Statement number eight is true, too.  I play the violin.  Although I haven’t actually played my violin in nearly 12 years, I started violin lessons when I was nine years old.  I really loved playing violin for the first six years, but when I got to high school, I despised the instructor.  Mrs. Something-or-Other.  See?  I hated her so much I purposely forgot her last name.

I had aspirations of becoming a fiddler, not a violinist, in a polka band.  But Mrs. What’s-Her-Face was awful to me.  She told me I didn’t practice as much as the kids who took private lessons and therefore I would probably never be in a first chair seat or get solos in the orchestra.  I promptly dropped out of orchestra class and played the violin at home only once in awhile.

It depresses me to think that I missed 12 years of playing time and I probably don’t remember how to tune my violin.  I’ve been toying with the idea of taking lessons now, as an adult, but my fear is that I’m too old.  Isn’t that crazy?  I should really do it.  I think I’m going to consider it some more.

Congrats to Cheryl, Nadine & Leslie!  You are absolutely right.

Number nine is false.  I was not a bartender in New York City.  I was a bartender at my father’s tavern, Frank & Ernie’s starting at age 16 through age 25.  If we’re going to be technical about it, I actually started my tenure as a beer server at age 14 (while my father was present of course!) which means that I spent nine years working in a tavern.  Through good times and bad times, I’ve seen it all.

When I graduated high school, I had no plans to go to college right away.  I wanted to experience life and move to the big, bad city of New York.  I planned to withdraw every last penny from my savings account, move to NYC, get a bartending job,  and live with my high school friend.  My father put a stop to this by threatening to break all the windows of my car.  (I was going to drive there, BAD idea.)

Dad simply cared about me and when I wouldn’t listen to reason, you know, about money and city life and where I’d park my car and how I’d afford the rent and how I would prevent myself from getting killed — his car wrecking threat worked.

I still wish I’d have done it, though.  In the end my father was right.  I’d have been back home in 3 months, penniless and with a broken spirit.

Congrats to Cheryl and Nadine!  You’re answers were correct!

The last and final statement is true.  I purposely speak in a southern accent when I go out to bars with my friend Amanda.

Amanda is from Texarkana, Arkansas and we met in seventh grade.  We’ve been great friends ever since.  After high school she moved back south to go to college in Texas but after several years returned home.  Her parents live here in Wisconsin.

Amanda still has her southern accent, just like her Momma (who happens to be named Dana, too) and when we go out to bars I end up talkin’ like a suthin wumin and sayin’ things like “y’all” and “fixin’ to” and “sugah” and “sweetay” and “fo’ sho’” and “thas a’raht” (that’s all right).  It’s contageous and everyone gets quite a kick out of how well I speak suthin. 

Cheryl, Leslie, Karen and Nadine, y’all gots numba tin raht.  Great job!

From a very young age, say 10 years old, I knew that I wanted to be a mother someday.  Hell, if I could have had a child in high school, I very well may have done so.  Life would have been extremely difficult and my parents would have disowned me, but I couldn’t wait to have children.

My mother would scold me and tell me to stop wishing my life away.  She always said that things happen in our lives on their own time and that patience is a virtue.

I’m not a patient person.  I try to be.  I pray for God to grant me patience all the time.  That in itself is irony, don’t you think?

When Doug and I got engaged, I wanted my wedding to hurry up and be over with so we could work on the babymaking.  Needless to say, my awful fertility troubles didn’t end just because I told them to.  We tried everything the doctors suggested, even the fertility drug Clomid, in hopes of having a child.

After 2 unsuccessful years and no pregnancy, I had given up hope.  It was the Atkins diet that eventually got me pregnant and I won’t even tell you why I even tried it (food deprivation made me cranky) but I managed to lose 40 pounds on the diet and was pregnant after three months of cursing bread and pasta.  Coincidence or luck, who knows?  I was finally having a baby and life was perfect again.

In the first three months of pregnancy I was tired, cranky and suffered mild but frequent bouts of morning sickness and I had stranged dreams that I was having a girl.  But I knew deep in my belly,  a baby boy was growing.  I had always wanted a boy first. 

My mother had my youngest brother when I was 12 years old and I was familiar with changing diapers and making bottles and holding baby Frank.  I supposed I just expected that I would have a son.

Even when I had my ultrasounds, and little Dawson wouldn’t cooperate so we could find out his gender, I knew it was a boy.  I only chose boy’s names from the baby books.

It wasn’t until my 7th month that someone asked what name we had chosen if the baby was a girl.  I joked around and said Esther and that person offered the name Penelope.  I just laughed (and rolled my eyes when the person wasn’t looking).

I eventually found out I was having a boy in a last minute ultrasound right after I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia at 32 weeks.  My wish had come true and my little Dawson was born.

Congrats to Karen and Nadine.  You are correct yet again! 

I’d love to give you all the hilarious details of my first time, but some things are better left unsaid.  Afterall, it’s an intimate private thing and I respect my husband and all that we shared.  It would be wrong to write about it. 

Congrats to Karen, Nadine and Leslie!  You are correct yet again!

Daisy is playing at her blog.  Check it out.

I’ll be back tomorrow with Polish Fest photos and stories.  Stay tuned!

He was born in July of 1968 and I was born in March of 1979.  How our planets aligned is beyond me.  I can only say that our marriage works because I act like your average 40-year-old, mature woman.  He in turn, acts like a typical 21-year-old college boy.  It just works.

Truth be told, I met my husband for the first time at the age of eight.  That story can be found here.  It’s quite a long tale, I warn you, but definitely one of my favorite posts.

While Doug and I have been married nearly six years, we’ve been together for 9 1/2 and we’ve known each other for longer than that.  Please don’t make me count the years, I may die of shock.

I love that man more than I thought I could ever love any person.  Even when he’s a crabby, stubborn guy, I find it in my heart to love him until he’s happy again.  And I like to think he does the same.  Lord knows I’m not easy to live with.  But who the hell is?

Congrats Karen and Nadine!  You really know me well!

There’s still time to play.  Answer questions six through ten in the comments if you’d like!

Also, today is the last day to vote for me (and everyone else, of course) at Sk*rt!  Pretty Please?  With sugar on top?  And whipped cream, and cherries.  I’m craving cupcakes.  With white chocolate frosting….

Sorry.  So yeah, go vote!  Here!

It’s true.  I have a scar on my left palm that I got when I dropped a bottle of seven up and tried to pick up the shards of glass.

I was four years old when it happened.  It was back in the old days when soda came in long-necked glass bottles, usually a six pack, and my grandmother always returned the empties to the store for her $0.20 credit.

As my mother tells the story, it was a hot summer day and she opened a bottle of the fizzy soda and gave me a plastic cup of half 7-Up and half water.  When the bottle empty, apparently I insisted on putting it into the cardboard case. 

Unfortunately I dropped the bottle and it shattered all over the kitchen floor.  My mother went to get the broom and when she turned around I had a shard of glass in my hand and blood all over my palm. 

I cut my palm in a way that had my skin hanging open and my mom panicked.  She grabbed me by the arm, hoisted me onto the kitchen counter and stuck my hand under the sink to rinse it with cold water. 

I didn’t get any stitches, but my mother put a band aid on my palm and applied pressure to the wound.  Turns out it healed nicely, but I have a scar in the shape of a very crooked “J” on my palm.  Or maybe it’s a backwards “7″. 

Congrats to Karen, Nadine and Leslie!  Your answers are correct.  I’m starting to think you know me better than my husband!

Yes, my nickname as a little girl was Lefty.

When I broke my arm, I had to wear a cast for six weeks.  My “Uncle” J.D. and “Aunts” Jeannie and Linda decided to start calling me Lefty.  They figured I would have to use my left arm and hand while my injury healed, and they loved to tease that my arm may never work again.  Those meanies!

I hated being called Lefty in the beginning.  I remember yelling, “No!  My right arm will heal!  I will be all better!  I promise!”

But the nickname stuck and to this very day, when I see J.D., Jeannie and Linda they address me as Lefty.  I honestly believe they’ve forgotten my name is Dana.

Congrats to Nadine and Leslie!  Your answers are correct! 

You can still play the game!  Post your answers to questions 4 thru 10 in the comments!  Playing at your blog?  Send me your link!

2.  When I was 17, I had a party while my parents were on vacation and I only got busted because my little brother was snooping in my room and found a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels under the bed.

This is half-true and half-false, so if you answered either way, you are still right.

My parents and my younger siblings went on vacation to South Dakota to see Mount Rushmore and the Corn Palace, the summer of 1996. I had to stay behind and keep an eye on my father’s business.

He is a tavern owner and my job was to clean the bar and stock the coolers, as well as handle the money, deposits and cash register balancing.  It was a big responsibilty, one that my father had entrusted me with many times before. 

