Month: October 2026

Poland, Part 2, and the reason I went.

Beautiful Reymontówka, my home for 2 weeks

The grounds at Reymontówka were filled with hand carved statues. I found my favorite.

Our dining area…one table in a room of tables but the three of us were always the only ones eating.

My cozy, wonderful room…

How do you teach 5 different grade levels in a Polish elementary school, with each class ranging from never-speak beginners to near fluency, when the only Polish words you know are good morning? I’m sure something about that was in the many pages that remained unread in my bag. Had I written those pages, I would have said, first and foremost, remember to have fun and find the connection. Then you pull out your carefully thought-out plans for the day and hope someone in the class understands you. Fortunately, at least one student in every class usually did and became my translator.

Some of the ideas my co-teacher and I had worked on worked, and some didn’t. One that worked was making paper airplanes, taking them into the hall, and throwing them one at a time, with the goal of getting students to say, “Mine went the farthest, or the highest, or the slowest, or the fastest.” If that sounds like a lot of work for a sentence or two, you’re right, but some students refused to speak English, and if we could “trick” them into speaking with a fun activity that made them forget they were learning, it was a success.

Another class favorite, especially with the older grades (7th and 8th graders), was what we named the “grocery store challenge.” We divided the class into groups of 2 and gave each group sale ads from an American grocery store. Using the ads, they created a menu for 2, including a protein, a vegetable, a fruit, a dessert, and a drink. The total had to be under $20 (80 zloty). After making their selections, they shared their menu plans with the class. It was fun seeing the teams collaborate on their food choices. One group of girls chose bacon for their protein. Only bacon. When I asked if they planned to serve anything else with it, such as tomato and lettuce for a sandwich, they said no. They could only afford the bacon because they wanted to buy the $7 flower arrangement in the ad. Those two girls became two of my favorites.

The girls on the right wanted flowers more than an entree. Secretly, two of my favorites.

Golabku Elementary School, was located in a rural area about 15 minutes from Ramontówka, the manor where we stayed, and an hour from Warsaw. The school was small but used its space efficiently. There was no cafeteria, but benches lined one side of the hallway where students ate lunch. The school had 73 students from Kindergarten to 8th grade, and its size made it feel like family, with the older students helping the younger ones and everyone knowing everyone. The students were polite and respectful, and discipline was never an issue. It took one day for the students to feel comfortable enough to greet me at the door with smiles and enthusiasm. It was good work. Exhausting, but good.

6th graders

4th graders…

Each class period was 45 minutes, and we taught 5 classes a day: 4th-, 5th-, 6th-, 7th-, and 8th-graders. A quick, easy game I came to rely on was “hangman,” though I changed the name to “snowman” because I didn’t want to explain that I would be drawing a man hanging from a rope with every letter they missed. The game became a favorite, and when one of the 7th-grade girls who had never said a word in class shouted out the answer, I knew I had gotten it right. I had to stop for a minute to take it in.

By the end of my 2 weeks, I knew most of the 4th through 8th graders by name, but still couldn’t pronounce a few, so I asked the students to write their names on a piece of paper and put it on their desk so I’d have a cheat sheet. That didn’t help. Their handwriting was very small, and they formed even familiar letters differently; they also had 6 extra letters in their alphabet and 9 letters that had additional marks that changed their pronunciation. On day 3, the girl whose name I continued to struggle with told me that her “American name” was Lucy, if I wanted to call her that. So Lucja became Lucy, and I called her more often because I could pronounce her name.

