Her silk scarf fluttered in the breeze as she walked the old ghost of a farm that was once her parents back in the little Polish community of Pulaski, Wisconsin. The scarf tied around her head, like a babushka, had detailed etching of the Polish Eagle Emblem on it. She walked remembering the days of that farm. The Polish Hens, the horses, the corn and wheat fields, and the fresh smell of manure from the cows had infiltrated her nares. She used to gather the eggs with her six older sisters. Her six older brothers worked hard in the fields. She was like the bakers dozen because she was really too little to do anything anyway. They just let her think she was working like everyone else. Everyone on Sunday though, after bathing, was equally dressed up in their Sunday’s best attire for mass at Saint Stanislaw’s Catholic Church. The mass was not in Latin but in Polish from beginning to end so all the people of the community could understand. The Polish community clung tightly to the language of their people. Only teaching Polish in the schools and having only Polish spoken at church and in the homes, the community preserved its culture and thrived. They were the Old Country in the New Country clinging tight to who they were. Proud of their Polish Heritage as am I.
Copyright Theresa Dolata