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| Polish Black Madonna |
I hear my ancestors calling, reaching out beyond the mists of their time to mine with their murmurs of lives lived hard and fast. Poland was the land whence they came, leaving behind a country ruled by three powers: Austria, Germany and Russia. They arrived in different harbors of America's Eastern seaboard before the Great War. A grandparent or two into Ellis Island in New York City's harbor, another grandfather into Baltimore. Somehow, they all found a home in Wilmington's Hedgeville, a Polish neighborhood anchored by St. Hedwig's church and the Polish American Legion hall.
These Polish folk are lost to me, I have half truths and bits and pieces of stories about them to share. Most of the men in my extended family drank and drank heavily. Boiler makers of beer and whiskey were downed one two three, while cigarette smoke encircled their bent heads as they shared news in their native language. If it were a Sunday afternoon the Polka Party would be playing on the radio, and they would be gathered together in one room while their wives visiting in the other. Sauerkraut and kielbasa sat cooking on the stove with the rye bread and butter near. Polish pound cake or babka all homemade for desert.
They worked jobs that many arriving immigrants hold: baker, gardener, barkeeper, construction worker, janitor. None in my immediate family were professionals and wouldn't even know the meaning of such a title. Their wives stayed at home tending the children, or worked when times were lean as housekeepers, laundry workers, childcare workers. My father's mother and father did not have a church wedding, but married quietly perhaps bringing my father into the world a little early. It was said that during the depression, my father's family ran a pool hall and perhaps offered bathtub gin. His dad ruled with an iron hand liberally applied to his wife and kids alike. His mom was hospitalized at some point for a mental condition. Nothing was ever clearly told to me as a child. Instead, the tensions seeped through the walls of their row home when we visited and I learned to sit on the front stoop until arguments ran their course in the living room.
My mother's father was a baker. He was a distant figure with a broad chest and long limbs who spoke more Polish than English. His wife had died in her 50's by stroke or some other cardiac incident. She never held me in her arms. Both of them shine in their wedding photos and live on in my memory forever young. Grandfather lived with us briefly, until his dementia hit hard and he was hospitalized in the local state hospital. I may have been around 6 when he died, for I remember the funeral well. The steep steps of St. Hedwig, the angels on the ceiling far above, the hymns all sung in Polish, the incense swung by young alter boys around the coffin.
When I think about it, I have 8 pairs of great-grandparents, 4 pairs of grandparents, 1 pair of parents, untold numbers of aunts, uncles and cousins dead and gone. So many lives, so many "I do's" to get me into the world. Sacrifices made in their journey across the Atlantic, to educate their children who were my parents who then pushed me forward with dreams of my own to make real and true. With arms extended, my wide peasant hips anchoring my body to the earth I offer praise and thanksgiving for them all.
So let the mists of time part tonight. Chocolates and lit pumpkins won't be necessary. I'll leave a bottle of whiskey open and some beer in the fridge in case any of the men of the family show up. Fresh babka and pound cake will be ready for the women. All are welcome. Dobry wieczor. Nie ma za co.
