The Next Thing I Know near Szczyrzyc

Try to pronounce this lovely village town in southern Poland

"Bardzo mi miwo," I say to Babcha upon arrival. We'd been weaving our way through the villages and farmland of southern Poland, where towns have names unpronouncable to American ears. "Oh, Szczyrzyc!" we yell, passing through that very town, which sounds something like "Jesus."

Gosia and her Babcha

"Vitam," I think Babcha says back.  Her "welcome" to my initial "nice to meet you."

The next thing I know I'm getting the sheep from the pasture, plucking sweet cherries from the tree, jumping on the side "seat" of the tractor and careening through small creeks on our way to the local rock quarry, where for just a nominal 20 zlotys (60 cents), young cousin Marchin, the expert machine operator, claws and scoops out the black rock pebbles and then dumps them with ease into the tractor cart, and we're heading back to the farm to build a driveway.

Szczyrzyc! That guy sure knows how to handle a plow.