Continuing my explorations and re-visiting old familiar places, I went the other day to the picturesque Old Marine Drive. Used to like to take it for the vistas it offered while passing many coves. Was shocked (or sad?) how much the cove with the marina has changed. There was not even half the amount of yachts and boats in the older days. It was actually tranquil. Not so much anymore – au contraire.
But I never really stopped in previous years to explore the shoreline more acutely. I think once I was intrigued if you could observe the ferry passing on its way from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo. I hardly ever took that route, it was just easier (and less busy at that time) to take one from my home terminal in Tsawwassen. However, I did take often the small ferry to Bowen Island – my Mom just loved it over there. We would put lot of snacks and some food to the cooler, and would take a little propane stove and she would be happy on that little last beach facing the Howe Sound. There were so many black and salmon berries there – incredible. I would swim and fish there too, and mom cooked the fresh fish. She really loved it there.
I was going to take that little ferry again now, but the timing was not good. One just left and the other would have been too late to have time to truly enjoy the visit. Therefore exploration of the shoreline was in order. And I did what I could, starting with Whytecliff Park. Never knew there was such a maze of rocky trails with unpararelled vistas of the Salish Sea.
Next was, unknown to me before, little marvel cove called Caulfeild Cove. There is a monument there to the memory of on British vice count Francis William Caulfeild, who at end of his career v-ce was appointed the rank of Admiral of Royal Navy and served during the 1 world war under the British Imperial ensign. As far as I could search from British Office his bio, he was neither very successful commander nor liked by his crews and got the distinction in Admiralty only at the end of his active career, so he would not command a ship anymore and do more damage, LOL. Having a British Peerage (due to his aristocratic birth) called for such military title though.
However – the cove by his name is a true and true marvel to explore. Highly recommend. Be careful though during rain – rocks are very high and could be very slippery.
Located between two mountains, Mount Fromme and Mount Seymour, it is a gem of wilderness, long wooded trails, and a breathtaking canyon. The suspension bridge acts as magnet for many hikers, specially with kids – hiding the fear of the ,moving’ bridge and wild white water cascading below adds the extra thrill that everyone seeks from time to time. Mind you, they have made the bridge nowadays wider and more stable, and I am not sure if it was good idea. If you were able to walk the long trail to get to that bridge, than regardless of age you shouldn’t have any problems with traversing the old bridge. Anyhow, whats done is done.
I just love the old giants in the forest, covered with thing dangling green moss that looks like huge mustaches and beards.
Swimming in the fast moving waters is not for everybody but there are definitely spots were access is possible. With me left leg still not healed from the accident it was difficult to get across the big underwater boulders to these waters for a swim. But I did. And the swim in this gorgeous water was heaven. Here are some photeys of our trek there:
You did talk to me last night, first time in a while. Yes, it was a strange night, followed by strange day. Or was it the other way around? When you are alone, without a set schedule or watch, things do get mixed up easily. Dates especially: Mondays become Fridays, Fridays Tuesdays. So what happened to Wednesday, you ask? Who cares what happened to Wedneday, perhaps I left it on a beach, or on a bench in some park? Maybe it is still in the shower when I saw it last time I was taking a shower? What? Do I not take a shower every day? Maybe not, maybe sometime I take a bath, who cares? You really are asking way too many questions and it is my story anyway. Be quite, just listen.
No, not you, Babycake – I’m talking to my alter ego. You wouldn’t ask such stupid, mundane questions.
But the day or the night when I was still in bed, when I was sleeping, I dreamt of you, I talked to you. Have not done it in a while. I thought that you just let it go, these talks of ours across the boundaries of life and death. Thought maybe there is some allotted time that you can do that and maybe you have used it up. I don’t know. Remember? I am the one still left alive, never been consciously to the other side.
None of it is important really, anyway. I have dreamt of you in my sleep. It woke me up and there you were, next to me. No, I couldn’t see you, but you were there talking to me, you were saying something important. You said that I have to understand that I am alone. That adjective ‘alone’ stood up as a mountain, a wall impregnable, forest too dense to walk out of it. I was getting used to be ‘alone’ in an adverb form.
