Tag: memories

The Legacy of Babcia and Dziadzio

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Picture perfect

I miss them, you know. 

I’ve come to learn and understand that loss is multifaceted. When losing significant others, you can miss and yearn for the person you were to them as much as the person themselves. However, with these two… I swear I just miss them. They were blue-chippers, solid gold, 100 percent themselves, through and through. My Babcia (BAB-cha) and Dziadzio (ZHAD-zee-oh). These curious sounding words are Polish, and they mean Gran and Grandpa.

These two were almighty impressive people. They overcame the unimaginable as child refugees from war-torn Poland in 1939, he just 14, she just 17. Surviving the Gulag was just one leg of an incredible picture-perfect journey that would span the globe: from middle Europe, across the ‘stans to the Middle East, down to Africa, then back up to Europe. 

Yet this isn’t necessarily the most astounding part of their story. They went on to become examples of everything society expected from people after the war.

They were staples of the Polish communities found in Ealing & Balham in London. They were decades-long company men and women in the years that followed. They were doting and dedicated parents and guardians. Proudly married for 45 years. These were the kind of people that rebuilt the world. “The Greatest Generation” may not be hyperbole. 

My relationship to them? Hard to begin to quantify. 

Babcia, Dziadzio, the moon, and I

But I’ll do my best. So… I would face orphandom as a teenager. I share this not to underscore how much closer, tighter, or in need I was of them. No, quite the opposite. In circumstances where the moon had fallen out of the sky, where all was off and nothing made sense anymore – they did. My Babcia and Dziadzio stayed right as they were. The world changed and they didn’t. They were who they’d always been to me and I was all the better for it.

I’d always be met with his boisterous warmth and her curious concern. 

My Dziadzio would rattle off an engaged recounting of current affairs from his favorite paper, wanting to hear my take, then onto football for much the same. This was laced with a healthy sprinkling of the most corny Christmas cracker-tier jokes (look it up) and the latest action films he’d caught on terrestrial television (shout out to Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jean-Claude Van Damme, with honorable mentions to Steven Segal’s later work and early-career Jason Statham).

My Babcia always wanted to know how I was doing. She wanted the latest updates on anything and everything with a tone balancing curiosity and concern. Not a single detail was unimportant to her. Even when entirely uninteresting to me. She was rare to give advice or instruction; she always just listened, cared, and celebrated the little wins that I couldn’t even see. I remember bringing them a pizza I had made in Home-Ec. Nothing more than a flatbread with tomato and cheese on top, it was celebrated like a Michelin star masterpiece. Otherwise, she’d update me on the latest happenings of the Royal Family and her Columbo reruns, and throw casual sprinklings of shade at my Grandpa, something only a decades-long marriage can earn. 

Eat!

A copious feeding was entirely non-negotiable. Even when I’d started slimming down, attempting to watch what I eat, it didn’t stop. I was trying to make myself into an unstoppable force while the feeding was an immovable object. They nailed it, though. A pitch-perfect palate hit that I very much wanted and, sure, got a kick knowing they enjoyed me consuming it. 

Irrespective of time of day or visit (or even if there was a meal to consume ahead), there was a given rollout:

  • Pringles (I suspect these were stocked for their addictive capacities…)
  • Kabanos (Polish garlic sausage — long, thin, at their best when left to dry in a cupboard for a few days)
  • In time, a beer (Tyskie — Polish brand, crisp, light, not a bad lager at all)
  • And a scotch (when I was old enough — my girlfriend at the time was served sherry, for ‘The ladies are served sherry’)

The lighthouse of light

I was always seated with two great talkers at a time when I could be struggling to find words. For sure, I took it for granted then. I could to a degree be ‘umming and ahhing’ about the necessity or frequency of weekly visits to them. Yet each visit, without fail, they were the most impeccable and genial of hosts. There was always energetic and warm conversation when I often didn’t know what to say, think, or even feel. A lighthouse in the storm.

My whole association with them is light, or like light. It’s clear, it’s warm, and profoundly positive. Every single fragment of memory figment. From the shape of clear frame spectacles or the pattern of floral blouses, to the upholstery of arm chairs and tablecloths. Anything Babcia-and-Dziadzio-related is ‘good times’ psychologically speaking. And, oh, the way they sounded… such thoroughly anglicized people with thick Polish accents till they parted. They were distinct, they were unique, they were them — just right.

Now to be clear, my Gran and Grandpa were… how to put this gently? Like, old when I was born. They were always old, definitely part of the charm. So it should come as no surprise by the time I’m north of about 21, they would begin to have their struggles. Her mobility was significantly affected, leaving her housebound for her last few years. He would suffer macular degeneration, in essence, gradually losing his sight. Their spirits simply didn’t budge, though.

