JAM SESSION
g.a. scheinoha
It was the kind of day
where anything could happen --
or might, that Memorial
weekend when we sat
in the barroom
of high windows
and rough plank flooring.
The great Gosz himself
might waltz through
that door, clad in
thin lapel jacket
and tie, his band
penguining along behind him.
Just the way they had
fifty, sixty years ago
in ballrooms
all across these
North Woods
stretching
from Manitowoc
to Wausau
and all pints
north and west.
Perhaps my father
had even attended
one of those dances
at the Rib River Ballroom,
toes tapping to those
clarinet heavy polkas,
beer going down easy
in his had.
But that was
back then --
before anyone
on those bohunk
towns knew
what a start
Romy would become.
Now, a day later,
we sit here
in the remnants
of another
Mem Day polka blowout;
a half dozen sidemen
and two band leaders
from half again
as many bands,
each hoisting
a fresh one,
content to bend
more elbows here
than notes
in the dance hall
next door.
And Romy is alive,
there in our midst
once more.
Or as live
as a jukebox gets,
an old 45
spinning the threads
of Jirka a Pepik;
George and Joe Polka
into tales of
just how good
he was.
