A Cold Morning

This morning it is very cold. It remind me of deep Polish winter of my youth, although only like duck is to egg. Each morning, my father, great military leader Stanislaw Czerniak would pen final comments for his newspaper item POLISH FIRE and then engage with me to run around stable yard for a half hour, to fill lungs with breath of life he say. On occasion, after heavy storm we would perhaps make but one circuit treading up to waists in freezing snow, until stable lad arrive and with cheery whistle clear all of snow before lunch. I remember one time snow was as deep as my head and my father give me spade. He say: tunnel, my boy. Make tunnel.


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