I was trolling facebook this morning, after a much-needed long night’s sleep, and came across this favorite photo of mine, taken years ago by my Uncle Butch. It’s a picture of my German aunt polka-ing with my Polish grandfather, while my Spanish grandmother looks on.
(Photo © Myron T. Havis)
I am probably most like my father, of any of my family members, in terms of personality, but in terms of looks, I am closest to those of my grandmother — the woman in the white slacks, and the black top, in the back corner of the photo. Slap a blonde wig on her, and she’d be me. Switch out the camera she’s fiddling with for a blackberry, and it would be me. Though I am not a “spittin’ image” of anyone in my family, really.
My grandfather — my father’s father, Grandpa Henry — had a special way about him. Often, not good special. My brother looks most like him, of anyone else in our family. My brother has the hair, the features; sometimes even the shorts, the dress socks with off-putting shoes (see above).
But Grandpa Henry was famous for wearing a seersucker bathrobe with the aforementioned shoe ensemble to take us to school during his visits. He would also sit in our driveway in a lawn-chair, smoking cigarettes and greeting the neighbors in outlandish, and perhaps, barely lawful get-ups. (See above, my brother…)
This picture also reminds me:
The Polka will never be cool. Never.