Family Post

As most everyone knows, I’m in the midst of doing family history work. As such, I have been looking up records, e-mailing and calling my momster, and recording all the information I can get my hands on. This project motivates me. I’m sticking with it and staying organized. Collecting all of these names and getting little glimpses, I find myself wanting to know more and more about these people.

The more I learn about them, the more I want to connect the names with something more tangible. So I think of new questions to ask my poor mother, and I write down little details from their lives as vignettes.   And to further bring these people’s stories out, to flesh out their very real quirks, dreams, tragedies, and triumphs I’m going to write out their stories and make some art projects.

My grandmother had precious few photos to pass down to her children. But she kept stories alive. And now I can paint those stories out as little narratives of my ancestors. I’m all giddy about it.

In the meantime, here’s a little video of the photos I had most readily available. Say hello to the family. This is for the two other musketeers in my life. Love ya!

Rodzina from Janel Macy on Vimeo.

Blueberries

While on the phone with Jon last night, I decided to eat some of the blueberries I’d bought earlier in the day. Oh the history there…

Both of my parents had relatives in rural parts of Poland. We happened to be visiting a segment of these people one summer, and while they didn’t specifically have the room for us, they made the best make-shift accommodations they could for us. As kids, my sister and I didn’t mind our sleeping arrangements at night, we could sleep anywhere. And our days were full of tromping around and taking things in, so what did we have to complain about?

We had plenty of land to run around on there. A short distance from the back door there was a forest, and it was full of ripe blueberries. The morning after we got there, my sister and I ran around with the our brand-new family-made friends picking berries– stuffing them in our pails and our faces. We came back worn-out and happy, and with purple fingers and loads of blueberries. We were so proud of our spoils.

The blueberries there are different (and vastly better, in my opinion) than the stuff you can get at the supermarket here. They are smaller and more concentrated in flavor. And what a perfect little berry–no pit in the center, with skin hardy enough not to bleed all over the picker as easily as a raspberry or blackberry (a couple of my other favorite berries to pick). Here I was, brand-new to these little lovelies, so as you can probably imagine, I went to town on those little pearls of perfection. I devoured them like my time was coming to a close. We ate them in pierogi, and then as an after-dessert, (because we begged) we were treated to fresh blueberries with sweet cream on top. (This was after eating handfuls of blueberries while out picking them.) I gorged myself on blueberries, I had no self-control when it came to those yummy spheres of tastiness. I was weak. And I paid for it.

I slept on top of a dresser that had a sleeping pad laid on on it. I went to “bed” just fine, and fell asleep quickly after a long and exhausting day of running around and stuffing myself. A few hours later, however, I woke up suddenly. I was half sitting up before I even realized I was awake. And then that sick feeling came over me. I barely got a quivering warning “Mom…” out before I was retching fountains of purple all over my sweet relatives home-made rug.

That’s where my memory ends. It ends with me feeling terribly sick and embarrassed for throwing up all over someones living room. I’m sure that the story ended with being taken care of and changed and watched over until I could sleep again. But that violent crescendo is what stuck in my memory. And that memory kept me far, far away from my once-beloved blueberries for over a decade. I couldn’t eat them in bagels, muffins, or pancakes, steered clear of blueberry jam, and wouldn’t touch stuff that was even blueberry flavored (like yogurt or cream cheese spread). It wasn’t until I was in college that I told myself to get over it, to remember how great they can taste. It took repeated attempts, but now I can happily munch on blueberries, in moderation, but I still can’t combine them with any kind of cream or yogurt. That’s a done deal.

Winter in Poland

When I was seven, my mom took my sister and I to Poland for the first time. We also bought winter coats for the first time, along with boots, mittens, and scarfs. That year, we spent our Christmas break there, plus a few days extra, so I remember having to pack up a few school books and worksheets along with the new clothes that I had never worn (and a my trusty Snoopy). As kids, this was only our second time ever on a plane. The first trip was a quick practice one: Houston to Corpus Christi and back. That was only 215 miles one way, and only about an hour in the air. Houston to Warsaw, Poland? 5,595 miles, which is about 11 hours in the air. However, that’s never a non-stop flight, so then you have to consider time spent running around in airports and waiting. . .