Since I came back to our home, our former life here, in this city, this province, I have become very busy in many aspects: walks, friends, beaches, concerts, plans. It was just hard to go back to our home, our street. So I did it very seldom, hoping that it will allow me to function as normal as possible. And it did. Had evenings in bars, laughter, maybe a flirt or two. It seemed normal, I was spared any regrets. It was almost as I would finally get across that invisible line of Doctor Time, who heals old wounds; whose grief becomes first bearable, then transforms itself into a memory. Memory that is sad, but also happy that we did have our time, we found each other among the millions of people. As I was told many times, that it will get easier.
You think that was an expectation too easy, perhaps? I am not, after all, just a single guy ready for the picking and ready for harvesting. Is there anything wrong with it, isn’t it logical, practical?
I have reached to my writings of the early days after you were gone, to the first winter after you were gone and my constant visits to the gravesite in Pictou. Yes, that old ancestral town, where we were going to build our home, and spent the rest of our lives in that home. We did not.
(notes from my writings after John’s passing by the end of November 2022)
One year. It is hard as hell. Came to Pictou to spent time on the cemetery where we put your ashes. It’s windy, very cold. Desolate place. There was no one else there, on the cemetery. I know – it is only a stone with your name on it. Yours, your parents, and your baby brother you never had a chance to know. And now, there is also your oldest brother Fraser, who was laid there just few months ago.
Cleaned around a bit, threw away old winter flowers, and fixed things. Fixed things? How to ‘fix things’? Nothing can be fixed, when everything is broken.
Yes, I know that you are not there, not under the ground. You are with me. Forever. I have engraved on that stone myself that you are forever in my memory. I looked at the letters and smiled. In my memory, really? That’s what it all came to? Our Love, our life: to be remembered? How silly words could be, when they try to describe emotions, feelings. But still hoped that many years from now, when all of us, who knew you and me, would be gone – a stranger would wonder to that gravesite and he would think, that the guy who is buried there was indeed ‘non omnis moriar’, that part of him lived in that other guy’s heart. Nice thought.
You and that Love of ours are engraved not on the stone, but in my soul.
Me? I don’t remember who I was before I met you. I was just waiting. Waiting and searching for you – and I have found you.
Now, now it is almost three years later. I am here, back to our good life on the shores of the other ocean. Were we had home, a nest, were we had dozens of friends, people we cherished and who cherished us. Some were common, ours; others were exclusively yours or mine. The two halves of Us were surprisingly very independent and strong, if only by the constant knowledge that the other half is there to make it whole.
I don’t have that knowledge anymore. The other half is gone, it is just me left. The many people I have known, and who sought my presence are still here. Not all of them, granted. Some have left either this life (as you), or this city. But some are still here. None seem to really need me. I am not sure I need them. Of course there is some curiosity, some friendly waving of a hand: how nice to see you again, you are looking good … and so on. I thought that I would need to search for them myself, that I would want it very much. But if I’m always finding excuses and ‘important things’ that prevent me from doing it – am I really?
I have one important friend and strangely enough one with the shortest amount of time we spent in this city before we left for Nova Scotia. Less than a year, I think. After my dearest nephew had to go back to Poland, but still this young and very mature nephew was my angel in the first month after John was gone. Then my niece with her husband and son came to stay with me. But he, that younger friend of mine from Vancouver somehow helped me in the dark months after I was left alone in Halifax. The rest seemed like eternity. An eternity of being in hell, or waiting for the hell’s gates to be open to swallow my world. At these dark times that younger friend kept me connected to the world and people by phone. Our long conversations were instrumental of me getting the skeleton of myself back into me.
So I did return. To the place of Our home, our happiness. The places somehow were the strongest magnet for me. I submerged myself in going alone, for days on end, on long walks through parks, streets, squares, building were we lived, were my mom lived, were I was with my sisters, my nephew and niece. Places were calling me. Yes, places, much more than people.
I think that we all have these special places, sometime in many countries, on different continents. Special places that act as an anchor of ship of life. Where we can drop that anchor and stay safely in some magical Bay of Memories.
It is also a time to untie that line across the sides of our two separate boats: mine and the one belonging to my younger dear friend. He has journeys to make across the sea himself. His journey, not ours. That is also a part of me being alone. My boat is rusted a bit, engines are old. It will still make it though, the last long sailing, perhaps passing the Cape of Hope (not the Cape of Horn), back to original shipyard of its maiden voyage. Then I will rest.
After that rest, I will go alone on many walks to many places (some might not exist materially anymore, but will in my world) that will call me. Solitary walks. It will be like existing in two different dimensions.