Every afternoon, I returned to Reymontowka, a picturesque manor built in the early 1800s, surrounded by acres of beautiful grounds and forests. The other 2 volunteers and I were the only ones staying in the large manor, which made for an interesting experience when we didn’t hear the kitchen alarm late one night but knew something was wrong when we saw two fire trucks pull into the driveway. Confusion followed as 3 Americans who didn’t speak Polish tried to communicate with several Polish firefighters who didn’t speak English. They confirmed nothing was on fire and left. Later, we heard an insect may have set off the kitchen smoke alarm. I couldn’t help but envision the story of what could have been: The 200-plus-year-old Reymontowka burns to the ground, its only residents, three American volunteers. Thankfully, that was not the case. The next morning, when our in-country director, Olga, arrived and we told her about the previous night’s excitement, her first question was, “Were the firemen hot?” (Olga was in her early 30s).
“No, Olga, they were not, and although they were nice men, probably not fireman calendar material.”

On my first night at Reymontóka, I got an outsider’s view of a Polish wedding at the manor. Olga advised us to bring earplugs, because the music would be loud and would go on until at least 5:00 or 6:00 a.m., and the last course of the wedding dinner is traditionally served at 5:00 a.m. The last song I heard that first night, or morning, more specifically, was ironically the rally song played at Kansas City Chiefs games. I was reminded me that even though I had traveled thousands of miles, I wasn’t that far away.

The wedding tables in the tent

The following week, when I saw the same long tables that had been used for the wedding party, elegantly set with white linens, china, and stemware, I asked Olga if there would be another wedding, and she told me no; it was an employee party, which is why the kitchen staff was working so hard. They were preparing for their party, and they would also be the ones cleaning it all up in the early morning hours.

Curious, after dinner that night, I snuck into the dining room, which opened into the tent, to take a peek. The director saw me peeking around the corner and motioned for me to come in. His English was as bad as my Polish, so we used a lot of sign language, as I tried to tell him I only wanted to look, not interfere. He insisted and guided me into the tent to the long table, laden with food and drink. I felt like a party crasher and planned to leave as soon as I entered, until one of the women offered me a cherry vodka shot (a very popular drink in Poland, and, I was told, “homemade” in that area). I took a sip to be polite and was taken back to the sweet drink I remembered from high school. Sweet, strong, and a very bad idea. Another woman asked me if I’d like to dance with the group, and I hesitated, but a gentle tug of my arm and I was on the dance floor. I was touched by how open and inviting the group was with me, a stranger who had crashed their party. The director then joined us, and for the next few hours I danced, conversed with gestures, declined multiple shots of vodka, and truly enjoyed myself. For the first time in a long time, I felt joy; joy on a dance floor filled with Poles dancing to unfamiliar music but a familiar feeling. The joy I felt brought tears to my eyes. I felt Emery’s presence and heard her words: “Just go, Mama.” And so I did. I let go of my reality, my grief, and my sadness and lost myself in the notes of the music that I thought was Polka, but was corrected: “Polka is Czech, not Polish.”

Most of my photos from the party were videos… this was my only still, but you get the idea…

On my last day at the school, the other volunteer and I received gift baskets and sweet goodbyes. Several of the students followed me to the door and stopped me for one more hug. One boy who wouldn’t make eye contact with me for the 10 days I had him in class took his place in the hug line-up and returned for a second. Unlike an Irish goodbye, a Polish goodbye is a long, multi-stage process and, with the students, involved multiple hugs, which were gladly accepted. When the school director asked if I would please return next year, I smiled and didn’t respond, but knew my answer.

4th graders after finding the scavenger hunt prize we set up for every class on the last day… (American candy and stickers… a huge hit)

Golabku School, all 73 students, staff and two volunteers!

I missed Emery more than usual; maybe it was the date, on the heels of what would have been her 36th birthday, or maybe it was being back in the role of volunteer in a foreign country that felt so right to both of us. But she was there…in the notes at the Chopin recital, in the joy on the dance floor at the employee party, dancing to music that was NOT Polka, and in the faces of the Polish children when they understood me and responded in English. I found her.

Poland, Part One

A maze of unnecessary gates

I sat at the crowded gate waiting to board, feeling lucky to have a seat. The gate area was small, with folding chairs lined up in rows facing a large open space, a check-in desk behind it, and a series of retractable gate barriers the flight attendant kept moving to allow access. Everyone around me spoke Polish. I leaned in to the conversation next to me and tried to catch something familiar, while regretting that I hadn’t even learned how to say “hello” in this difficult language. I tried to ignore my doubts. Poland? Why Poland? I have no idea. But teaching children English was what hooked me.