That being said, I was a little kid back then, and what did I know? First off, as a kid, I needed much less space. I remember being able to curl up on my side and comfortably fit in just the space of two seats. This was also back in the day when planes flew at only half-capacity so my sister and I would each take over a window row while my mom sat across the aisle in one of the center sections. I had my books and my Gameboy and I was content either reading, doodling, or gaming between naps or meals. Basically, the flight and travel was just another part of the adventure for me back then. At that point in time, even retrieving my luggage was fun. (Where I am in my life now, however, I look back and think of how brave my mom was to take us to Poland on her own. First of all, Poland was still under Communist rule at that point, and besides that, she was juggling two crazy kids around on an international trip. How she ever decided that she could do it is beyond me. But I am glad she did.)

Mom made sure that our mittens and extra jackets were packed in our carry-on bags, but even still, winter greeted us loud and clear. At the Warsaw airport, the planes stop a little way from the terminal so we had to walk down from the plane to a waiting bus. Even bundled up, we were not completely prepared. But then we got to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. We were taken care of, fed and loved. My mom and her parents swapped stories and caught up a little as I took in the faces of the grandparents that I mostly remembered by voice alone, and then we all went to bed.

The next couple of weeks are a blur for me, but there are a few moments that stand out distinctly.

First off, we realized we had more winter shopping to do. My mom took us to a children’s store and we had to battle with Communist clerks to get things in our size. There was a total lack of training in customer service at that time. We bought warm socks, long underwear, and some puffy coats.

We got to eat all kinds of warm comfort foods during this time. Babcia would make her amazing tomato soup, gołębie (which literally translated means pigeons, but I assure you, it is 100% pigeon free), kompot (fruit drink served warm), or other goodies. However, we also tried out Polish ice cream for the first time. My sister and I got ridiculously good at spotting the word “lody.” If there was ice cream to be had anywhere around, we wanted to be a part of it. I mean, they have flavors like hazelnut (orzechowe), lemon (cytrynowe), cream (śmietankowe), almond (migdałowe), coconut (kokosowe), mint (miętowe), sour cherry (wiśniowe), strawberry (truskawkowe), or wild strawberry (poziomkowe). And they use the real deal. It is super creamy and smooth, and you get real nuts or fruit to flavor your ice cream or sorbet, none of this fruit-flavored business. Oh, and if you ever get to go, make sure you ask for “lody na gałkę.” That’s the ice cream by the scoop rather than the stuff you can get out of a machine–much, much better that way.

We spent Christmas at my grandparents’ place. They got a tree and had it decorated for our visit. It was a real tree, and it was sprinkled with tinsel and little ornaments. Along with that, they had little candles attached to the ends of the tree branches. That’s not something you see anymore. Sure, there are all kinds of safety issues with that practice, but it was oh-so-pretty. We got to participate in the Polish practice where you open your first present on Christmas Eve night (after you see the first star). That was a big hit with us kids. Also, we got to spend time cutting out paper snow flakes, which seemed appropriate there, seeing as it actually snows in Poland, and they have a great tradition of paper cut-outs there.

This was also the first time that my sister and I got to check out the church my family had been attending for ages. It is the building that my grandparents were married in, and where my mom was baptized and received her Catholic rites. It was almost overwhelming to walk around in there as a child. I remember it having a huge ceiling, hard wood benches, marble floors, and various areas where you could stop and pray to the Saint of your choice. As soon as you walked it, you just wanted to whisper. No one had to say anything to me to be quiet in there.

I’ll always remember one night my grandpa came down with my mom, sister, and I for a walk around the neighborhood. On the way back, he commented on how the fresh snow was perfect for packing down, not like the the snow from a couple of days ago. So my sister and I promptly began making and hurling around our first snowballs. We targeted the buildings, one another, and even Dzadek. He was wearing a long dark coat and I got a kick out of how you could see the outline of where we’d smack him. He was a good sport about it and just chuckled in his deep grandpa way.