He became something of her carer in their final years, despite sight leaving his grasp. She would find herself on more than one occasion expressing genuine surprise, even awe, that she had lived so long. He would lose his drivers license and long for driving his car when it was gone. However, the difficulty didn’t define them, they didn’t really know how to moan or complain, these two. From the outside looking in, we relatives could see how it wasn’t easy for them. We all shared a genuine wonder in how they continued as ever. My sister and I have since wondered, did they stay around, live longer for us? Until we’d reached adulthood? Cosmically or consciously, I don’t know. I never will, I’m not sure I’m meant to.

Smiling Grandpa ‘Dzadzio’ holding baby in his arms.
(Image courtesy of the writer)

But, you know

She would go first. Initially — though this would inevitably fade before he would join her — he was given a new zest on life in months proceeding. We would be granted one of his great one-liners.

Sitting there in their flat, he would look out the window and mournfully declaim:

“I miss my car.”

He would then state in a much less deep and profound manner:

“I miss my wife, but, you know.”

Their difficulties, inner storms, were somewhat hidden in these later years. Certainly from myself and again, even in decline, they didn’t make demands or change up their roles. Babcia and Dziadzio stayed the same, even when the greatest confrontation was upon them. Their wisdom and perspective was never wielded at us, certainly not at me.

I have a clear memory that serves this up to a tee. There was a World Cup on, I believe 2018. I had trained out from London to visit them and had spent the best of a late afternoon at their flat. It was heading into the evening, so I was ready to train back. I came to the door to say goodbye, and my Dziadzio asked if I wanted to stay and watch one of the games with him. I declined, for I had an hour and half journey back, and had spent the afternoon there. When it came to the exit, looking back at their flat door, him closing it, I could see a slight resigned sadness to him.

A couple of years later it struck me like a brick — he likely knew that was our last chance to catch a World Cup together, which it was — and that went completely over my head at the time. As you can see, this was only handled with a quiet grace and wisdom; a selflessness.

I have their stories in recorded form and research from family members and writers of the Polish diaspora post WWII. It’s a daunting task, but I very much endeavor to write them. At the same time, as expressed here, child refugees of Poland form just a strand of a much greater tale. I’m daunted by it and believe it’s because I know even the best of writing would never capture their totality and all they gave and meant. 

Maybe that’s just for me though, maybe that’s the legacy they’ve left me personally; their place in my heart and mind. 

I miss them, you know. 

Campfire Stories: Kindling for Enduring Friendships

Posted on by Jonathan

Under the clear night sky with countless stars, the campfire crackled with joy and elation at the camp. It brought our now-getting-cold evening retreat back to life on the riverbanks of the Lelesan near Eldoret, Kenya. 

The images of that night still flash vividly in my mind. It was those moments when you feel like time should stop for a while so that you can enjoy every tick without it moving. I had just turned 23 then and had just finished school. I was filled with the spirit of adventure, and this triggered an urge that would later lead to the best camping moment of my life. 

Sharing the spirit with me were my two buddies, Tony and Joshua. Having a common goal, that is to go camping somewhere far away from the monotonous home environment, we embarked on a journey that would later lead us to Lelesan Park. The park is a very beautiful spot that is really nice for decompressing and reconnecting with nature with a stunningly gorgeous popular cliffside lodge overlooking the Kenyan landscape.

We gathered around the fire after a long day of swimming and fishing in the river. Our hands extended towards the fire, palms out and fingers stretched, as if we were pushing the fire away. Of course, in reality, it was a technique to help our bodies conduct the heat very fast, which was sorely needed as the temperature had quickly dropped as the sun fell.

At the same time, Tony was busy roasting the fish we had caught during the day. Several other people joined us, strangers and friends alike. At this point, one of the campers broke the silence. He suggested we introduce ourselves, now that everyone was at ease with each other and getting along. The invisible bonds among us seemed to be strengthening so quickly that we had reached a point of storytelling without even noticing.

Joshua was the first to go. He cleared his voice dramatically in a bid to capture our attention. “Alright, everyone, gather around. I’ve got a story that will send a cold shiver down your spine.” 

On hearing this, Tony began to complain, “Really, man? I’d rather not ruin the night with your scary stories.”

Joshua was known as the friend who loved watching horror movies and enjoyed every minute of the terror. This was something that Tony and I found very fascinating, as we could not even stand a scene of a horror movie. Despite our hesitance, the majority of the group was fine with whatever chaos Joshua could come up with, so Joshua was free to begin.

