We listen with an imperfect ear, revelation arrives in silence in the middle of the night. There the void — empty and full, the hollowed self hears the songs of the universe. Listen and pass it on, the writer’s blessing.
January 2012Monthly Archives
The somberly dressed family stares out of a formal portrait taken in the early part of the last century, Michael and Appolonia surrounded by their eleven children. The brothers and sisters in their turn had eighty-one children. From there the line extends to the present day, expanding well beyond the original eleven.
Families were bigger then, wealth measured differently: your children your riches. Life was hard. Poland was a doormat for invading armies from the east and west. It has no natural barriers . People lived under a succession of kings and princes who made them work hard for nothing. Many felt that if they were to work this hard, they might as well do it for themselves. They left.
Appolonia was seventeen when Michael asked her father for her hand. He was twenty seven, the marriage arranged. The young couple heard about a more hopeful life in a far off country, got enough money together and left for America. For awhile they settled in Pennsylvania and then moved to Benton County in central Minnesota.
The story of these Polish immigrants in many ways is not a whole lot different from the stories of many other people who came to this country seeking a better life. History is full of the migrations of others trying to escape desperate situations. In the process others are displaced; other cultures and ways of life lost, a sad fact of history.
I am haunted by the image of Appolonia, my great grandmother staring out of the picture. The choices she and Grandpa Mike had are certainly different from the ones I have, to get up and go took courage; to bear and raise eleven children a demonstration of persistence, dedication and discipline. This country was settled by their like.
The generation now passing was fired in the cauldron of the Great Depression and the Second World War. Those of us raised since that time have enjoyed relative ease and comfort. The sense of desperation and living on the edge is not so present in this generation.
We stand on the shoulders of those who came before us. Looking at the old pictures brought to a recent birthday party for my mother and exploring the quickly forgotten history of that immigrant generation, casts a whole new light on the responsibility that is passed to us.
Education then and now is the ticket to a better future. To make it to eighth grade then was unusual, graduating from high school an accomplishment, and going to college for many out of the question.
Less then a hundred years later, much has changed. The responsibility to learn, to make a better life for our children, remains.