At my feet were my carry-on suitcase and a smaller bag, heavy with my computer, a jacket, a book, an empty notebook and pens, and 20 pages of ideas for teaching English to Polish students while keeping it interesting. I had tried to get through the pages multiple times, but was more bored than inspired. I also had no idea what ages I’d be teaching, and many of the ideas were age-specific.

This would be my most difficult journey in 19 months. A long journey to a place I had never been for 3 weeks, 2 of them teaching. I wouldn’t have a family member or friend at the other end of the journey to pick me up from the airport, reassure me that I was doing the right thing, listen to me, and comfort me as needed. I felt fragile, tired, and haunted by the stack of papers that were supposed to help me accomplish the task ahead, that I was choosing not to read. And I felt sad. Regardless of the situation, grief always pushes her way to the shotgun position with me, especially when I’m feeling weak. Wanda (the personification of my grief) was not going to be left out. She was coming to Poland.

I would be volunteering with 2 other women, who I had never met, but who knew each other and the assignment. It would be their 3rd time volunteering in Poland. I would be paired with another woman, while the third would be teaching adults in another town.

After navigating the complicated maze of retractable queue barriers, I walked down the jetway and boarded the plane. I was overcome with memories of doing the same thing multiple times before, starting with Emery in Perú.

My first impressions of Warsaw were that it was beautiful and charming, and that the old town area where I was staying was clean and felt very safe. Unlike most other countries I’ve been in, very few people spoke English. When I stopped at an outdoor cafe for an early dinner, I mentioned that it looked like I was the first one there, but didn’t want to seem too excited. I smiled, which usually works, right? I was met with an expressionless face. She didn’t understand what I said or respond to my smile. She handed me a menu and pointed to a table. I had been in the country only a few hours, but I was already struck by how serious the Polish people were.

Words weren’t familiar. Signage wasn’t familiar. The food wasn’t familiar, and neither were the menus I was ordering from, unless they had an English version. The only thing that felt familiar was my heart, and, as with so much of the past 19 months, we were once traveling solo again.

The two women behind the front desk at my small hotel spoke enough English that, when I mentioned Chopin and a possible concert, one of them handed me a brochure. A small concert venue was within walking distance, and I immediately went online and booked a ticket for the next day. The concert, or recital, as it was called, was in a small, high-ceilinged room with about 100 chairs, half of them filled. I took in the moment, letting it sink in. I was in Warsaw, in an elegantly furnished room, waiting to hear a pianist play Chopin. I was in heaven.

I remember my Dad playing Chopin on the stereo in our living room in the mornings as we got ready for school, and although I didn’t know the names of the pieces, I knew my favorites. Several years later, I snuck the same album in between Jackson Browne and Carol King and took it to college. My roommate didn’t understand why I wanted to listen to Chopin in between what everyone else was listening to, but I think she secretly liked it, or at least she didn’t tell me to turn it off. And now, 50-some years later, there I was, in the 2nd row, listening to a pianist who brought the phrase “tickling the ivories” to life for me, while he played my favorite, Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2. I was smiling ear to ear, and sobbing at the same time. His performance of pieces I had heard many times before uncovered the living pulse behind the notes, cracking open my vulnerable heart and soul. I sat in the room, half-filled with people, yet alone, with my heart, my emotions, my memories, my Emery. So moved, I returned the following afternoon. I thanked the women at the front desk. They nodded, but without smiles.

The next day, a different pianist played with much more aggression, bowing after every piece, unlike the first pianist, who seemed to be inside the music he was creating and didn’t break that spell until after his last piece. I knew those two hours listening to Chopin in the salon would be highlights of my trip that had barely begun. I was right.

