It was a skill, a tradition passed on from generation to generation. We did it at special Polka masses at the Polish Catholic church. We did it at every baptism, wedding and even funerals. If there was a reason for celebrating, there was reason to Polka.
Babcia, babcia polka’d everywhere and all the time. She was so good at polka’ing that she could multi-task as she polka’d. Well as long as the other task involved something Polish, she could multi-task.
She could cook Polish sausage and polka. She could pray Polish prayers and sing Polish hymns while she polka’d. Babcia could play cards, gamble, win every pot and never stop polka’ing. She was such an exquisite polka dancer that she could even drink Polish beer, polka and never spill one drop.
But if she had to do something non-Polish, then she had to stop polka’ing. That to babcia was as much of a sin as running out of Polish beer at a Polish Festival. Northeast Minneapolis definitely isn’t as dedicated or detail orientated as the Poles in Wisconsin. One of the many reasons babcia carried her purse cooler filled with Polish beer.
We polka’d and drank. We partied and prayed…everywhere and all the time!
Copyright: Theresa Dolata