Click here for Part I The thing with broken kids and kids from broken homes, we always recognize each other. What we do with that information is one thing. But there really is an invisible bond, accessible via the subtlest of signals that brings us kids together. Perhaps Babette was broken, too, but that didn’t…
Category: Stories
Ode to a Lost Friendship Polish Style I
He came to me fully grown as a seven-year-old boy about to turn eight, so that’s how I always saw him, as the boy who lived below us in my building and was a year and a month younger than me. There were three of us on our side of the building, so that there…
The Po’Boy Chef Attempts a Burger
Well, not entirely, but the branding – quite literally – is on point. I’m not even sure how to begin this. When I first moved to Helsinki there was a particular place I really liked and would go to a lot. I became a fixture there. It was a great place to hang out with…
Unraveling the Mystery of the Polish Relatives: ciocia Basia
If I held off writing about her it’s (mainly) because she is the one I interacted with the least. She was my mother’s first sister (the third-born) and my mother hated her guts. My mementoes of her were admittedly vague. Apparently we’d first met when I was two and she joined forces with me and…
The People Watcher Observes a Couple
This particular Nero we are at is an island in a not too busy mall. It’s also the northernmost mall, a concept reflected in its name. Most people are there to take a much needed break from shopping (one of the reasons I loved malls as a child was because of the hustle and bustle…
An Acquaintance Revisited – the Avon Lady Ignores My Existence because I’m not Racist
We ran into the Avon Lady earlier, coming home singing and goofing around despite the cold, and then noticed that someone was at the front door. And since there aren’t that many people in the building (and none that would really be out this late), we cursed under our breaths and walked in with our…
On the Power of Saying Yes – Epiphany Rock
I’m not a big church goer, preferring my own interpretation of things, but there’s a beautiful chapel right behind where I live when I happen to hang out in Poland, and an even more beautiful church, so when I was invited to the carol singing for Epiphany, I decided why not. The original plan was…
Unraveling the Mystery of the Polish Relatives: ciocia Magda part I
Ciocia* Magda was my mom’s youngest sister, and I met her (perhaps) properly when I was seven. At least that’s when I remember her properly. Family history says she stayed with us for two years but I can’t say if being seven was the start, the end or fell somewhere in between. I remember a…
Unraveling the Mystery of the Polish Relatives: wujek Zbyszek part II
I realized that he was more typical of the average, well educated Polish male than atypical: acutely aware of his status and how it affected others in full knowledge of the fact that the woman they’d chosen to bear their children would count her blessings of having landed such a fine specimen of a man, keep her mouth firmly shut and do the best to raise and maintain a family unit lest the neighbors, church and assorted acquaintances, relatives and friends get a chance to list all her shortcomings (and by extension also those of her family), a feat that would happen anyway, regardless of how perfect she aimed to be.
Unraveling the Mystery of the Polish Relatives: wujek Zbyszek part I
I probably still have some of my mother’s kin living where she last left them. I wouldn’t know because to me they are not family. In fact they are the furthest thing from family a person would wish to have / would / could wish on their arch enemy / enemies to have. This is…
talesfromyourlocalpubs 