One day, No, not in my sleep, perhaps suddenly, out of the blue I will see you taking the same trail or road and walking toward me, and I will stop being alone. I do hope so. Even in a faint split second before the big Nothingness.
The beauty and the beast? Not necessarily, the two very different solitudes offer both: the mundane and the beautiful.
The other day an escape by dusk to Crescent Beach in South Surrey. Not the first one this year, and hopefully not the last one. The clothed and clothed optional beaches there are a think to admire and very different at different times of the day – low or high tide. Seems like a wilderness, but very rocky and a train track right above the stretch of waterfront makes it perhaps not tranquil to all. But there is also a true beauty in the view of beauty of naked human body. No, not only the very young, muscular and shapely. Human body is beautiful in all fragile forms – from very young to truly old. Without the foreign coverings of clothing – it shines in own natural radiance of vulnerability.
… and then, there is a city. New Westminster pier along the Fraser River. A living organism, too. Like sea and human body could be old or shiny new; opulent and crumbling old; showing the tooth of time and vision of tomorrow. Which one is better or more true to it’s own destiny? We don’t know. For we are only judges of our own time and epoch.
My Canada from ocean to an ocean, from the shores of Atlantic to the shores of Pacific, from Halifax to Vancouver. My Canada intrinsically tied to my John, our Love; his gift to me. Through our meeting and romantic story straight form the pages of Petrarka ‘Beatrice”, from the ancient lovers of Greeks and Macedonians, of Mesopotamians, of Sumerians.
Would I have loved thee if I never met John? Likely, for what there is not to love about thee, Canada? But it would have never consumed me as much, would have never made me such a fervent and ardent lover of this country. My personal private love of John’s Canada for ever etched in my soul and mind.
Halifax Atlantic Fleet
Let’s start with were it all begin in earnest, from our first own home belonging only to us. We met and fell in love almost on the slopes of towering peaks of Rocky Mountain. But it wasn’t till 1994 when we came here, to Greater Vancouver to start a new life in our first own apartment – our Home. On Capitol Hill in North Burnaby. But truly – for us here it is just one big Vancouver. A galery past and recent pictures of that amazing city on the shores of Pacific.
I just noticed that most of the pictures are of people much more than places … . But it is true – it is the people dear or important to you that makes a place – Home. A true home. Where you ar not a tourist, you belo g there, you are IT. My family, dear friends from work and my art promotor activities with poets, actors, musicians from Canada and Poland.
and Atlantic with Halifax – where it all begun for Canada, for entire North America de facto.
Thus end my own journey across the continent, from West to East, and back to West. My Journey of Love, love gifted to me by my own personal love, John. He was, still is in some way, my love to Canada, love of Canada. It begun some odd forty years ago. It didn’t change, it grew stronger perhaps. In a world of growing tensions, being ripped apart, sold to the highest bidder by two megalomaniacs, one from New York and Florida, other from murderous shadows of Kremlin – this country remained true to it’s Canadian core: polite, smiling, carrying. My Canada – a gift that I received from John. Gift of love to good, country, good people. Caring – as he was.
What an interesting concert it was. Not often do I go listening to very young (I mean – kids, not even late teens) pupils of a musical school. Sometime maybe to very young prodigy – such was the case of Jan Lisiecki[i] (Jas – as I still call him, despite his international stardom), but not to entire group of really young kids. Remember going to recitals in an old Warsaw Conservatory of Music on Oczko Street or Vancouver Conservatory of Music – but they were young students in their late teens or early twenties, not kids by any means.
Truth being told, I was looking mostly to the second part with Zbigniew Raubo, whom I didn’t listen to for a long time. I mean in person, on stage, not from electronic recording.
But it was a very nice and happy surprise. They all sort of knew what they were doing by the keyboard, LOL. I’m sure they had to overcome a huge anxiety being in front of relatively big audience full of their teachers, parents, and some famous piano players. Part of their studies is certainly guidance for avoiding stage fright, but still – stage fright is a powerful foe.
The School concert hall (on the back of the proper VSO “Orpheum” building) is very nicely designed. It is more long then wide and instead of acoustic paneling it plays on the original shape of the room. To assist the travelling of the sound and avoid echo (horror!) large wooden beams on the old masonry walls were attached aiding not only the harmony of sound, but also a pleasant visual effect. I would think of modest seating capacity circa 150 seats, maybe with added rows of chairs up to 200.
