More memories....

When I was ten years old, that was a very rough year for me. A lot happened to me that year, some of it very good and some of it very bad. I started the year out getting hit by a car in the neighborhood. It was my fault. I was riding my best friend, Janet's new blue Schwinn and I rode right out the end of her drive way and into traffic. I hurt my left knee, scraped it up good. From the outside, there were no other injuries so my Mom swabbed Mercurochrome on it and wrapped a bandage on it and sent me on my way with a warning not to be so stupid. Years later, of course, there was damage to that knee and I have a hard time with it ever since but that's neither here nor there.

That summer something else bad happened to me but I'm not going to go into that now. One huge bad thing that I will write about - it felt bad at the time - was that my Dad sold his bar/restaurant that had been my only home and moved us to the dreaded "South side" of town. South side at that time is pretty much midtown these days but back then moving anywhere south of 60th street seemed like a whole other city! I didn't want to go! I was leaving everything I knew and loved and I was NOT happy about it. My sister, the only other sibling left at home, couldn't care less. She was going to be one block from St. Joe's where she went to school and that was a good thing for her. I was going to St. George's, back in the old neighborhood. The only reason I didn't have to change school was because my mom taught second grade at St. George's. So I got to stay there. If I had lost that too I would have been a nutcase that year!

So, we moved. And guess what? I made new friends in my new neighborhood and they were all pretty cool kids. And the neighbor had a pool so I didn't really even miss Lake Michigan all that much.

Then came Christmas...
Now I'm not sure how my mom packed our stuff when we were moving. I know that for about two months we couldn't find my gym shoes so I got out of gym class for that! At Christmas, we always put each ornament back in it's original boxes and carefully placed in three large trunks. It was that way every single year. But the year we moved, we couldn't find our angel anywhere. We had the coolest old angel on our tree. I think my parents got it back in the 30's and she was a bit worse for wear but she looked like Greta Garbo in sparkles and when you got her on the tree she shined like a goddess and it all was right with the world. Putting that angel on the tree was the grand finale to decorating. She was the last piece...the one we all waited for...long after the last strand of tinsel had been placed. Once she was there we all stood back in childlike wonder. And now...we moved and she was GONE!!

I couldn't take it. After all the horrible things that I had been through that year I needed that angel. I needed that small tattered harbinger of hope that everything was going to be okay...but she was gone. I wailed. I cried. I accused my mom of throwing her away. I was inconsolable. My poor mom searched everywhere for that angel. She was just plain gone.

That was my dad's cue. Now my dad was a peace loving man. He never liked conflicts of any kind which, as a kid, often could work to my advantage. If I wanted something and my mom said no, I could pitch just enough of a fit to have my dad given in. I was sneaky like that sometimes. On this night, however, my dad was the knight to the rescue. He told me that this was a new home and a new year was coming and we had to make sure that our tree was ready for all the good changes that would be coming our way. He put on my coat and hat and took me right then and there to Wilson's. Now, if you are from Kenosha, you remember Wilson's. You could get anything there. Even a myna bird. They had a hundred angels to choose from. Well, to a grief stricken ten year old it seemed like hundreds. It was probably more like 15. My dad told me to take my time. He said this wasn't something you rushed because that angel was going to be with us for a long time and we wanted to make sure she was the special one with the special blessings. I looked at all of them. They were all very pretty. Some in white and gold, some in green and red. And then there was her. The one in white with silver trim. She held onto two small candles that actually lit up when she was plugged in. But her face...that was what got me. She had this tiny, half-knowing, comforting smile on her porcelain face. I knew instantly she was the one.

That angel was on our tree for the next 40 years. When my mother moved out of her home, I took that angel home with me. Last year, she sat in front of our tiny table top tree with her candles glowing hopefully in the night. This year, I couldn't find her. I know she is here somewhere, just as my mother knew our old angel was somewhere back when I was ten. Maybe that's how the angels do it. They are here when we need them most and then they simply disappear and it's time to find a new angel to bring you special blessing for the next part of your life.

Christmas Memories...

I've had a lot of Christmases in my lifetime so I thought I'd take the next few days to share a few of them. Some are good, some are not so good but all of them I hold in my heart.