On this occasion I decided to have a drinking party with a few friends.  Nothing big.  Just 4 of my best girl pals and 3 guy friends.  Little did I know that my “friends” would bring their “friends” and before I knew it, there were 15 people in my house drinking my parents beer, after they drank all of the stuff they brought of course.

After the party was over, I did my best to clean the house, restock the Miller Lite my parents would definitely know was missing and hide any leftover bottles of Jack Daniels under the bed.

I thought I got away with everything.  My family came home and my parents were astonished to see the house was much cleaner than when they left. 

It wasn’t more than twenty minutes after their arrival that our neighbor across the street came over and told my dad that someone has driven through their yard the night before.  Our neighbor’s house was on the corner, so it was very possible that someone missed the road and drove into their lawn.

I was busted.  My father demanded the truth and I told him everything.  The disappointment on his face was too much to bear.   I broke down and cried, begged for forgiveness and to my surprise he said, “If you wanted to have a party, all you had to do was ask.”

“What?” I said, wiping tears away.

“We would have allowed you to have a party if we were home, as long as the other kids’ parents were aware and gave permission….so that we could have designated drivers or people stay overnight.” 

My little brother, who was only five years old, came out of my room with a bottle of Jack Daniels as my dad was talking to me.  My father was more surprised when he saw that. 

“Hard liquor?” he asked.  “I thought this was just a beer party?  Kids these days are hardcore it seems.”

I was grounded for two months, basically the rest of the summer, couldn’t go anywhere without permission and was not allowed to drive my car for two weeks.  It was torture.  I learned a very valuable lesson:  have parties at other kids’ houses!

So, technically the neighbor busted me, but my brother did find that bottle of booze.  Karen, Nadine and Leslie, you are all correct!

There’s still time to play!  You can answer questions 3 thru 10 in the comments and send me your link if you’re playing this game on your blog!

1.  I broke my right arm because I was copying Mary Lou Retton while watching the 1984 Olympics on television.

This is true. 

I was five years old and I loved gymnastics.  I begged my mother to let me join a gymnastics class at our local YMCA, but we couldn’t afford it.  The closest I came to actually doing cartwheels, back flips and splits was in my kindergarten gym class. 

The day I broke my arm is one of my most vivid memories of my childhood.  In fact, I barely remember anything else.  It was the summer Olympics of 1984 and my mother let me watch Mary Lou Retton perform her routine on the vault (or vault horse) as long as I promised not to jump around too much and wake my baby brother.  (In my memories, I don’t even recall where my little brother Nathan was sleeping.  Crib or play pen probably).

I told my mother I would be careful and she went into the kitchen to have coffee with my Aunt Mary who was visiting.  I got the most brilliant idea to take the chairs from my children’s table and chairs playset, and put the seats facing each other to make a vault horse.  My next brillian move was to straddle the seats and then try to stand up on them, just like Mary Lou was doing on the television.

The next thing I remember was tipping back wards and my arm caught caught in the back of the chair.  I screamed, began to cry and threw up, in that very order.  My mother, only one room away came flying out of the kitchen.  I recall she verbally thanked the Heavens that my Aunt Mary was there to watch Nathan so she could take me to the emergency room.

My father was a semi-truck driver and at the time of my injury was away on a delivery.  He came home the next day while I was in the hospital and I was crying because I thought I was going to get in trouble for my “horse play”.

I had to stay overnight, alone, after the surgery.  My mother couldn’t bring Nathan with her to stay the night because of a stupid hospital rule and my father had to go back to work. 

A very nice nurse named Cammie, or maybe it was Tammy, stayed in my room all night so I wouldn’t be afraid and she bought me a Barbie doll the next day.  It was Nurse Barbie and I remember telling my mother I wanted to be a nurse because Cammie/Tammy was so nice.

I had 42 stitches in my arm and had to wear a cast for six weeks.  It was one long, itchy summer.  The scar from the surgery was the length of my of my arm at the age of five and I had two pins put in my elbow to set the break.  After the cast was removed, I had 4 weeks of physical therapy because of where I broke the elbow/arm and it took a very long time to extend my arm as well as touch my right shoulder.  Even now, my elbow does not extend completely, I have a slight bend in my elbow due to the pins that held it in place.

Congratulations to Karen (the only player so far) for getting this answer correct!

