“You
can’t kill a willow!”
Polonia’s
Resilience Symbol
Exactly a year ago we harvested the best batch of pussy willows ever. Ron and Dave trimmed and cut so hard the neighbor ran out of her house, yelling, “You killed my tree!” I responded, “Your husband knows. Ask him.” I added, “You can’t kill a pussy willow.” Steaming, she stomped back inside. Lech Solecki, the resident-immigrant who planted the tree, knew this.
2020’s harvest filled an
entire car garage bay. Then C-19
hit. Government closed our churches, as
ecclesiastics succumbed with a wrestler’s, “Uncle!” The year of the unknown numbed us. We slowly succumbed to bleak announcements of
infected percentages and places of worship fined for exceeding half-a-dozen
worshippers.
Following restaurant
rescue tactics, some considered drive-by palm distributions. Police then blocked church driveways as
leadership proclaimed, “Forbidden!” For
the first time in 60 years, I did not weave a single palm. No procession, no Holy Week, no Masses, no
Sacraments for an unknown number of weeks in the entire Northern Hemisphere. A few Euro bishops protested abusive government
control. A socially distancing Poland
added Masses. USA contemporaries fell
silent, subdued. The masses confused,
submitted.
Never before experiencing
such control and black-holes, I fell into depression. A desperate clandestine pray-er left a bunch
of willows in the pew. On Easter, I solo-sang
every memorized verse and Easter hymn. And
I solo-ed a hardboiled egg with horseradish from Kaisertown’s legal, drive-by,
take-out, blessed Easter Boxes.
The swamp palm delivery
and record willow harvest shriveled into a late, brittle, winter disposal. The
bay next to my garage space was emptied.
Then tapped onto my head
and mind my Dad’s mystagogy (ultimate meaning lesson) on the pussy willow being
God’s first announcement of Easter, which inspired me. St Casimir’s Family Faith Seminar dubbed them
“resurrection branches.” Participants embraced
this spiritual imagination.
March 2021 harvest was
very different. Neighborhood kids donned
shorts and tees for an early warm spell.
Then I saw the willow puffs burst. It was sacramental. Last year’s Summer’s sun transformed the
“damned” tree into a taller, new, nobler form.
Fresh growth produced early, ruddy, catkins shimmering in unusually warm
sunrays.
Dave brought an efficient,
miniature chain saw; Ron, the ladder and his “chopper” (see above pic). I caught four huge limbs, not letting them to
fall to the ground. Ron lopped these
ermine puffs into long, individual, regal scepters. Taking a bunch, I kissed them in profound
gratitude, God-given resurrection precursors. This year, I may have the privilege to bless
these branches.
I recalled my large
crystal vase: a heavy, precious treasure, that my father hand-carried from his
first visit to his Mom in Poland since his WWII Siberian exile (see pic). I told Ron he found different branches and
flowers for each season. Sometimes they
were tall plastic imitations – artificial silk when flowers were not yet available. Each season he changed the presentation, a
domestic celebration of earthly transition, wonder, and beauty. His Holy Week pussy willows, however, were
most splendid.
Notably, this harvest
conjured two teary eyes. Ron told me how
he once caught his aging mom crying at the Holy Week table. “I can’t make Easter bread anymore,” she lamented. Her bout with sciatica was getting the best
of her.
Pulling some of the
ingredients together, Ron witnessed her gather all the energy she could and they
made bread together. “As I remembered
every year,” Ron attested, “we signed the round loaves with a Cross. Then it was ready to bake and share.” “You see Father,” Ron explained, “I bake only twice
a year. A loaf for you for the August
Lady of the Harvest celebration and one more for our Easter Święconka.” I finally learned why Ron proudly carried his
Mom’s basket blessing bread on a fancy towel for the Assumption procession.
In more than one manner,
pussy willows symbolize new life, hope, and pure Polish resilience. Surpassing
“masking tape” strips distributed at US parishes, British boxwood, even
expressive Spanish palma blanca, because, “You can’t kill a willow.” They’re resurrection branches, Polonia’s blessed,
Holy Week symbols.
Rev. Dr Czeslaw M Krysa,
Rector of the Church of St Casimir, Buffalo, NY
Reprint from AmPolEagle Newspaper. Thurs (March 18, 2021) 11.
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