One Christmas I will always remember is one that happened when I was about three years old. I think it's my earliest memory and I think I only remember it so well because we have photographs to prove it happened. I was a rough and tumble kind of kid. I loved to play and when I played, I played hard. Family photos show me looking very "ragamuffin" most of the time with dirt and food and whatnot all over me. One set of photos from a Christmas long ago was no different.

What I remember about that Christmas was two things, mainly. The first was the realization that all my siblings were home together at one time. I don't recall living with my older siblings at all! We have that large an age gap between us but I clearly remember being very excited when I three because my brother and older sisters were all at home and they loved to play with me and it was just a time of out and out fun! I remember decorating our big natural tree and then once all the huge, hot lights were on it I remember having tinsel on it, piece by piece. My mom let me do it even though I mostly put big clumps on the tree and not the dainty way she did it. No one uses tinsel anymore, do they? I know it was pretty much banned when it was discovered to have lead in it but there was nothing so beautiful as that huge tree shining with all the silver tinsel. I loved that. I remember lying on my back with my head under the tree looking up at the lights and the silver and thinking it was as close to heaven as a three year old could get.

This was also the year that I wanted to give gifts to my family. My mom let me take things from around the house and wrap them and put them under the tree. I think I gave her her own spatula for Christmas that year and I remember giving my sister a potato. Haha! It's the thought that counts and I wanted to give them something.

But the best part of that Christmas was what I found on Christmas morning. Santa never let me down and I am still a firm believer that he does exist. In my stocking, every year like clockwork, there were peanuts, an orange, an apple and a banana and one Chocolate Santa. I got this same stocking year after year into adulthood and it was the best stuff on earth. There was no need for tons of candy or silly stocking stuffers. That orange, apple, banana and peanuts were like magic to me. I looked forward to them each year. But Santa also brought me something amazing that year. I got a baby doll almost as big as me who said "Mama" when you tipped her over and I got a red and white tricycle. I have a photo somewhere of me, with my Dutch boy hair cut, a mess of a sweater with some left over breakfast on it, my new tricycle and my brother all looking happy and having a blast.

I love Christmas to this day but I don't think we ever really appreciate it as much as when we were little. This year my family will have a whole new batch of brand new babies to celebrate with and I hope that seeing Christmas through a child's eyes will take me right back to that wonderful place of tinsel, oranges, baby dolls and tricycles.

Growing up Polish...

I realize that the name of my blog indicates that I'm Polish but I have said very little about what that has meant to me throughout my life. I am Polish on my mother's side. She is 100% Polish. Her father, my Grandfather, was born in Poland though we have two birth certificates for him and one of them says he was born in Germany. That's because at various times throughout it's history Poland was occupied by Germany, then liberated, then occupied again. He was definitely Polish. Stanislaus Rezske was his given name. When he came to the US he was called Stanley. My Grandmother was born here in the US, the first US born daughter to a Polish immigrant family. So, you see, I have strong Polish roots.

Growing up, my mother would lace her conversation with "splashes" of Polish language. When we asked what was for dinner, which we did incessantly, she was get frustrated and tell us we were having "piat". Later, I found out that was the slang equivalent to crap. If we were acting like fools, which we did frequently, she would calls us a "bunch of dupas"! Again, later I realized she was calling us asses. When my mother would be with her sisters they would talk about growing up on the old farm and the great Polish food my Grandmother used to make. For us, Polish food is now synonymous with Christmas.

Being raised before Vatican 2 meant that we good Catholics (well, I was at that time) could not eat meat before Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. We would have an early dinner of smoke salmon and salads. Then later, after Midnight Mass, which back then was truly at Midnight so after Midnight Mass usually meant 2 or 3 AM, we would have a Polish Christmas breakfast. This consisted of kishka, kielbasa, cookies, cakes, eggs, and home made cinnamon rolls. Kishka is a Polish sausage made of pigs blood. Kielbasa is a fattier smoked sausage. Delicious! We would sing carols and open our gifts on Christmas Eve staying up into the wee hours of the morning. It was magical. It still is and we still always have kishka and kielbasa each Christmas Eve.

A while ago my sister came across a cassette of my mom and one of her sister's singing Polish Christmas carols in Polish. It's priceless.

So what does it mean to be Polish? It means good food, good fun, hard work ethic, and strong, unbreakable family ties. I thank Stanislaus and Anna for that. My Grandparents instilled that in their girls and they've passed it on to their children. I'm proud of my Polish side. And my Irish side too. But there will be more about that side at another time!