There’s still time to play!  I’ll be out of town this weekend, but you can answer questions 2 through 10 in the comments, and I’ll post the second revelation on Monday!

If you’d like to play at your blog, post your link in the comments, please!

If you come from Chicago, Buffalo, Cleveland, Hamtramck, or Milwaukee there is a large church called “Saint Stanislaus,” or “Saint Hedwig,” within one block of your childhood home (that is, unless you’re one of those suburban exiles, in which case the church is within one block of your babcia’s house!)

• Grandma Alice and Grandpa Adolph lived in Chicago for two years. Alice worked for the Sun Beam Coffe Pot Factory and Adolph worked for the Campbell’s Soup Co. My mother Monica was born in Nov of 1951 and they moved back to Wisconsin and bought a farm. They liked going to church at St. Stanislaus-Kostas church which was the largest Polish Catholic church in Chicago until the Kennedy Expressway was built directly behind it causing many Polish immigrants to move to other parts of the city.

The neighborhood you grew up in is called “Little Warsaw,” “Slavic Village,” “Polish Hill,” “Polonia” or something of that sort.

• There is a town near where I live called Polonia. My great-great Uncle Andrew Landowski was a priest at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Polonia which was a predominently Polish town.

You like to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day but only because “the Irish are oppressed too”!

• We drink on St. Patty’s (I was born on that day) and eat a traditional kielbasa and kraut dish as opposed to corned beef and cabbage. I know, we’re backwards.

Your knowledge of the Polish language is limited to ‘naughty’ words (e.g., dupja, glowno, gaczki, etc), names for food (e.g, pierogi, kapusta, etc), and drinking toasts (e.g., nazdrowie, sto lat, etc).

You occasionally add the suffix “-ski” to English words for no apparent reason (e.g., “I’m gonna go put the car-ski in the garage-ski”).

If you also happen to know a few basic conversational phrases in Polish, you are considered “old school” by friends and relatives.

You call your grandma “babcia” or “buszia” and your grandpa “dziadzia.”

• All I can say is this: “Dupja tisz! Jak sa wy? Niech tanczyc” Which is “Dumb ass, How are you? Let’s go dance!” (and several other phrases that I can’t write – I never learned to write in Polish)

You know how to dance the polka, but you only do it at weddings after kicking back a few generous shots of vodka. You like to drink. Especially beer. Especially cheap beer.

• I dance the Polka anytime. I’m not shy. I know several different styles of Polka dancing.
• Yes, we love our beer. You can even find my relatives drinking Schlitz, Blatz and Old Milwaukee sometimes!

When frustrated, you slap your forehead, shake your head, and say “O Yezus Marija!”

• Grandma Alice would say this often and then say a prayer for taking the Lord’s name in vain.

You have one grandma that wears a babushka and galoshes every single day of the year and another grandma that wears a lot of jewelry and too much make-up.

You have a grandma who uses every single part of animal carcasses to make sausages , soups, dumplings, etc. (eg Czarnina – Duck’s Blood Soup)

• Grandma Alice never left the house without her “rouge” and “eybrows” on or her hair done. And she wore lots of bangle bracelets.
• Grandma Helen wore her babushka and galoshes every day unless she was going to a wedding. She also made czarnina and put everything but the kitchen sink in there.

You have at least one uncle named “Stan,” “Stash.” or “Franek”

• There’s a bar in town called “Stash & Rosies”
• My father’s name is Frank but my grandmother called him “Franek”.

You have at least one relative who works, or used to work, for the Big Three.

• Great-great uncle was a priest and grandma’s cousin was a nun.

Your relatives have a sincere devotion to saints, the Blessed Virgin, the Pope, the Democratic Party (until old age when they convert to Republicans), the U.S. Steelworkers, etc.

• You should have seen the celebration when Pope John Paul II became Pope! He was from Poland!

Your grandma has a shrine complete with votive candles and a picture of the “Our Lady of Czestochowa” or “Infant of Prague.”

• Not to mention the statues of the Virgin Mary and St. Frances in the garden outside.

Your parents have at least one crucifix or religious picture mounted on a wall in their house with palms tucked behind it. Your grandparents and other relatives habitually kiss everyone they meet.

• All my relatives have “The Last Supper” picture hanging on the wall by the dining table. Yes, even me. And yes, there are palms tucked behind it. -nodding-

You refer to your two dozen or so cousins by childhood nicknames (e.g., Stannie, Nicky, Louie, Joey, Chickie, Honey, Kasia, etc.) irrespective of their ages.