I loved the snow. I loved how it fell, how it transformed the city, how it tingled when it hit my face. I loved how in a snow storm, the lights would become these big soft halos of their former selves.

I was even more taken with winter when my mom and her best friend Ewonka took us to Zakopane. It is a ski town, with hills and mountains to explore, hearty meals at taverns, alpine architecture, and loads and loads of beautiful scenery. On my first visit there, we stayed in a small bed-and-breakfast attached to a farm. The hot water would sometimes run out, so one of the mornings, we had to bathe out of a bucket. I was mesmerized when taking a night walk–the skies were so clear there that I could see so many more stars then I ever could in Houston. This was also the place where I spooked my mom one night when I started babbling in my sleep. That was my first sleep-talking experience.

Zakopane is the only place I have taken a ride on a horse-drawn sleigh. It is also the first place that I built a snowman, made a snow-angel, helped with the creation of a make-shift igloo, and tried out skiing and sledding.

We were outfitted with borrowed skis, ski pants, and even bigger coats to get the okay to play out on the hillside. While I had fun trying out skiing, it was awkward in so many puffy layers and unfamiliar gear. However, I found that I could pick up much more speed while sledding, especially if my sister and I both got on one sled. So that’s where I spent the majority of my time. On one of my runs, I drifted way off to one side, and when I started walking up the hill, I fell into a snow cave. There was a little bit of water run-off that had melted this hole into the snow, and once in, I figured if I just kept walking up-hill I’d eventually get out. Which I did. I eventually just popped my head out and climbed out. I’m pretty sure I had my mom a bit worried though for the few moments that I disappeared. Sorry, mom.

One last Zakopane moment: While walking around one day, this little dog came running up to us as if it knew us. He was so excited to see us any time he saw us, so we temporarily adopted him. We named him Szmaty, which means rags (He had a few different colored swatches of color that made him look a little like he was patched up.) and even took a picture with him.

Looking back on it now, I realize that it took a lot of people to make my first trip out to Poland so memorable. I’m really grateful that everyone took us in and helped us out.

Nalesniki

Oh man.

oh man oh man oh man oh man.

How I miss these little tasty treats.

Nalesniki are Poland’s crepes, or pancakes, if you will. But they are not big and fluffy like American pancakes. And, although they are thin, they are not rolled up like crepes sometimes are. Instead, they are stuffed and folded in half and then in half again.

They can be stuffed with meat, smietanta (kind of like sour cream, only way, WAY better), various thick fruit jams, with sweet cream, or with pretty much anything else you can think up. Sometimes they are stuffed, folded, and then drizzled with a complementary topping. My oh my have I been craving nalesniki today. I may have to go do something about that soon.

As I think about the food, so many other memories flood my mind. Like the first time I had them in Poland:

It was the first trip out to Poland, and my mom and her friend Ewonka took us to Zakopane. We hiked all around the town and the nearby Tatry mountains. On the way up to the mountain we spotted a little kiosk where as a little kid, I would have been perfectly content to get some hot chocolate and get on with my hike. But my mom and her friend stopped and oohed and ahhed over the Nalesniki they had on the menu. That drew me in, and as I got closer to the counter, this sweet warmth closed in around me. That first whiff of sweet cream, butter, and powdered sugar won me over. I’m pretty sure we got a few different kinds and then ate off of one another’s plates. I know that strawberry preserves were in the mix somewhere. Other than that, it was all just kind of an eating blur.

Yes, really, really soon, I’ll have to make some of these for myself.

Windows

My grandparents lived in a flat on the 3rd floor of their building. When visiting Poland, Grandma and Grandpa would stand at their living-room window to wave goodbye to us, whether we we were going off for a day of sight-seeing, grabbing a bite to eat, running to grab some groceries, or taking off for the airport to leave again. If they knew what time to expect us, they’d sometimes be there waving us hello again as well. It was a tall but narrow double-paned window, where the inside window would swing in, and the outside one swung out. If they were both standing at the window together, they looked like a big bulky shape, all waving arms and faces. If we were leaving for home, they would shout down that they wished us well and how they loved and missed us already, and my grandma’s voice would croak as she’d tear up.