Of course it would be wrong to write a typical review and trying to be smart by pointing to minor mistakes, imperfections of the young students playing, especially if all of them were well prepared. Therefore these are just going to be general notes of what they played and overall impression how they did it. After all, music is just another way of writing a story. It just uses different alphabet, instead of letters it writes in notes; instead of grammar rules and signs, it uses its own grammar: crescenda, flats (skewed letter of ‘b’ ha ha), sharps (#), and on top of that there is different annotating for major and minor scale. Not to mention that composers sometime make their own personal written advice how a piece should be played. But enough of that, It is not a beginners course of music.
Sophie Meng was very first to perform, a diminutive frame of very young girl, perhaps the youngest of them all. The huge Steinway piano looked like a black mountain in front of her light figure – impenetrable and towering. I observed her hands as their traversed the keyboard and was wondering how much she has to stretched them to cover an octave! That observation leads to another: small-frame pianists play with their hands on the keyboard, full-sized (what a terrible description, LOL) use their fingers, which must be less exhausting and tiring. In more grueling concerts you will sometime find pianist submerging their swollen hands in icy water to remedy their muscle and joint stress.
She played very pleasant a Mazurka in C Major, Op.24. I let myself follow her play into the dream: like she was not playing – she was running on some green field with young Frycek (diminutive of Frederic). That was a nice vision a young Chopin would certainly approve of. What was particularly worth noticing, was the way she kept a perfect harmony by keeping the main musical theme of the composition always in the background, always present. Even if not played at that moment – it still lingered in your memory.
Charlotte Deng played Scherzo in B-flat minor, Op. 31. Herself looking like a cherub, she easily displayed a maturity that surprised me, perhaps a dose of self confidence? These could be uplifting or dangerous emotions for a very young player.
Her physical control of the instrument was visible, as was her aura of confidence. At times maybe the music came a tiny bit too strong, too forte? I smiled – an ‘old hand’ in a body of a youngster. Her posture at the piano, the way she used physically her arms and hands on th keyboard again emanated maturity. Just that the ‘maturity/ was perhaps more a stage performance, not an inner feeling since at moments the music was overplayed on forte. Naturally the true poetic soul[ii] of the music returned fully with the arpeggios. The finale naturally goes back to first section, and was played very well with an elegant coda.
Stephanie Yueyou Liu presented the audience with Waltzin A-flat Major, Op. 34. Her keyboard skills were excellent. At times I thought I am loosing the smoothness of the waltz melody though, as the keyboard skill muted a bit the soul, yet – she re-paid in a very wonderful finale.
Brain Sun played Ballade in G minor, Op. 23. I felt that he thought very deeply of the structure and meaning of the music he was going to play. Would like to listen to his interpretation once more, as for some reasons his intervals and use of pedals seemed a bit odd – and the full impression escaped me. Fackt that I nonetheless wanted to hear him again simply meant that I liked it, That’s easy – and at the very end that is all that matters.
Joshua Kwan played Barcarolle in F-sharp Major, Op.60. His play quickly established very strict control of the instrument, of timing. No rushing, no ‘elongation’ of notes. Smiling to myself, I thought that this guy does not need a metronome on the piano.
Brian Lee in Etude A minor, Op.25. He would let his right hand in quick passages to overtake, or silenced his left hand leading the subject and tempo. It is a difficult composition for a young player. It provokes almost to fly too high, to shine in it’s sounds. Perhaps in its bravado-like finale it is hard to stress the last notes, as you mind is still overflowing with melodies of previous section. He played with full bravado. I must say that one must admire the guts of very young player (or teacher, who tells him to play it, LOL) choosing it. It is just about the most difficult technically etude Chopin composed. Frederic contemporaries in Paris didn’t like it that much exactly for that reason – for being technically challenging to play.
Thus ended the student’s part. After the intermission we were served full musical dinner with three very different and very popular dishes. Maestro Zbigniew Raubo, s’il vous plait.
Zbigniew Raubo, although dedicated very much to his teaching of music, is an accomplished concert pianist himself, known to many of the best stages of the world both as a pianist and with an orchestras. He finished Katowice’s[iii] Karol Szymanowski’s Academy of Music, where he later become a pedagogue himself. During his career he took part and received top prizes and distinctions in many European music festivals.