Joshua leaned forward, his face struck by the flickering flames. “It was a night much like this one back in my village. There was a funeral taking place, and so, as the culture and tradition dictate, the members of the village and friends always came to have a night vigil. It’s basically to keep the bereaved company as they awaited burying their kin the following day. Now, midnight came, and everything was moving on just normally until immediately before dawn…

“Then, a scream was heard from one of the corners of the compound. It was so sharp that it superseded the noises that came from chatting and dancing, as it is a tradition to give the deceased a ‘last dance.’ Everybody went dumb, staring at the direction of the scream. It was a bush walking towards where the crowd had gathered. Everyone stood to their feet and froze for a minute…

“What happened next would remain a story that would always be said to question the courage of the members of the community. Everybody scrambled to hide so as not to be caught by this mysterious walking bush. They said that that was the spirit of the deceased that was not happy with how his last moments were being celebrated.” Joshua ended this story, leaving us asking many questions that he said he could not answer. 

Indeed, it was a scary story because in its wake, no one wanted to listen to any other story of the sort for the rest of the night. 

“You guys remember back in high school when we broke into the school farm to steal melons?” Tony started drawing us away from the previous scary story of a walking bush. “I remember Joshua was the first to shift the blame after we were caught by the security guards. He was so terrified to a point he was almost pissing in his pants.” 

This did not seem to sit well with Joshua. While I cannot remember word-for-word what he said exactly, the story he decided to bite Tony back with was so brutal that Tony decided to leave the campfire. Joshua reminded him of when, during a school event, we decided to mingle with other students after the function was over, especially those from girls’ schools. Joshua thought he could win over one of the girls who seemed to have captured every boy’s attention, but when he approached her, it was as if the girl had planned to single him out and snub him. The humiliation that came with the action made Joshua swear never to approach any girl again.

Despite Tony’s abrupt departure, the banter went on. Each of us piling on, embellishing the story with details that may or may not have happened. That’s how campfire stories work — half truth, half legend, all heart. Other memories unraveling and coming back to life. The nostalgia felt like the moments happened yesterday and not years back. The rest of the night faded into more stories, pranks, and memories that felt like they belonged in a movie. 

An image of a campsite surrounded by trees, with the stars shining above.
(Image courtesy of Jonathan Forage via Unsplash)

At one point, we all went silent, listening to the crackle of the fire and a distant hooting owl. It was one of those rare pauses when you realize that you’re just right where you need to be with the right group of people who know you well.

We did not see Joshua leave, nor did we realize that he was not at the campsite until he let out a loud yell. It sounded as if he was in grave danger, and this made us panic so badly. We gathered courage and walked slowly and cautiously to where the noise had come from. 

We found Joshua sweating profusely and in shock. We had no idea what was happening until he pointed towards a bush. I have never been shocked like that in my life. You won’t believe it if I tell you the bush was moving much like it had legs. It was unbelievable, just like some voodoo spell. 

Nobody thought this could be a prank until we were almost fainting, did Joshua jump up laughing at us. The whole time, he had connived with one of the campers who had joined us for the campfire to pull a prank on the rest of us. A plan that went well, because if you could see the terror in our faces, you could just know that we were traumatized by the event.

By morning, the campfire was just ashes, and we were feeling bleary and covered in mosquito bites. Packing up the tents was a mess, and Tony somehow lost a shoe in the river due to the night’s fracas, but we were still laughing, still trading jabs about who’d been the most scared of the bush. 

Those nights around the fire, swapping stories and pulling pranks, became the kind of memories we’d carry forever, the kind you pull out years later when someone says, “Remember that time we went camping?”

As we drove back to reality, I looked out the window and thought about how those stories — half-true, half-made-up — were what tied us together. They were our history, our glue, the kind of thing you can’t plan or force. Just a bunch of idiots around a campfire, living for the moment, making memories that would go past the flames.

Encounter with a Hongkonger at a Hostel in Taiwan

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On the rooftop terrace, we talked about traveling; things like finding stylish and affordable accommodation through online searches, riding bicycles around small towns usually missed by annoying crowds of tourists, and avoiding expensive metropolises with barren cultural lives.

We gossiped about other people but revealed nothing about ourselves. Each trip is an escape from one’s identity.

We complained about real estate speculation in our cities despite the economic recession, which is actually a long and sophisticated process of cross-border money laundering by people fleeing their homelands. We discussed immigration and shifts of citizenship during regime handovers, pandemic outbreaks, and wars far away or impending.