I’m sure that that’s how my immediate family’s good-bye ritual came from. In our home in Texas we lived on a little bit of a hill (meaning that the driveway had an incline to it). We would walk down our drive whenever someone was leaving for any significant amount of time, and wave to them until they turned a corner and were out of sight.

Back at Grandma’s: In the same living-room space but on the opposite wall was the windowsill that my grandma first feed “her” pigeons from. That is, until a cafe rented a space directly below that window and customers complained about stuff falling down into/near their lunches/clothing/faces.

This is the same window that a large rook hopped in when my mom stepped away from her studies as a child. It helped itself to a shiny metal pen and hopped back out the window and took off. It left enough of an impression on my mom that she told me the story, and just how worked up she got about it as a child stayed with me. Can you imagine? I would be like watching some favorite trinket just get up and fly off on its own–there was nothing she could do about it.

In the living room on the floor by the windows and on their bedroom windowsill, my grandma had little in-door gardens. Each potted plant was a present for my grandma from some visiting family or friend, and she had some little story behind each. She had a passion flower plant that was one of her favorites, as well as a wax-flower plant that she adored. Having grown up in the country, I think this was her way of being able to have something akin to some actual land to work because she tenderly cared for each plant and knew each of their individual needs.

The kitchen window was where my grandma ended up feeding the pigeons from. This was on the opposite side of her flat from the cafe. Grandma had a habit of keeping any dried out or stale bread bread, and crushing it up for her feathered friends. She’d scoop up the crumbs, put them in a little paper bag, and feed the pigeons once a day, first thing in the morning (when she was least likely to bother anyone else). She had the pigeons named, some after us, some for their attitudes. To an especially greedy fat one she gave the moniker “Bolshevik.” She would say that the ones named after us reminded her that although we’d fly away, we’d come back again. These pigeons knew my grandma and trusted her, and they learned not to fear my sister and me when we were kids because we were their at her window. We’d feed them right out of our hands, but then my sister learned that while they were sitting there on her palm, pecking away at lunch, she could quickly close her hand over their feet and catch them. So that became our little sport. We wouldn’t do anything mean to them, but that gave them enough of a fright that they learned to be a little more cautious with us.

I remember the view from that kitchen window more distinctly than I do the trees and fence you could see from my childhood home’s kitchen window; maybe it was because it was a bigger window and was more accessible to a child’s height, or maybe it was because it was so different from what I would expect to see out of a kitchen window. I grew up in the suburbs of Houston, but my grandma lived more or less near the center of Warsaw. The Houston view was out of a small, screened window, and as a child, all I could see out of it from my perspective was an eye-full of sky and the neighbor’s roof. Nothing spectacular, and completely usual for suburbia. From Grandma’s large double-paned window, I could see the flats across the patio area as well as the backs of some business buildings. When I looked down into that patio area, I’d see people walking their dogs, taking out trash, or stray cats hunting for left-overs that didn’t make it into the bins. There was nothing of the warm southern suburban feel I was used to in that scene, but it felt like home to me.

When we went to grandma’s house, we would stay in the guest room that was just inside the entry-way and to the right. From that same room, as children, my mom and her best friend Ewa would signal to one another. This was back before the days of internet, cell phones, or even reliable phone service. Besides, kids weren’t really allowed on phones back then, anyway. So, instead of any kinds of fancy technological equipment, they would blink rudimentary messages across the street using candles or flashlights. I remember I used to wish that we lived in a flat just so that I’d have a friend to flash messages back and forth with.

When my mom took us to Poland, that room and that window-ledge became my private sanctuary. The ledge was about three and a half feet wide and about two feet deep, and I would sit on that marble slab reading, sketching, or writing in my journal until my back would ache and my bum would hurt. I’d climb up, take a seat, and then drape the curtains back down so that I was in my own space. I’d take in the sunshine, and if I cracked the windows, I’d listen to the sounds of the street. On the times that I would write, I would take breaks to give my hand a rest now and again, and would watch the people going on with their lives; biking, strolling, or hustling along, taking a child to school, coming home with groceries, walking hand-in-hand, or saying goodbye when leaving for work–I got to take in lots of small moments lived out a few stories below.