Currently he teaches at the Vancouver Chopin Society associated with VSO School of Music. His partner in the teaching staff there is another great acclaimed Polish pianist Wojciech Świtała and last but not least by any means – young Polish-Swedish[iv] pianist, Carl Petersson.
I will not write a typical review of maestro Raubo concert in 2nd part of that evening. Would be unfair to the young participants – his and his colleagues’ pupils – to even try to draw any comparisons. That was an evening for the young ones. The ‘master class’ of Zbigniew Raubo was a glass of champagne to the audience for showing up to celebrate his students achievements. Just a list of Chopin’s compositions he presented: Polonaise C-sharp minor, Op.26; Mazurka A-flat Major, Op. 50; Mazurka C-sharp minor, Op. 50; Nocturne D-flat Major, Op. 27; Waltz A-flat Major, Op. 34, and Polonaise A-flat Major, Op. 53.
Yet, one distinction I must make. Chopin’s music and perhaps hundreds of concerts of his music I have listened to is in a way almost like some familiar songs you sing sometimes to yourself without even noticing it. It become sort of part of your nature, grows on you. Especially if it was a normal part of your very early childhood, when you don’t treat it with reverence, but as something normal, part of the routine. The reverence and deeper understanding of it comes later, as you grow up. It makes it a bit like a emotional but also intellectual luggage, not always very convenient. There are (very rare indeed, thank god) concerts you wish you didn’t buy the tickets for. There are (even more rare, phew!) concerts you just wait for the intermission to … leave and go home such is the disappointment. Because you know so many of the compositions, you heard them so many times. But I still find (not as often as many years ago) musician, who just takes my breath away. It has nothing to do with brilliant playing born out of amazing skills. On some level you expect it, too. No, it is the other part, one beyond the skill of playing. It is capturing the essence of the poetry of particular composition, the emotional part of it. The soul (yes, maybe not all humans have souls – but true art always does, without exemption).
Zbigniew Raubo did it to me with his interpretation of Chopin’s Nocturn in D-flat Major. I can’t remember when, was the last time I was touched by that composition so strongly. Music, like a poem, has a story to tell. At times it is not even the story the composer intended or thought of. No, it is your story, story getting life form as you listen to that music. I heard it that evening, intertwined between notes, phrases, and letters and words. Can’t remember the exact text of the story – but remember hearing very clearly, as the music was played. Thank you, Zbigniew Raubo.
from top left:
pic. 04 -Patrick May one of the top organizer of Van. Chopin Society; pic. 06 – prof. Wojciech Świtała, famous Polish pianist; last picture – Board of Directors of Van. Chopin Society and from left: W. Świtała, Zbigniew Raubo and last Polish-Swedish pianist Carl Petersson.
It is continuation of my journey back in time, to the late 90ties of previous century. To the time me and John arrived to BC from Alberta and lived on Capitol Hill there. We were young, in love and the city had such a cosmopolitan taste to it.
From the very top of the Hill, right at the end of our street, there was a forest and a trail I have taken many times toward the Confederation Park. But before I got to the Park, I used to walk there through trails less travelled, wild actually. At the end of these wild overgrown trails I had a secret, invisible to most, narrow access to the shore. I used to call it ‘beach’, but truth being told – it wasn’t a beach at all, just a very rocky outpost, surrendered by rusty and cement relics of an old industrial activity from many years ago. But it always offered me tranquil time to think, relax, sunbath at times. To observe the busy fjord in it’s full glory, and the North and East Vancouver on the opposite shore. It is amazing how busy the fjord is commercially – pipes and pumping stations to transfer the oil from tankers, pleasure crafts. But mostly the industrial, the heavy lifting so to speak, often not noticed by a typical visitor-tourist.
In fact not that much has changed. The Inlet still is a ‘working horse’ for the economy of this region. Just in a more cleaner, efficient way then in the old days. But rusted scraps are visible in that wild shore everywhere.
Maybe first just a few photos from my way toward Capitol Hill via very long walk along the Nanaimo Street in East Vancouver.