Having witnessed the same cruelty of history respectively, are we sharing the same fate after all?

“Did you hear about the big movement in Hong Kong in 2019?”

“Yes, I did.”

Two hundred meters away, a train clanked by, drowning out our words. The hostel’s fish flags fluttered in the whispering wind. A bird leaped from a broken beam of an abandoned house, flying away from the commotion. In forty minutes, the sun would set where the train had gone. Tomorrow, we would depart with the same train to where the sun was setting.

It was the moment closest to a taboo topic, an unnamed incident from several years ago, in our conversation during each of our journeys from the silenced past to an uncertain destiny.

Ingredients for Love: The Unspoken Language of My Grandma’s Kitchen

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As years go by, I spend more and more time making memories in my grandma’s kitchen. It took me a long time to realize that food is how she shows her love. I’ve come to understand that the food we make together isn’t just something to eat; it’s also my grandma’s way of connecting with me and sharing her life story.

I went to Gramma’s old house a lot as a kid. I usually spent most of my time in the kitchen. Located in the heart of the home, there was always something interesting happening there. It didn’t matter where I was in the house; at least one of my senses always pointed toward the kitchen. It was a rarity for it not to seep the delectable scent of freshly baked brownies. Those were my favorite desserts growing up, so we made them almost every time I visited her house. I would help pour and mix the ingredients, then wait for the timer. Once I heard the oven beep, I knew it meant it was finally time to indulge in our treat.

From childhood to adulthood, my grandma instilled her cooking and baking skills in me. She’s had several kitchens throughout my life, but they’ve all served the same purpose. We’ve started using more recipes. Most of them come from the cookbook she’s had since she was a teenager. The pages are so delicate that I’m always afraid I’ll ruin them, though they’re already stained and yellow and ripped in multiple places. Those flaws just mean the book has been used extensively through the decades. When I come over, we look through it to determine which desserts to bring to life, such as her famous apple pie or butterscotch pudding. 

A person spreads flour on a countertop, tracing a heart in the center.
(Image courtesy of Yan Krukau via Pexels)

My grandma and I get to make whatever foods we want now, but her journey started rough. She grew up in a large family that didn’t have a lot of money. To keep her and her siblings fed, she found creative ways to work with limited ingredients. She often tells me stories of her childhood, like when she used her cooking superpowers to transform simple ingredients like bologna and flour into flavorful meals for her family that satisfied their stomachs and heated their hearts.

The more we cook and bake, the more I see examples of how her expression of love goes beyond simply preparing and eating the food. I get served the food and a portion of her legacy when I eat these dishes. Making recipes together is a way for her to pass down the helpings of her wisdom, pieces of her traditions, and slices of her family history.

In my grandma’s kitchen, I get to experience food’s real purpose. Each bite strengthens our bond even more. Gramma’s lessons, laughter, and love given to me in her kitchen are gifts I’ll always be thankful for.

I will keep cooking and baking, knowing that each recipe holds a piece of my grandma’s heart and that with them, her love will always be present. Our time together in the kitchen has taught me that food exists to be more than just eaten; it’s there to give us a taste of our past, nourish our present, and feed our future.

Hey Mum and Dad, We Need You There

Posted on by [email protected]

There are so many parenting guides out there, and it is challenging raising wonderful little humans. Here’s something about the parent-child bond. It’s pivotal as a child grows, and building a lasting bond is something that takes tons of effort. What makes the family so important is that it stands as the child’s first experience in building a relationship.

Here’s my story

As a child, I grew a strong fondness for my mum. And even though I have a forgetful mind, I still remember what life with her was like.

My mum worked at a nursery school not too far from our house back then. I was enrolled in the same school, so it was customary for us to wake up early, leave the house and return together. Breakfast was something I always looked forward to, because it was the best meal of the day. My mother would prepare cereals every morning with loads of milk and I would stand on a scale immediately after eating to check my weight and record how big I had grown overnight.

“You’ve eaten all of mummy’s food,” she would usually comment, which always made me smile. My mum would ask what I wanted for my lunch box and it was always pasta or noodles, my favorite at the time.

I also recall occasionally going to the local market with my mum on weekends for our groceries and produce. It was fun because I would get a lot of free stuff from some of my mum’s regular vendors who knew her well and liked to spoil me.

Togetherness interrupted

Life wasn’t always perfect, but my mum made things seem so easy. We would pray together before going to bed at night and it’s something I still have with me till this very day. While she helped me with my assignments, I would tell her all about my day at school.