You refer to aunts by pet names (e.g., Aunt Honey, Aunt Chickie, Jo-Jo, Aunt Czucz, etc).

• I can’t even tell you how many crazy names we call our relatives by. Aunt Flasher, Uncle Guber, Cousin Crank. Uh huh. I know.

You regularly attend Friday fish fries, harvest festivals, parish festivals, Vegas nights, and/or bingo.

You bowl regularly and/or on a team sponsored by a local bar.

• I’ve been to two church picnics so far and danced with all my second and third cousins.
• I’ve played softball, volleyball, darts and bowled on bar league’s – sponsored by my dad’s bar.

You get your food blessed at Easter and your house blessed at Christmas time. Your family has a wigilia meal on Christmas Eve at which you share oplatki.

You like to put sour cream, horseradish, and/or beer on everything you eat.

Your family likes to play card games like hearts and pinochle, and this often culminates in full-scale brawls.

You always prefer rye bread to white or wheat. Your dad has forced you to eat horseradish, claiming that it will “put hair on your chest” (even if you’re a female!).

• It’s mandatory to share oplatki. That’s all I’m sayin’.
• My father insists everything will put hair on one’s chest.
• And we have pinochle tournaments at every holiday gathering or family reunion.
• And rye bread is a must in our house. Dawson loves it more than white bread.

You like to go “mushroom hunting” and “berry picking”.

• Grandma Alice loved berry picking. Sometimes we’d go for a drive in the country and she’d demand we stop the car to pick asparagus on the side of the road, too.

People in your family have their wedding receptions at places called “Polish Legion Hall,” “Sacred Heart Center,” “Starlite Ballroom” or the Moose Lodge. etc.

You would never dream of having a dee-jay at your wedding reception and hire the most expensive “Chicago Style” Polka band, like Eddy Blazonczyk, Lenny Gomulka, Toledo Polka Motion or the Dyna-Brass.

You know the words to “Sto Lat” and sing it at all birthday parties. You can out drink all of your friends (and if you’re a woman, you can out drink most men).

• My wedding reception was at Starlite Ballroom and Norm Dombrowski & The Happy Notes played at my wedding.
• We go to a bar on our birthdays and drink shots of Jzewynowka which is Polish Blackberry Brandy.

You have waited in line at a church or bakery to buy pierogi or paczki (ponczka).

• Hell, we have Poncka dances here. Seriously. Dad likes to joke about dancing around the ponczkas.

You frequently add “dere” (there) and/or “ya know” to the end of sentences. Words like kiszka, kielbasa, and kolaczki actually mean something to you.

Your grandparents say things like “Youse two kids go outside and play” and the add an ‘s’ to everything. “I went to Walmart’s to get some goczka’s “(underwear).

You know the difference between Czechs, Slovaks, and Slovenes, and you think they’re all inferior to Poles despite the numerous glaring similarities.

You used to get a day off from school on Saint Joseph’s Day (March 19). You actually know who Kosciuszko and Pulaski are, and why they’re important.

• I still have relatives who speak with a Polish accent. And my mother remembers having no school for St. Josepth’s Day.

You have at least one relative who plays the accordion or concertina.

• My mom plays the concertina, my uncle plays the trumpet in a polka band, my father once played bass guitar in a polka band and my cousin played the accordian for a while.

You are inclined to blame all the world’s ills on Germans and Russians.

You have an easier time getting along with Irishmen and Italians than with non-Polish Slavs.

• My great aunt used to call her enemies “Nazis”. So politically incorrect, but back in the “old days” I don’t think she knew any better.

You’re either completely overdressed or completely underdressed for every occasion.

If you’re a woman, you wear make-up at all times – even if it’s 90 degrees outside and you’re 88 years old.

Your idea of “healthy” is boiled pierogi, light beer, and filtered cigarettes.

You walk into a crowd of people you don’t know and talk to them like they’re your best friends in the whole world.

You hoard vast amounts of money in your house, usually in your basement.

You have at least one bar in your house – usually in the basement.

Your family always has an excuse to hold a “poprawinie” – e.g., when someone dies, or when someone gets married.

You’ve never been to Poland, but you have mysterious relatives there to whom you send gifts and money every Christmas.

Your front yard is filled with lawn ornaments – e.g., pink flamingos, jockey, Mary in the halfshell, old clawfoot tubs used as flower beds, etc.

