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My "Babcia," having a grand old time
at my wedding five years ago. |
This past week, our family lost its matriarch - my grandmother, who emigrated in the late '60s from Poland to the United States, along with my grandfather, mother, and several of my aunts and uncles.
Known to me and my cousins (14 of us in total, not counting my grandmother's nine great-grandchildren) as "Babcia," my grandmother was a fixture at every holiday gathering, contentedly sipping her ever-present mug of Lipton tea and quietly observing our banter - a lively mix of Polish and English - from her seat at the head of the table.
At our family breakfasts each Easter, my cousins and I would try unsuccessfully to stifle our giggles as Babcia murmured what seemed like never-ending, unintelligible prayers in her native language. Every Christmas Eve at our traditional Polish feast, Babcia would watch our annual grab-bag antics with amusement, laughing heartily whenever she chose the gag gift, even if she never quite understood what was so funny.
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Babcia and her six children. |
But no matter what the event - anniversary parties, holidays, birthdays - our aunts and uncles would at some point inevitably insist that all the cousins surround Babcia to mark the occasion with a family photo. We'd roll our eyes and dutifully squeeze ourselves and our significant others in around Babcia to smile for the eight different cameras haphazardly snapping photos all at once.
For the first 14 years of my life, I was lucky enough to have Babcia living with us in our house as part of my immediate family. As a child, I remember following her and our dog around the backyard garden among the tomato plants and sitting with her on the porch while she snapped the ends off of freshly picked string beans, that cup of Lipton tea eternally at arm's reach.