We See You, Dziadziu

My Dziadziu’s been coming up in conversation with my kids a lot lately.

It started the other day during dinner when they were eating chicken nuggets. My son didn’t want to eat his, so my daughter and I were trying to convince him how delicious they are, at which point I mentioned that the best, most scrumdiddlyumptious chicken fingers I’ve ever tasted were my Dziadziu’s. And then this morning we were looking at our wall calendar and somehow stumbled upon the topic of Thanksgiving, which, of course, instantly made me think of Dziadziu’s “famous” homemade stuffing. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm, stuffing! No one does stuffing better than Dziadziu, and our Thanksgiving feast wouldn’t be complete without two crockpots overflowing with the stuff (pun intended). This love is evident in the hot mess my recipe has become, too. It’s wrinkled, stained, and ripped at the edges, but rewriting it on a clean piece of paper just seems so sacrilegious.

Anyways, whenever I speak of my Dziadziu (that’s Polish for grandpa, by the way), an interesting thing happens with my daughter. She stops fidgeting, assaults me with questions, and listens so intently you’d think her life depended on my answers. Who is Dziadziu, mommy? Does he know Babu? Where did he go? Did I ever meet him? Did he die before I was born?

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to field these questions, either. Since she was an infant, my daughter has always been fascinated with my Dziadziu. I have a small picture of him and my Babu on our entertainment center and one day out of the blue she picked it up, ran her fingers gently over his face, and asked who and where he was. Now, if you know me, you know I’m very much creeped out by anything supernatural (for lack of a better word), so witnessing this sent chills up my spine. My daughter has never met my Dziadziu, you see. He passed away on Aug. 1, 2013—about six months before she was born. He never even knew I was pregnant with her. ☹

But something tells me my darling girl did indeed meet her Pradziadziu—somewhere beyond the rainbows. Maybe he’s even the reason she survived her premature arrival into this world. Maybe he stayed close to her back then, watched over her, prayed for her while she lay in that NICU incubator. We’ll never know, but I’d really like to believe he was her guardian angel during those trying times. And that’s why she’s always been drawn to him.

I don’t often think about those who have passed. I know some people find comfort living in those moments, but for some reason even I don’t understand, I can’t allow myself to go there. It just makes me so, so sad. But when my Dziadziu does cross my mind—like today—I think of him lovingly, happily, and wistfully, especially this time of year.

In a way, he epitomized the holidays for me and is a huge part of some of my most cherished memories:

• His delectable over-the-top Thanksgiving feasts (did I mention he makes the BEST homemade stuffing?!);
• His moist, expertly fried haddock filets—the perfect accompaniment to my Babu’s homemade pierogi for our Christmas Eve dinner;
• Him perched on a chair—almost majestically—by the Christmas tree in his living room as he doled out present after present to me and my cousins;
• Him pulling out his box of “special” firecracker-like sticks and tossing them in the fire just because his grandchildren loved watching the brilliant colors sparkle in the flames;
• Him singing along to one of his (and our) favorite Christmas songs: “Santa Must Be Polish”;
• The blessing he would say before our Christmas Eve and Christmas Day meals, our heads bowed over the opłatek (see note below) in our hands as we broke off piece after piece in honor of each heartfelt prayer, and how he always gave the rest of us an opportunity to offer up our own prayer or blessing;
• The way he always made the best Manhattans—his signature drink around the holidays, or any time really; and
• The fact that family was everything to him; he truly was the glue who brought all of us together year after year, and that’s never been more apparent to me now that he’s gone.

It’s sad—and terrifying—how quickly life changes, and how easy it is to take for granted the simplest of moments with the people who matter most. It’s so true what “they” say: You never know what you’ve got until it’s gone. My cousins and I have all grown up and moved on now. We live all over the country, so family gatherings and holidays like those of my childhood are pretty much a thing of the past. The last time we were all together was at Dziadziu’s funeral more than six years ago. I can’t believe it’s been that long already, and yet sometimes it feels like his passing was only yesterday. The holidays just aren’t the same without him and I yearn for those days with every fiber of my being, not just for myself, but for my own children, who will never know what a Christmas with Dziadziu looks like.

But at least I can find some solace in my memories of him. Because even though my Dziadziu is gone, he will forever live on through me and the family traditions we shared (which I hope to continue with my own children) and through the little girl whose heart and soul I’m certain he touched and protected six short years ago.

I don’t often include pictures in my posts, but this one deserves to be shared. It’s my favorite picture of the two of us. Cheers, Dziadziu, I know you’re reading this over my shoulder. I hope it makes you smile.

Note: For those of you who are curious, sharing of the oplatek (pronounced opwatek) is an old Polish Christmas tradition. Oplatek is a thin wafer made of flour and water, similar in taste to the hosts that are used for communion during Mass. During the pre-dinner prayer on Christmas Eve, the head of the household typically begins by breaking the Christmas wafer with his wife and then continues to share it with everyone at the table, as the family exchanges wishes for peace and prosperity over the coming year.