To Tante Margie

Have a great day!

With love, Chris, Christine and Miles

A Dedication

Part of my Czech heritage has always been Polkas. I never really liked them, understood the desire to like them or wanted much to do with them in my adolescence, which was quite challenging when my father played them weekly on the accordion or organ. I do vaguely remember dancing around to them in the living room, turning in circles until I was sick, then lying on the floor and watching the ceiling spin to Roll Out the Barrels, but I was no more than 4 or 5. I also remember running around in Wonder Woman Underoos with a table cloth tied around my neck to Disney Storybook Albums. Thank goodness there were no video cameras back then.

When I was little, most of the family gatherings centered around large, stuff yourself silly, sit-down dinners, and playing Polkas in the garage or around the organ. I don't really remember this much, but old photos show all the men in the family playing accordions, smoking pipes and making music together.

I recognize now that this was no different than any other family that richly celebrated their culture in music. The words to the songs were as much a part of our family as the large family get-togethers. They were familiar, bonding and comforting and as much as I can't visually remember the Garage Polka Hour, I remember the overwhelming sense of family and the closeness we all shared for a very brief portion of my life. (I was 8 when we moved away.)

Last night I had a dream about my dad. We were living at his old house on Behrwald in Cleveland. Now I have never been in this house and have only driven by it once or twice in my life, but I have seen a lot of photos and a few 8mm silent movies from that time. Even if I was never in the house, in my dream, it was dimly light with muted colors stolen right out of the old pictures. My dad was cleaning his accordions, while sitting in a heavy fabric, wingback my grandfather used to sit in. I was getting ready to go out with friends, but for some reason I had to bring a small briefcase full of Polka sheet music with me. As I was heading out to leave I spilled the music on the floor. While sifting through the papers to put them back I was gazing at titles of actual Polkas: Blue Skirt Waltz, Beer Barrel Polka and lastly In Heaven There is No Beer.

Although I'm sure I've heard all of these at one time, my dream was so detailed down to the titles, that when I woke up I looked them up online and found that they were real Polkas. No other part of the dream was significant enough for me to remember except that as I was leaving I kept yelling to my dad "I love you" as I headed for the door and he wouldn't answer. When I woke up I was saddened to realize that he never will answer again. I was just happy to have spent some time with him, even if it was in a dream, and at least he was doing something he loved, "tinkering with his accordions".

I tried to sing the Heaven/Beer Polka to Miles because it most reminded me of my dad, when I realized I didn't know all the words. Come to find out, after looking it up, there are barely any words. The following dedication is for my dad, whom I miss terribly, and for his sake I hope there is "beer in heaven":

In heaven there is no beer,
That's why we drink it here....
And when we are gone from here,
Our friends will be drinking all our beer.

Milk Spray

Miles is pretty much eating all table foods and drinking out of a cup now, but since he isn't a big eater, if he happens to have a lean day and doesn't drink enough milk, we will give him a bottle at night. He never really got too attached to his bottle and didn't really care when I stopped giving him one. He doesn't even seem to notice that he will still get one every now and then. The only difference is that where he used to sit in his chair and drink his bottle, he now totes it around as he plays. Occasionally he will lean on it and it will leak out on the couch. A couple of nights ago, he leaned on it just right and we all had a good giggle: