Our Pap would have loved the Pulaski Polka Days Parade.
The queen toted a baritone.
A regal vet drive an electric scooter with a tiny dog on his running board.
Candy flew from floats like snowflakes on a December afternoon.
The high school bands stretched full city blocks.
A trumpeter with one arm in a sling played his instrument one-handed and never missed a beat.
And, under a hot summer sun, the people polkaed with glee.
Pap, a retired coal miner with deceptively light feet, loved to polka.
He listened to polkas on the radio, watched them on TV and, whenever he had the chance, he’d dance.
In fact, he’d whip you around the dance floor so enthusiastically you’d wonder if he’d spun you back to that glorious time when he was young and lithe and cheeky.
Polkas have magical powers like that.
They coax the Polish out of you and the next thing you know you’re out there hopping one-two-three with the rest of the grinning gang.
And, in Pulaski, it gets even better because the parade leads to the festival grounds where you can surround yourself with polka music and feast on halubki, pieroghis and more.
We had another great time in Pulaski on Sunday and we were so grateful for the fun, the friendliness and that glorious, time-traveling music.
