After one week in America, Apolonia spoke to her brother in Poland over the phone.  "Dearest Michael.  This is just like Eden."  Michael flooded the trans-Atlantic lines with heart felt tears that afternoon. She, the older sister, lovingly consoled him by describing America as a land of genuinely nice people. "I'm not coming back, Michael."  Apolonia painted a picture for him highlighting how happy people were even without sunshine.  "I am in heaven."  Nearing ninety-years-old her eyes have been smiling in a friendlier country.

Turns out that Apolonia Karwowski, the matriarch of our family who for years spat on the ground and threw salt over her shoulder when we mentioned America, isn't as stubborn as we all remembered her.  Which means that stubbornness might not run as deep in the veins of the Karwowski women as we had always thought.  And might actually have more to do with nurture.  I'm pretty much screwed at this point because I've always blamed it on genetics, for not only myself but my daughters as well.  That was the foundation for many cases in which I pleaded insanity and provided credible evidence.  Apolonia!

"Don't get out of da crib."  Fifi rocked the cradle while modeling a frequent occurrence at our house, through play.  "You no listen to me baby.  Sleep.  Now!  Stay in da bed, baby."

Either I have to model a more nurturing night-time ritual or purchase an iron curtain to surround her bed.  Seeing that she is fifty percent Polish, the iron curtain is more fitting.

Pass the salt.  I no longer have a case.