Polish

My father died 15 years ago, in June of 1995. He was a pretty ordinary guy – never did anything that put him in the papers or on TV. He worked at the same job for the same organization for more than 44 years. He loved to bowl. He was a World War II Vet – a decorated one, though he never talked about it and we didn’t even know until a few years before he died. He was a great dad and I still miss him.

He was born in Hamtramck MI. He spoke only Polish until he was 6 years old and went to school. I grew up with Polish foods that he cooked, Polish music, and the odd Polish word and phrase. Even though my Mom is not of Polish heritage we were, at least a little, a Polish home.

My youngest brother and I have been the ones to keep up the few traditions – kielbasa for Christmas breakfast, cucumber salads with vinegar and sugar in the summer time, kapusta – sauerkraut – as a side dish. I like the music and the dances and own a Polish costume, thought I haven’t worn it in years. My father carried around a photo of me in that costume for quite a while. He loved the music, too.

This past weekend, while I was visiting Detroit, my mother and I went to the annual Polish Festival put on by the Polish Century Club. It’s in a new building in the suburbs – I guess the old one on Outer Drive is gone.

There was a kind of street fair; some booths were related to things Polish, and some weren’t. There was also a big tent with live music. We went there first, and listened. We were lucky to be able to see a dance performance of young people in authentic costumes. I was entranced! (Though I felt sorry for them; it was so hot for all that wool.)

Mom got a little teary and I joined her; we were both thinking of Dad. Mom said “I remember how his face lit up whenever he heard a polka”. My father was a good dancer and I treasure the memories of the few opportunities I had to dance with him.

We shared a “Polish plate” which gave us a taste of many of the dishes we used to eat all the time – pierogi, “city chicken”, kapusta, galobki, mashed potatoes (maybe they aren’t exclusively Polish but they were standard at our house and my father was great at making them). We agreed that the galobki wasn’t as good as Dad’s.

It was an unexpected trip down memory lane – sad but sweet – and a reminder of my roots. It’s a rare day that I don’t think of my father, but this was a special one.