I was talking on the phone with my daughter, her husband, and my grandson when my son in law referred to my daughter’s fingers (which were in her son’s mouth at the time) as “little Polish sausages… kabanosy”. The fact that he had made a Polish reference and the fact that her son would enjoy kabanosy (I mean, who wouldn’t??) made us laugh and made me realize she had married the right person and gone on to produce the perfect child. It was a moment of real pride for me. I know that this child will grow up in a home where he learns about his Polish heritage as well as his Celtic heritage from his father. What a lucky kid.

I guess technically my daughter is one quarter Polish, as I am half Polish. Half Polish… and half West Virginia hillbilly. That is how I’ve always described myself. My dad was West Virginian through and through and my mama is one hundred percent Polish, so I am half of each. That’s how we say it, but it sounds funny when I actually think about it. Some days I feel more Polish, and some days I identify strongly as a West Virginian. Some days I am a solid mixture of the two like a concrete blend. But I am never “half” of either.

Sometimes I am a hillbilly. Some days I miss the home where I grew up so much it hurts. It is spring time now and I often think about the cool days turning a bit warmer in the hills. I think about the smell of honeysuckle. The trees are starting to turn green again. It is a true spring, unlike spring in Florida where I am now. Here in Florida, it’s 67 degrees one day and then 84 degrees the next. There’s rarely an “in between” time. By this stage in the year, we’re pretty much up in the 80’s to stay with the 90’s coming right behind. Everything that didn’t stay green all winter, and I use that term loosely, has already been green again for a while now. I miss that transition of pleasantly warm days and cool nights into hot summer days and breezy nights. I saw kids swimming in the community pool here yesterday. At home, it’s not quite warm enough to go swimming yet, but it’s nice enough to be outside and do things. People begin cutting grass again, planting flowers in their yards, and cleaning up winter’s leftover mess. There are more people out walking in Ritter park. Austin’s ice cream has opened up again for the season. I can imagine sitting out in the yard in a lawnchair under a tree enjoying the breeze and relaxing. I love driving the back roads in the spring and smelling everything blooming and coming to life. It’s the beginning of cookout season with family. Camden Park will open full time soon.

Some days I am very Polish. I am loud and boisterous. I refer to people and things by their Polish names rather than in English. I want some kielbasa and sauerkraut more than I want a cheeseburger. I miss being with my large Polish family and all my cousins and laughing until it hurts. I miss hearing everyone singing Sto Lat on birthdays. Yesterday I had a very productive day and spent the morning doing some spring cleaning. As I washed floors on my hands and knees with a bucket, I recalled how many times I’d seen my own mother doing the same thing and how no one does that any more. She was always very industrious and driven. When I told my daughter what I’d been doing, she replied with, “THAT’s the mom I grew up with”. I reminded her that if she were here with me she’d be assigned a task and working too, just as my own mom used to do with me. The Saturday morning cleaning and rearranging of furniture was a common thing growing up, as my mom grew up knowing that Saturday was for cleaning, so that’s what she did. She’s told me how every Saturday morning everyone in the house was expected to help with cleaning and there was no getting out of it. Sundays, of course, were for mass at church. I always have my mom in the back of my mind when I attend church on Sundays either in person or virtually these days. I find myself doing the things that she did, and saying the things that she says quite often.

I am Polish and I am West Virginian, but I am never solely one or the other. Half and half seems to imply an invisible line down the middle. That just isn’t the case. One spills over into the other regularly. Even though some days I may feel one more strongly than the other, I am never just one or the other. I am this weird concoction of hillbilly and eastern European and I love it. I listen to mountain music and polkas. I love beans and cornbread as much as I love kabanosy and chleb i maslo. I am a Polebilly, and I couldn’t be more proud of my heritage.