…. and the Hill and shore
… from there I wen back to civilization (why I don’t know, LOL) to lovely Confederation Park. It did change a lot, too. Back in my time it was mainly just a vast green space, lots of benches to sit, group of old Italian guys playing bocci in the dirt. Now there are sport fields and tracks for running everywhere, huge sport and aquatic pavilion, and the old Italian guys are gone, too …
Wawa called me from New West and offered to pick me up by car. I can’t say that I wasn’t happy to have this boy as my dear friend (I know that he is rather grown up man – but being my friend he has to put up with me calling him a ‘boy’, LOL). My age gives one some level of impunity from punishment, ha ha ha. By the time he called I was exhausted and my legs (not just the injured one, but both) just had enough. But now that I had a car and driver – why going home?! Of course we went up Hasting, turned on the north side of Burnaby Mountain toward Port Moody and visited a narrow, old beach on the very narrow part of the fjord. I used to come to that beach many a times and swim in the very deep and rather fast moving water. That was an icing on the top of the cake of my long escapade. after that – just a pleasant chat and drive home (in Wawa’s car, naturally).
The entire day, just like the previous day, stirred a lot of memories of the best years of my private life.
Here is the visit to that narrow strip of Burrard Inlet.
Wśród licznych i słynnych parków miejskich w Wielkim Vancouverze niezbyt często słychać tą nazwę: Park Niedźwiedziego Potoku. W broszurach turystycznych znajdziecie informacje oczywiście o Stanley Park, o Parku Królowej Elżbiety, o Ogrodach Van Dusen. A Bear Creek Park w Centrum Surrey jest warty każdej minuty tam spędzonej – dla spacerowiczów, dla sportowców, dla amatorów sztuki.
Dla mnie ma też bardzo silny wymiar emocjonalny związany z masą wspomnień i wizyt tam od wielu, wielu lat.
Among many world-famous parks in Greater Vancouver you might not find mentions of Bear Creek Park. More than likely you will hear of Stanley Park, Van Dusen Gardens, Queen Elizabeth Park, perhaps Central Park in Burnaby. The truth is that located near Downtown Surrey, Bear Creek Park has a lot to offer. It is an amazing conglomerate of long trails, has a big Art Centre, large outdoor stadium, even swimming pool. Don’t forget lovely and magical little train for young passengers! For myself? A huge bag of sweet memories of many visits by myself and with people very close to my heart.
I fioletowa jacaranda. Strojna, jak Pani Pompadour, jak księżniczka hinduska na dworze maharadży. Jacaranda, która zapachniała po raz pierwszy dla mnie ponad pół wieku temu w pięknym eseju Pablo Nerudy. Iwaszkiewicz bardzo pięknie ten esej przetłumaczył w jednym z wydań miesięcznika “Poezji”. Były to lata 70te ubiegłego stulecia, miałem chyba 16 lat? Zapachniała mi wtedy słodko, odurzająco. Tak, jak teraz ta jaccaranda w Surrey, w Parku Niedźwiedziowego Strumienia. Jest ta sama, w tym samym miejscu, gdzie odwiedzałem ją 15-20 lat temu. Przychodziłem sam, z mamą, z Damiankiem, z Johnem. Łaziliśmy tu w dni letnie, wiosenne, czasem przyjeżdżałem rowerem. I zawsze ja witałem, jako dobrą znajomą. Kochankę Nerudy? Może moją?
W lokalnym Centrum Sztuki i teatrze organizowałem z Krystyną Połubińska i naszym ‘Pegazem’ wystawy lokalnej sztuki polskich artystów, koncerty muzyki.
Słyszę śmiech mamy i Damianka, gdy żartowali ze mnie. I ja śmiałem się z nimi serdecznie, bo gniewać się na nich nie potrafiłem. Miło jest wrócić do miejsc, w których kiedyś byłem. Ale to smutny uśmiech. Po prawdzie nie jestem pewny, że tu jestem teraz. Może i ja tamten już nie istnieję? Może jestem tylko jego cieniem, niewyraźnym odbiciem w wodzie. Mój świat jakby został zamknięty przez Czarodzieja Czasu w szklanej kuli. Ludzie podchodzą i oglądają. Napis objaśniający przed kulą zaczyna się od słów: ‘Był tu kiedyś …’. Był. Kiedyś.
A jacaranda kiwa gałązkami, jak głową. Mówi: Nie prawda. Ja cię poznałam i od razu zawołałam: jesteś tu, dawno cię nie widziałam. Dobrze, że wróciłeś. Idź w swoje ścieżki, w knieje. Jeżyny w tym roku obrodziły.
To poszedłem i pełne garście czerwonych i żółtych połykałem i tym śmiesznym zajęciem poczułem się u siebie.
> > Pogwarki < < 