These days I don’t get to see my folks’ place too often, but my mom and step-dad have moved from my childhood home, so there’s no hill to walk down to the end of anymore anyway. The last couple of visits have been via plane, so our goodbyes have been at the airport and not at the end of a driveway. We have kept remnants of our ritual, though. Mom waits until I have gone through security and until I have turned some corner or am completely out of sight before she leaves. She now also texts me that she misses me already before I board my plane.

I have my own little rituals from those days. I keep several potted plants growing happily near my own bedroom window. On occasion, I have happened to be on my third floor patio when a friend has come over and I’ve waved hello from there. Sure, it isn’t really planned out, but it feels nice none the less. And while I don’t feed pigeons, I still might, when I’m older and can get away with stuff like that.

Too much of a good thing

The very first time that I went to visit my grandparents in Poland was over winter break. My mom had to take classwork for us to do since we’d be missing some school.

This was the first time that I really got to play in the snow, and there were so many new things to do. One of the first things that I discovered was how tasty the food was. The night that we got in from the airport, my grandma made us tomato soup from scratch. It was creamy deliciousness. She also made us breakfast every morning, which mostly consisted of open-faced sandwiches. Some were done on the sweet side with a slice of farmer’s cheese and some marmalade. Others were on the savory side and had a slice of ham, a chunk of cheese, and a bit of tomato. A few times we would eat a hard-boiled egg along with our sandwiches. Breakfast was always pretty light. The big meals came later in the day.

Besides all the foods grandma made, we also ate these little pizza-esqe panini from street vendors. They were served up piping hot fresh from an oven covered with tomato sauce and melted cheese and other goodies. Those were great for warming us up. We’d also bring home desserts: tortes, chocolates, poppyseed cake, cream puffs, or éclairs to snack on or share with guests.

Well, within the first day or so I realized just how amazing the food there really was, as did my sister. I think it was our first full day there that we just pigged out. We ate loads of goodies at my grandma’s place and also stuffed our faces when we visited my mom’s friends.

That night I woke up not feeling too great, but not totally aware of what was going on. Then I realized that I needed to throw up. So I made a mad dash for the bathroom, only to find that it was occupied–by my sister, who was also feeling ill by the sounds coming out of the bathroom. Someone had heard or seen me running up to the bathroom because a bucket was suddenly produced.

I won’t go into any graphic details, but I will say this: I had my bucket next to the bed the rest of the night and by all accounts, my sister and I could have been having some kind of barfing contest. We threw up until there was nothing left, until it hurt, and then we threw up some more.

The moral of the story is simply this: don’t over-eat. Especially in a foreign country. But if you do, make sure to have loved ones near by to help you out. It makes a difference.

Napkins

I remember visiting Poland and bringing over loads of things. We loaded up our luggage with all kinds of goodies for family and friends out there. We even ended up leaving some of our suitcases in some instances.

We’d bring clothes (both new and lightly worn), toys, Jolly ranchers and bubble gum, vitamins for the grandparents, and all kinds of other odds and ends that were difficult to come by in the then newly democratic Poland.

One item that really stuck in my mind were the paper napkins we’d bring. You know the kind, they are the kind that you probably have on your kitchen table right now if you’re into paper napkins or the kind that you’ve used at a picnic or outdoor bar-b-que. They’re the large thin squares that are folded in half twice, oftentimes with little images printed on them.

At that time in Poland, you could only really find small, single-colored, 1-ply squares of basically waxy paper. I think grandma thought it was silly to use what amounted to 4-ply paper when she was normally making due with one. So what did she do? She’d cut the napkins in half so that they were only 2-ply. Better than what most people could get their hands on, but not wasteful, either. She’d say stuff like, “When it’s folded over so much, you don’t even end up really using most of it.” Or, “This way these will last longer.” And then she’d enlist my sister and I in her cause.