My Polish-immigrant grandfather played a curious-looking concertina
accordion every evening in his third-floor flat. It had a floral pattern in the
squeeze-box folds, an incomprehensible
series of round silver buttons in the right
hand, and just five base notes in the left.
But could he make that instrument sing with
polka-tunes! As a little girl I wandered
upstairs to sit at his feet while that lively
three-step dance beat its way forever into
my soul. A few years later when I began
piano lessons, player and audience were
reversed. I practiced relentlessly on a tinny old castaway upright that my father
had dragged into our basement. But no matter -- my grandfather sat in rapture,
assuring me I played like Paderewski. Perhaps he heard the Polish rock-star pianist in 1939 in his last
concert at Chicago's Auditorium Theater, overflowing with his fans. Of course at that time I had no idea. I
only knew my grandpa listened to me tirelessly and admiringly.
In those days there were Polish weddings in our family every season. The
traditional Catholic morning wedding mass had brimming bridal parties but
afterwards families just scurried home to do afternoon chores. Guests came
back at night in their finest suits and cocktail dresses for a copious banquet always family-style - with Polish Sausage/sauerkraut the signature dish. And
then as the local polka band soared, the dancers began to fly! Women
predominated on the dance floor – moms, and aunts and girl cousins -- and I
bobbed with them all. But my father was the special dance partner I coveted
more than any other. An excellent ballroom dancer who courted my mother at
Chicago’s Aragon and Trianon ballrooms, he began my tutorials as soon as I
was old enough to stay awake. Guiding me with firm hand and twirling me
around so my dress billowed, we circled the dance floor endlessly until the
chandeliers were spinning and faces a blur. Wedding after wedding we danced,
with our last dance at my own wedding. He’s been gone for many years now but
there’s still no one who can ever replace him as my polka partner.
The women in my Polish-American family were singers. Choir singers, soloists,
accompanists. The church choir at St. Fidelis was their faith and their social
scene wrapped together. And they brought song to every Christmas celebration.
The Granackis’ life in Chicago started as an extended family in a crowded 6-flat
in Humboldt Park, each flat filled with family. So by the time my own family
had moved to our 3-flat on a wide, tree-lined street in Old Irving Park it seemed
like an estate. One year Christmas was at our house, the next, upstairs at my
Aunt and Uncle’s. But each flat had a piano and after the last Wigilia plate was
cleared and the men begun the kitchen clean-up, the women launched the
caroling. English songs at first, but then the Polish ones – Dzisiaj w Betlejem,
Gdy sie Chrystus Rodzi, and Auntie Joy’s special favorite, Lulajze Jesuniu. We
had sopranos, we had altos, and soon the men wandered back in to provide the
baritones. After my accompanist aunt could no longer play, I was an inadequate replacement, but I hoped
if I loudly led the song, the piano errors would go unnoticed. Age eventually diminished the sound of the
song but not the enthusiasm of the singers. These days I sing alto in a thoroughly American Catholic
Church choir but my aunts’ voices on their favorite Polish carols continue to haunt me every Christmas
Eve. Music of all kinds has been woven into my life, but it was the Polish-Catholic flavor in Chicago’s
old parishes that gave me the base.
Victoria Ann Granacki, Chicago, 2015