My second-cousin’s
first wedding’s second reception
Way down in downtown
Hamtramck, a.k.a. “Pole Town”
Up two
flights of creaky brown stairs to the banquet room
Which sits
atop Polonia restaurant with its red neon sign
(The
restaurant which, I found out later, also catered the event)
At the top of
the stairs and to the left
I see the
bride in a unusual white dress
Untraditional,
to say the least, but obviously bridal
“Welcome to
My Big Fat Polish Wedding” she jokes, smiling
I remember
her as a child, about twenty years ago
She had a
habit of calling people “Bumble Bee”
And so that
was always my nick-name for her
She
introduces me to her groom, who shakes my hand, smiling
A
curly-haired fellow, merry-eyed behind round spectacles
I like him
instantly, somehow knowing him to be a good guy
(Perhaps
because I know she’d never pick otherwise)
Then I’m off
to find myself a seat
I walk by
table after table of people, mostly strangers
But a few
seem semi-familiar, though all are busy chatting
And way back
in the corner I spy my Uncle Tom and his son
Uncle Tom was
always a favorite of mine
Always has a
story to tell, and always ready to tell them
(Which makes
my half of the conversation considerably lighter)
One by one,
other relatives notice me and stop by to see me
Cousins and
uncles I’d not seen for quite awhile
My
face-mapping memory bank updates with new data
I feel the
personal paradigm shift
As years
passed are logged into my mental files
There’s a
polka band, of course, as there always is
And soon
conversations grow louder
The bride and
groom do a ‘first dance’ polka
And soon
others join in, as they always do
Tradition can
be a wonderful thing
After a short
set, the band takes a break
And it’s time
for my favorite part: Dinner
One by one,
tables are sent to the buffet line
And, of
course, my table is always last
But that’s
okay, I’m just hungrier when I finally get in line
I grab a
plate and slowly drift through the queue
Eyeballing
steaming trays of kielbasa and sauerkraut
And stuffed
cabbage, called “Golumpki” (but spelled Golabki)
And steamed
vegetables (not on MY plate!)
And breaded
chicken cutlets
And dumplings
and spiced potato wedges
I take my
heavy plate back to my table
Afterwards,
I’m wonderfully stuffed and palate-pleased
So I slip
back to the open bar to find
Two Polish
bottled beers I had spied
And both of
which I’d never tried
The first,
whose name unfortunately eludes me, was rich and smooth
The second
was an easy-drinking beer called Okocim (abbreviated “O.K”)
While I’m
sipping my beers the talking continues
Stories from
the past, often with a bit of humor
Shared
memories that make my heart smile
This is the
part I miss most when it’s too long between visits
Too soon I
have to leave, for I can’t stay too late
I work my way
to the door through a sea of goodbyes
Each one
heart-felt and true from both sides
Hugs are
given and received here and there
Then it’s
back down two flights of creaky brown stairs
Back out into
the cool night, past the red neon sign
And back into
the cold car for the long drive home
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