You have relatives who are priests and nuns.

You collect “prayer cards” from funerals. You or someone in your family owns highly outdated Dodge or Plymouth.

• My mother has every prayer card from every funeral she’s attended and prays for them by saying the rosary once or twice a week.

You regularly attend Mass but spend most of the ceremony sleeping and/or looking at the parish bulletin.

You’re haven’t been a practicing Catholic for years but everyone in your family insists that it’s “just a phase.”

You often visit cemeteries, light votive candles for dead relatives, and generally spend an unhealthy amount of time obsessing about death.

You like to gossip and generally talk too much and too loud.

People often have trouble pronouncing your last name.

Your family is so loyal that even a second cousin would take a bullet for you.

You drink your coffee black and take your liquor straight up.

• All I can do is nod, laugh and smile at the rest of thoe above. I keep picturing various relatives who do all of these things. I’d be here for days if I started talking about them!

There you go – the lengthiest definiton of my family and heritage ever. I hope you’ve at least had a laugh or two, or else I’ve bored you silly.

Ma wy wysłuchaliście co JA jestem Polskie?

So, in case I’ve never mentioned this before (the other 89 times do not count), I’m a Polish-Catholic girl from a town called Stevens Point, Wisconsin. My maiden name is Jurgella and that is spelled just like it sounds: JUR – JELLA. My great grandfather changed the spelling because no one in America could pronounce our last name. In true Polish form it should be spelled Dziurdziela. I know it’s a tough one.

My grandparents were first generation American-born and their parents came directly from Poland as children. They grew up speaking Polish until they were forced to learn English in order to be considered citizens. When I was younger I knew many phrases in their native language, but no one really passed on the skills of writing and grammar so I can’t really tell you how to write in Polish. I’ve tried to learn, but it’s very difficult. First one must know whether they are speaking high Polish or low Polish (slang) and then it gets worse from there.

Grandma Helen (Lewandowski) Jurgella was proud of her heritage. She loved Polka dancing and taking trips to Chicago to see the old Polish neighborhoods. She also traveled often to Milwaukee for dances with my grandfather, Florian Jurgella. They taught all nine of their children to be proud of their nationality and ancestors. My father Frank instilled the importance in me and my siblings. Not only that, but it was very important to be true to your Catholic faith. I remember my Baszia (Grandma) telling stories about the fancy churches in Chicago like St. Stanislaus-Kostkas. How proud she was to tell us about the beatiful structure, the stained glass windows and tiffany lighting. Her eyes would light up as she described the scene to us.

My Grandma Alice (Ostrowski) Landowski was also proud to be Polish. We’d take her shopping and she’d insist on listening to her polka tapes in the car. She told us stories about driving with her sisters in the old Model-T and almost getting hit by a train because the car got stuck on the tracks. They were on their way to a polka dance at church. Grandma Alice swore that an angel pushed the car over the tracks just in time and saved their lives. I would get goosebumps listening to her talk about it.

She’d tell me how she met Grandpa Adolph Landowski at the dance and they were both surprised to find out they were born on the same day, April 25th, just 10 years apart. Grandpa Adolph died two months before my parents wedding in 1978 so I never met him, but I often had dreams when I was young that he would visit me at night and tell me stories about World War II. My grandmother told me I must be clairvoyant because when I told her the stories from my dreams she remarked how accurate they were. She thought my mother had told them to me, but my mother had not because she couldn’t remember them in so much detail.

Family weddings were always Polish style. This is a 3 day event. On the Friday before the wedding we all meet at the wedding hall to prep the food for the cooks who make the meal for the next day. Saturday is the ceremony and reception that must have a polka band and the Tatuszu Waltz (father-daughter dance) and Sunday is the Popriwinia (where you eat the left-overs from the wedding the night before and do the gift opening.)

My family goes to many Polka dances in the area. Bands like Lenny Gomulka & The Chicago Push and Eddy Blazonczyk are favorites. People travel from miles around to follow these bands and I love them! It’s true.

My father likes to joke about being a member of the Polish Mafia. Don’t worry, no crimes or murders take place other than drinking too much beer and talking too loud. He calls me his Polish Princess and for a long time I thought I was royalty. Okay, until age 13, then I reallized he was joking. Did you know he wanted to name me Stella Isabella Jurgella? Thank you, MOM for stepping in.

So there you have it, some Polish Power! Stay tuned for Rozdzielają Dwa (Part Two)!