is so expensive these days) and some knitting needles (see previous parenthesized comment) then their heads would stay warm and their bodies, well, their bodies would have to make due with being wrapped up like a spool in a really really long scarf, or a tube like structure, with arm and leg holes (if they're lucky), because that's about the extent of my prowess with knitting. None of my creations come with functional buttons or zippers (I have been known to glue buttons to Velcro to make it *look* like it works). Elastic and I have a very flexible relationship and me and Velcro,well, there's no separating us. (Awesome sauce.) BUT...

...that doesn't mean that I don't love it all very much. I do. I love it all very much. I love fabric stores, even the really cruddy ones that only carry curtain fabric (boring), and the really expensive ones that carry patterns that are so unique and beautiful that I could never do them justice (expensive!!!). I love yarn stores. The beautiful balls of color all nestled together just sitting there tempting you to squish them. And the wide array of knitting accessories that of course, you must have, "just in case." I have a lot, of both, yarn and fabric, and everything in between. I try really hard to use them but, more often than not, I fail at making something that can actually be used or cherished (who am I kidding, half the time I have to explain to Martin what it is I've actually made). But that's OK. I don't have to be good at it to love it ( Just ask my kids). ;)

So, I have a dream. A real one, not a fantasy one. Meaning I could totally see myself following this idea to fruition. A little while ago I shared a link to the cookie place in Krakow. And there is another place similar to this, it sells cupcakes. Both are prime examples of the phenomenon that is sweeping my home town of Austin at the moment. Taking simple foods, products, or what have you, and setting up little boutique type shops. Calling it "gourmet", or "one of a kind," or whatever will get people in the door. You give it a catchy name like "eat" (for a little hole in the wall diner), or "side of chopsticks" (Chinese wares with "to go" food if you're in the mood)...totally made these up, see I can do it too, they're not that clever. Anyway, little places like this where someone likes something, has an interest in something and starts a little business. They are not getting rich but they are getting by, and more importantly, they are enjoying themselves. So...

(at the risk of t being stolen!)

My idea. A little knitting and sewing shop. Called "knit and sew" (Oh, I forgot to mention that another prerequisite for one of these shops is that the name and sign have to be all lower case, type face letters. So it would literally look just like that..."knit and sew"). Just a shop that has lots of fun, new!, fabrics and beautiful, luxurious, yarns. It doesn't have to *have* everything. It doesn't have to *be* everything. It can host classes every once in a while and demonstrations. It can have meeting times for groups working on certain projects that want to share their work, etc. Whatever...the details will be hammered out later... but the idea is that it would be a little hole in the wall, warm and welcoming, that would cater to people like me. People who knit and sew and craft because they want to, because they enjoy it, because they can't help themselves, and NOT because they *have* to. It would be awesome. And it would be in Poland (preferably in one of the up and coming areas with young people and foreigners...like me...).

Poland would be perfect for something like this. It's not as trendy there to be able to knit and sew cute little baby clothes or fancy sweaters, or make your own handbags, etc. But I think it will be. Of course it will. The more free time and free money people have the more they turn towards these types of hobbies. And Poland is moving rapidly in that direction. Martin thinks that a lot of people there may not care about a shop like this because their mothers and grandmothers sew and knit and they could simply learn from them, do these things with them. But I don't think that's true. Martin isn't an expert on crafting in Poland (neither am I, for the record) but I don't see a lot of these skills being passed on, and I don't see any sewing or craft stores when we go visit (of course they have shops where you can buy notions and fabric, but I'm talking about the fun stuff, the exciting stuff, the beautiful stuff), never any of those places that call out to you to just jump in and visit and see what's going on...with a welcoming look and a warm interior and friendly people encouraging you to try something new...

Martin and I have talked about this more than once, seriously (we have also talked seriously about opening up a Texas themed bar, but that's another post altogether...ooh exciting!!!). And I strongly believe that if I wanted to, I could do it. I really could. It would take hard work and a lot of time (and some money, but that's just details ;) ) but I really think I could do it. Of course, there is not telling what the future holds, what we will encounter in Poland, what will happen with the kids, and school and all that. One thing at a time, blah, blah, blah... but wouldn't it be awesome? Really awesome?!!

I think it would.

The first weekend in June, we remember.

The first weekend in June, every year, we go to Big Hill.




It's not really a Hill. And there is nothing Big about it. It's a little country church. One room, once doubled as a school, and full of pews and old song books, hymnals, opened once a year, on the first weekend in June. It's at the heart of a story that explains a little about where I'm from, and how important it is to remember...


There once was a woman named Olevia Elizabeth. She married a man with Native American roots and gave birth to 7 children.

One of her children was Lessie Enolia. Lessie married a man with Scottish ancestors named Arthur Patterson, and he built her a house.





Lessie and Arthur had 4 children. One of them was named Dee Alva. Dee married Oliver McConnell, with an Irish past.






Dee and Oliver gave birth to 4 children.


One of them was named Sheri Lynn.
Sheri Lynn married Christopher Danze: half German, half Italian ancestors.






Chris built Sheri a house. And they had 5 kids.



One of them was named Olivia Mary.



Olivia Mary married Martin, who is 100% Polish.
Olivia and Martin have 4 children.
They are half Polish, half German/Italian/Scottish/Irish/Native American.



He will be building her a house, in Poland.


Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. ~ The Wonder Years (t.v. show)



P.S. This is the air conditioning at Big Hill. In June. In Texas. 'nuff said.