Rubles? Who needs rubles?

The tiny white Polski Fiat with a lawn-mower motor putt-putted its way along the leafy lane and sputtered to a stop in front of the warehouse. Only then did we look at the gas gauge and see the needle hovering close to E. Neither of us said a word. It was one of the most humiliating ventures I'd ever been part of. Waiting in that prefab warehouse built with American money were soaps and meats and medicines, all sorts of necessities of life. My hard currency, American dollars, real money had been deposited into an account bearing my Polish friend's name. He could go in now and choose what he wanted, needed, had gone without for months, even years. My friend, a prominent and accomplished writer, with an earned doctorate and years of professional success, was thrilled beyond belief to find soap -- SOAP! -- and rice and tins of sardines. We left with good lean sausages, hams, some basic over-the-counter medicines like aspirin for his father, and probably even a few rolls of toilet paper, I don't quite remember. It was 1982. It was horrible. But wonderful. The Soviet-style and imposed, clunky economy in Poland in the 1980's failed. The country could not feed its people. "This is our last butter," he told me at dinner. And what he meant was, this is the end of the butter. For the month. Until I get more ration stamps. There is no more butter. At all. For two weeks. I stood one day in the market and cried. I wanted to buy bread. There wasn't any bread. Twenty years ago on Thursday, June 4, Poland voted for food. For bread. And butter. For dignity. Their money became real, convertible on the international market, useful. I read two articles today, June 2, 2009, from the Polish press, both from the same publication, Polityka. One is current. Poland is one of the three countries in the European Union with positive economic growth this year. They are struggling like the rest but surviving, holding their own. How ironic. The other article is from 1986. It laments Poland's debt crisis, even within the Soviet bloc. The Polish economy relied on the Russian ruble, and the community of other Socialist nations. I pasted a small part of it here, in translation... (The IBEC was the International Bank for Economic Cooperation, the Soviet bloc's financial connection to the 'outside' world and within its boundaries. CEMA referred to the community of Socialist nations within the Soviet bloc.) Here is an excerpt of an interview. [Question] "What credits has Poland obtained recently from IBEC and what is the role of the Bank in settling the Polish debt?" [Answer] "Because of the economic situation and particularly its complexity early in the 1980's, Poland was not able, and is still not able, to fully repay its indebtedness to its CEMA partners. Our bank assists importantly bygranting planned term credits to balance payments so that Poland's economict ies with its partners can develop normally. So that Polish import, which at the moment still exceeds export, can be paid for without hindrances. On anannual scale, credits for Poland make up 25 percent of the total sum of credits granted by us to CEMA countries. I would like to emphasize that recently, and especially this year, a favorable tendency has appeared, the tendency to reduce Poland's ruble debt to our bank. The basis of this tendency is the growth of export to CEMA countries due to the policy,conducted by the PZPR, of increasing Poland's share in the socialist international division of labor." Huh? That reads like ancient history now. It sounds like gobbledy-gook. To be honest, the response didn't exactly make any sense then either, despite the skill of the interviewer. How do you explain the inexplicable? These days, when I go to Poland, there are no humiliating trips to the warehouse. I buy all the butter I want, at the shop on the corner. (Don't tell my doctor.) The lawn-mower motors are saved for those machines used to cut grass. And the teeny tiny white Fiat has been replaced by a late model, sporty green Nissan with a gas tank that stays full. Happy anniversary, my friends! Ya done good!

Tag, you're it!

It's Saturday night in the suburbs. There's a mess of kids in the backyard, their expensive cars parked out in front. I just pulled in and junked up the landscape with my '97 minivan. I hear a lot of noise out there and it's all laughter, silliness, slipping and sliding and, no doubt, they're intimidating the heck out of the foxes cowering under the deck. I was invited to make a brief cameo appearance, and then uninvited, "mom, could you, like, go inside now?" Actually, it was more like an order, "go, bye bye." I like this, I like this very much. We are lucky beyond measure. Our high school daughters love to play silly games with their friends in the backyard. Or the family room. They're not out spending beaucoup bucks, or drinking, or being thugs. They are, at this moment, playing tag. These little things are the best parts of life. I'm closing my eyes to take it all in and record it in my mind, the sight of tie-dye shirts and redheads and plaid bermuda shorts and stripes and jeans and brown and blonde heads, and I'm listening intently to their goofy remarks and rowdy laughter, hoping to tuck it all away so I can still see them, still hear them long after they are all gone and I'm stuck away in a nursing home somewhere. Ooo, that's maudlin. Never mind. The shushing sound aspens make as they shimmer in the late sun, the true blue canopy of sky, the glint of silver leading a jet contrail, and the black and white blur of dog rushing around in the midst of the frenzy. Boys and girls voices, soft and loud, high and low, trills, fifteen teen-agers talking at once, more giggles, guffaws. "This way, no that, no this, over there, try that," and then it all dissolves -- again -- into laughter. Is this heaven? On this night I think, "I was made for this." This is what it's all about. Not the hokey pokey, not some bunch of titles and achievements, not the trophies and plaques and ribbons. But this. Not even the published titles for sale on Amazon or the bullet-points on a resume. This. This is what I was made for, to revel, to laugh, to love the life I'm part of. What a luxury! To be here, now, to listen and watch, and even -- when they let me -- to play with them! It worries me sometimes, do my Polish mom friends get times like this? Most don't have big grassy backyards that serve as volleyball and badminton courts, playing fields and dance floors (dancing in the grass, well it sort of works), and multi-purpose silly-making space. Do they get to listen in and watch as their kids have fun? I'm not saying my life is better or worse, just that it's right for me. This is the soundtrack I want, the life I want to watch flowing past. But it's very different from the way moms -- and dads, and kids -- live elsewhere. Living in suburbia is its own trippy experience and it's one I never expected, never planned. But here we are. Not in the city where, I imagine, there would be get togethers in a park, or downtown. More movies, concerts, museums. All good. All good. That is what I remember of nights like this in Warsaw, herds of teens laughing as they wander into the Square, spilling out of the theaters, sipping coffee at Cava. Whatever, wherever, the kids will find ways to have fun. But tonight I'm thinking about the moms. And dads. This life is especially well-suited to parental voyeurism and I'm glad. The soundtrack of my life includes lots of kid-noise and, boy, am I glad. I hope my friends Margaret and Elzbieta and Marcin and Jurek, parents all, get to enjoy it too.