Laetitia

Champagne music is what the style of Lawrence Welk is commonly known as, at least in Wikipedia. That perhaps contributes to why my mother digs him.  She speaks of him as fondly as dear old Uncle Eddie and the look in her eye reminds me of a bobby-soxer swooning for Frank Sinatra. “I like to watch people having fun,” she says.

The thing is my mother is a baby boomer. That’s right — a baby boomer. Lawrence is not exactly her generation’s bag. However, we religiously would watch reruns of Lawrence Welk on PBS on Saturdays while my parents would be cooking dinner together.  My brother and I would usually have a glazed over look after watching ten minutes, such was the effect of powder blue clothing and champagne music.

My favorite parts if hard pressed would be when the camera would pan to the audience members. I loved especially when Mr. Welk would wisk away some “lucky” lady to start dancing with her.   It was fun too when they panned to 100 couples dancing in a 2′x2′ square who were being bumped in and out of rotation. My mother pretended to not hear me laughing.

And then there was the polka. If anything there is anything about Lawrence Welk that I can relate to it would be the polka. No I do not listen to polka. But it reminds me of my mother’s mother who is Polish. Grandma ruled with a tight iron fist always warning us not to “get fresh”. However, when Joe and I would make our annual pilgrimage to the Strawberry Festival at Transfiguration Church something magical occurred. You have to understand that this is a Polish parish who takes their strawberries seriously. And their Polish heritage. But given the iron fist, you can imagine the look my brother and I gave each other when we first went into the chruch hall hearing polka music in the background and my grandmother as carefree as school girl. She began to dance lightly, teasing us to join in. We may have, but we were frozen in place out of sheer amazement. Grandma is rarely seen so giddy. But strawberries and polka music are the secret weapon against the iron fist.

So when Mr. Welk has his polka boys play, I drift back to those days of being with my brother and grandmother during summer vacations, eating strawberry sundaes and listening to polka in my home parish. And lost in that moment, I think about my mother digging the way Lawrence Welk enjoys starting up the band and I realize that I would not want my family any other way then they already are.

(In case you want to read a blog on Lawrence Welk, check out http://welkmusicalfamily.blogspot.com/)