I am home, mid-day, victim of a spring-time cold that has
settled just behind my eyes, just over
there, tucked in between my appetite and my wit.
It’s a congested, simple world I occupy today.
The kitties, of course, are firmly in favor of my being
home sick; and I have spent the last two hours close to motionless, draped in
flannel, sprinkled liberally with cats.
Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society
Squeakers, tucked behind my knees and snoring softly, grumbles under her
breath, her fuzzy paws twitching.
I’ve been holding the remote, a plastic extension of my
desires, for almost the full time.Clicking dissolutely, bored with one show after another, I stop on
Channel 6.
Even if I hadn’t already been breathing through it, my
mouth would’ve dropped open.
Polka Party.
I am mesmerized.
The sounds of the accordion, drums, and saxes roll over
me.The floor in front of the stage is
crowded with couples – some of whom are dressed in matching fedoras, matching
shirts, one couple even dressed, inexplicably, in coordinated black-and-blue
parachute pants, tee-shirts, and suspenders.The average age of the crowd is upper-70s; and I watch, sniffling,
transfixed, as these smiling people move gracefully across the floor.
“That was the Lindenau Polka,” announces the woman with
the microphone.
“The first time I heard that,” says a man with another
microphone, “it was the Whoopee John version.”
The woman nods appreciatively.“The Chmielewskis have a version that brings
me back.”
I nod along.Having grown up surrounded by accordions, The Chmielewskis take me back,
too.
I set down the remote, pick up my phone.
“HELL-o!” my mother shouts.
“MOTHER!”
“What’re you doing?” she says.
“What,” I laugh.“A daughter can’t call a mother whilst watching old broads with fabulous
legs dancing in circles?”
My mother chuckles.
“Mom, there’s a show on called “Polka Party”?And there’s a couple on here celebrating 65
years of marriage.Best part?They don’t want to be on camera.Oh, no,
no; they don’t want to be filmed.Isn’t
that sweet?”
“Well, you know us old folks aren’t like those girls on
the beach, taking their tops off.”
“Well I’ll drink to that,” I say.
We both laugh.
“All right, old lady,” my mother says.“I gotta let you go.I can’t just spend all day on the phone, you
know.I got work to do.”
“All right, all right,” I say. “Keep your shirt on.”
She laughs.“I
will if you will,” she says.