The following day, I explored Warsaw with a guide I hired. Poland’s sad, tumultuous history was palpable in the walls of the many buildings we entered that were still standing after being bombed. I felt the sadness in the people, and my guide, Jola, was no exception. We connected easily, and she spoke English beautifully, but we shared experiences without humor. I found this with most people I met in Poland. After spending the day seeing Warsaw through her eyes, she asked me if I wanted to go to a nearby mall. I wasn’t necessarily interested in going to a mall, but she reassured me that this one was different. It had once been a power plant, and during WWII, workers at the plant were active in resistance activities against the occupying Nazi forces. The factory management helped the Poles living under Nazi rule, offering them work or sheltering them from roundups. It was an interesting space, still holding the industrial feel of the power plant in its walls and furnishings. We stopped at a coffee shop for tea and paczki (POONCH-key), traditional Polish donuts, which were very good, and connected over our shared experiences as moms. She told me she had one son, who was also a tour guide, and I told her I had two sons and a daughter, intentionally leaving out that one was no longer living. It felt easier.

My last day in Warsaw, while I wandered through Old Town alone, I heard someone call my name, which surprised me in a city of 1.8 million people. It was Jola. I greeted her with “Dzień Dobry,” the words for good morning she taught me the day before. They ended up being the only 2 words I could speak with confidence after my 3 weeks in Poland. “Dzień” is pronounced like “gin,” which explains why I struggled so much with Polish signage. We exchanged a few words while her small group of tourists waited patiently, then said our goodbyes. I regretted not getting a photo of us together. Later that day, as I walked back from the Chopin concert, I saw her again and got the photo. We exchanged WhatsApp information so I could send her the photo. We said our goodbyes, and I left with the strange feeling that we’d see each other again.

The sign and symbol of Warsaw is a mermaid… always with a sword and shield to protect.

Jola and me in Old Town Warsaw

After 3 wonderful days of exploring, I left my hotel in Warsaw and met up with the two women I’d be volunteering with, along with our in-country manager, Olga, a Ukrainian woman who happened to be the same age as Emery, who had fled her country at the onset of the war.

My time in Poland was a 3-week series of moments. I suppose most of life is a series of moments, some standing out, others mundane, all connected by the breath of varied emotions. My Poland moments felt different. Maybe it was the grief and my slowed-down pace in life, or maybe it was my first journey of this nature since Emery died, but it felt distinct and with a depth of intention that felt new.

Next up: the children, the school, the manor, Reymontowka, where I stayed, and my random and surprising invitation to the manor’s employee party.

Today, October 2nd.

Screenshot

Today, Emery would have turned 36. A day that was one of my happiest has now become the hardest day on the calendar for me. In the grief world, Emery is F34. I know things now that I never would have known before. In the months that followed Emery’s death, I found comfort on sites of mothers who had lost children. There is comfort in shared grief. Comfort in reading another mother’s words that I could understand intimately. Comfort in not feeling so alone. The first time I commented, adding F34 to Emery’s name, it felt awkward and impersonal, but also like a connection. Connected by the letter F. Forever. I couldn’t help but think of Forever 21, and the many times I sat in the dressing room with Emery, trying to share her exuberance for the outfits she had selected. I will never know my daughter as a 36-, 43-, or 52-year-old woman. Emery will be forever 34. Even though she was an old soul, 34 was far too young. She was 9 months younger when she died than I was when I gave birth to her. The numbers in my family history have been rearranged in a way that is hard to understand. Emery, my daughter, has become my ancestor.

Charlie and I chose the name Emery shortly after learning we were having a girl. Jane, her middle name, was a quick response to the nurse holding a clipboard who waited at my hospital bed. She had one more blank to fill in on her paperwork. Even though she said, “Take your time,” she seemed to be in a hurry. Charlie said, “How about Jane?” adding that it was easy to spell. So, Jane it was, but the decision felt rushed. On the drive home from the hospital, I told him I wanted “Greer” or “Glenn” as her middle name. With the surge of post-birth hormones flowing through my body, I honestly had no idea what I wanted. Charlie suggested waiting a few weeks and if I still wanted to change it, we could. After a few days, Greer and Glenn no longer mattered. Our girl was Emery Jane. Charlie knew. Emery loved her middle name, so much so that it became her daughter Muna’s middle name.

