It was the polka band that did it.
I was minding my own business, walking toward the rising glow
on the horizon, when the oompa-pa reached my ears. It took me back.
Sitting on the floor at Grandpa Sam’s house, polka records blaring
from the hi-fi, lemon drops on my tongue, and marbles rolling between my
sisters and me. Grandpa Sam at our house plying his squeeze box and making the
dog sing.
The polka dances at the Rothschild Pavillion, twirling with
my oddball friends, enjoying some
teenage hilarity. The first time my husband asked me out was to go to one of
those dances.
My wedding, the Polka Sonics playing and guests dancing
until red in the face. Smiles and sweat and beer. My husband, handcuffed to a
chair by his cop friend, dancing with our friend Cindy, steps light and lively.
Then our children’s and grandchildren’s weddings.
And later, polka music playing in the nursing home as
my roommate recovered from surgery. Her
husband had played in a band with his sons. Every Sunday, it was a polka party
in room 16 at Wausau Manor.
And now, as I head toward the light, the tuba, squeezebox
and horns behind me, I pick up me feet and dance.