I had no idea how scary life could be until my mum got diagnosed with cancer. All of a sudden, my life became nothing but school and hospital wards. I had to watch my own best friend slowly deteriorate and, after a few months, pass away.

After my mother’s passing I had to go live with my father and stepmother. A change that would change life as I knew it. Firstly, it was difficult for us to get along since they had little to no idea of what I was like, the things I loved to do and the things I disliked.

Most times when my stepmother prepared a meal, I barely ate. This was mostly because I didn’t like the dish or I had never tried it before, but my stepmom interpreted it as me just being arrogant or picky, so she would get especially upset whenever I behaved that way. I don’t blame her much because she didn’t know me well and naturally lacked the patience one’s mother would have shown in such cases.

Blended family life

It took a long time before we could get along. I was introverted, which did not help either as I naturally preferred being alone in my room and, just as you probably are thinking, my absence led to many misunderstandings. We could be home all day and not say a word to each other besides the usual greetings.

Most of the time, I just stayed in my room playing video games or watching movies on my laptop. When we did go out together, we didn’t say much to each other. For instance, we would go out for a family picnic, and all I would do is just sit, eat, have a drink and stare at the scenery around us.

Living this way with one’s family is never easy, so I want to express how important it is for both parents to bond closely with their kids when they are young and put the effort into getting to know them. Try to know things about them, even little things like their preferences, favorite food, drinks, the kind of company they keep and knowledge about the events going on in their lives.

Kids go through a lot growing up as almost every child is exposed to peer pressure, bullying, low self-esteem and depression, personally or second-handedly. However, having a strong bond with their parents will make their transition towards adulthood easier as they would have someone with more wisdom and experience to talk to. There’s a natural barrier between kids/teenagers and adults, and overcoming this barrier is very important.

Something like dad, my friend

In my own case, my father was able to get through to me. I loved to draw and he somehow found out. So, after closing at work, my dad would dedicate some time to draw with me.

It isn’t that big of a deal, is it?

But to me, it changed how I saw him.

With every drawing session we had, my dad felt less distant and more like someone I could relate to. I won’t forget the day I told him about a crush I had on a girl at school, it was a huge leap of faith, but then, he laughed and told me a story about how my mum was once his crush too and how they got married. I always disliked my dad for leaving my mom but him talking about the good time they had together made me like him more. And that was it for me, even though it was gradual, I later found a friend in him, one Icould talk to.

PS: it didn’t work out between my crush and I though, sadly 🙂

I’ve seen situations where the lack of parental bonds led children to become wayward and dysfunctional adults. Some did drugs or weed to relieve the stress they couldn’t handle, while others dropped out of school because of their inability to cope and a general lack of moral support. It reached a stage where their parents couldn’t handle or even speak to them. Things like these are quite manageable and could easily havebeen stopped at their earlier stages if only the parents paid more attention to their kids.

So what is the moral of the story?

I mentioned earlier that the family is a child’s first experience of what a relationship is like. It is therefore important as a parent to build strong bonds in the family. For example, a boy between the ages of seven to 14 will grow a mind of his own and will start to have his own hobbies. As a parent, try to discover what your child loves doing. Learn about his hobbies and what he enjoys and educate yourself about it. Say that your son is into sports, like football, so take some time out to play sports with him or watch games together. If your daughter likes to read, encourage her, and bring her to the local library.

On occasion, let your kids win on purpose, make it fun and you’d be surprised how much they talk during a single football game or while playing a card game. Don’t expect immediate results though, as it takes a lot of persistence to break a barrier and build a trusting bond. Be patient, parents, and pay attention. Furthermore, including your kids in decision making does wonders. It helps build their confidence and teaches them how to be more interactive and assertive in their choices.

Small decisions like which color paints to use in the home, the curtains they would prefer or which car you should get shows them that they’re an integral part of the family. There are also extremely strict parents who resort to using punishment, harsh words and physical abuse to correct the mistakes made by their child. There’s a saying that goes: “strict parents raise the best liars.” Discipline is invaluable in raising a child, but as a parent we should never resort to violent punishment. It seriously scars a child, as they start to live in constant fear of being around you.

It’s also important to have heart-to-heart discussions with your child to open their eyes to how they could make more effective choices. This gives them the confidence to say “no” to anything they consider morally wrong.

Nothing in life is guaranteed, but raising children in a better way is possible. A careful combination of investing in your child’s hobbies, having heart-to-heart discussions with your kid, talking about your own childhood, and instilling the right discipline in your child will ensure that you form a healthy, loving relationship through their life and home and beyond when they become independent adults.

So, Mum and Dad, your presence really is needed to make growing up easier possible!