Emery arrived at 9:06 a.m. on October 2, 1990, one day after her due date. I had my first and only sonogram at 7 months, and when the technician asked if I wanted to know the sex, I said yes. Three of my friends were also pregnant, due within weeks of me, and all were having girls. I needed to know. I told others, and I told myself that I would be happy with three boys, and of course I would have been, but I also knew I wasn’t fooling myself or anyone else. I wanted a girl. When the technician said, “I’m almost positive it’s a girl,” I mentally eliminated the “almost” and ran with it. I bought pink onesies. I bought pink yarn. I knit pink sweaters and bought tiny pink dresses, and I don’t even like pink. When Charlie and I decided on the name “Emery,” I knit it into the top of her Christmas stocking. It was preparing my nest for a girl, and I was in it deep. On our way to the hospital on the evening of October first, the technician’s addition of the word almost came back to me. She was almost positive. What if I was wrong? 4 1/2 year old Thomas had instructed us that if it was a boy, to leave him at the hospital. Grant, age 3, had picked out a small doll for her. Charlie wore a pink polo to the hospital. We were set for a girl, and thankfully, the technician was correct.

My family is on the second round of anniversaries. Thanksgiving, Christmas, family birthdays, Emery’s birthday, and the date I’m not sure what to do with, but can’t forget: January 4th, the day Emery died. The date is a recognized anniversary, but it’s hard for me to use that word, anniversary, as anniversaries are usually associated with celebrations. What does one do with a date that will never be forgotten, but that doesn’t want to be remembered at the same time?

I had my beautiful girl for 34 years and two days shy of 3 months. Last year, the family honored her in Carlsbad, California. We bought a beautiful cake and flowers, and I brought the two candles, a 3 and a 4, that I found in a basket on a shelf in my kitchen and had no idea where they came from. It was a hard day, a sad day, and a beautiful day with my two sons, their wives, and 3 of my grandchildren. I’ll be with family again this year.

When my children reached an age when gifts didn’t hold the same importance they did as children, I started writing them letters instead of giving them gifts. I’ve saved them all, in folders in a trunk and in later years, in files on my computer. Recently, I reread some of the letters I gave Emery in a book before she got married. There is an overwhelming theme of letting go, and as my youngest child, and the one to leave my nest last, that makes sense. I read some of the lines from those letters at her celebration of life. The following words are from one of those letters. The words carry the difficult theme of letting go, but they read so differently now than when I wrote them.

November, 2012, shortly after Emery’s engagement to Miles.

I needed you far more than I ever wanted you to know. Instead of holding you on my lap or holding your hand as we walked across the street, I hold you in my heart and know you do the same with me. From the time the sonogram technician told me she was “almost” positive you were a girl, I knew you. I knew your energy because it was my energy, and I could feel it while you grew inside of me. I knew your eyes would be curious and your hair wild, and we’d connect over things only we would understand. I knew you would sing made-up lyrics to familiar tunes with me and speak with British accents between sips of pretend tea from mismatched china cups because British accents make the tea taste fancier. I knew you’d share my sense of adventure and curiosity, and I would spend the rest of my life enjoying that with you. What I didn’t know was the pain that would come when I’d have to let you go. My youngest child. My last bird to leave the nest. I would give you roots, and I would help you with your wings. I always knew the wings would be the hardest. I love you, my darling girl.

My heart holds two timelines, my before and my now. I loved you all of your life, my darling girl, and I will miss you the rest of mine. On this joyous and painfully sad day, the day you would have turned 36, I not only grieve for the loss of what was, but also what never will be. My heart aches. My F34 Emery Jane.