It was Paczki Day back in 2001. I had been back in Detroit for about a year and a half and was still pretty angry about it. I couldn’t sleep and as the clock hit 5:30 a.m. I decided to head down to Hamtramck.
My mom grew up in Hamtramck and my grandparents lived there until the late 70s. I spent a lot of time there as a kid—going to the candy store with my grandpa, family dinners at their house, hearing the neighbors and my family speaking Polish, the bakeries and Clock Diner—are all embedded in my brain.
As an adult, I had spent very little time in the tiny city surrounded by Detroit. I left the area when I was 17 and had just returned. I hadn’t explored the bar scene in Hamtramck yet and in my mind it was the same little Polish community it was decades earlier.
It was still dark out as I pulled into Hamtramck at around 6:00 a.m. People were everywhere, standing in line at the bakeries and others had already started drinking. Mainly, it was a lot of happy, friendly people ready to party.
I just came to pick up some paczki and I was alone so I didn’t take part in the revelry that was going on around me. I purchased my dozen and headed to my grandma’s house. The plan was to surprise her in the morning with some Polish treats and quiet time with her granddaughter.
I knew she’d be awake. My grandma was a whirlwind of activity and started her day early in the morning. I’m sure the knock on the door and opening it to find me standing in front of her was a shock. Something must be wrong for her granddaughter to show up at her house at stupid o’clock in the morning!
I assured her everything was OK and showed her my pure white box of paczki, tied perfectly with bakery string. Her eyes lit up. Grandma had a major sweet tooth and she was always thinking about dessert. We sat down and enjoyed our Polish treats with coffee and a nice chat.
There wasn’t anything spectacular about that day. We didn’t solve the world’s problems. We just spent time together. On a whim, I decided to surprise her on a Polish “holiday.” That’s all.
A few months later, in May, my grandma had a massive stroke that left her paralyzed and unable to speak. She lived for two more years but it was difficult to communicate and I think she was pretty angry about her predicament.
The last real memories I have of her—the good ones—are from that day. Sitting in her kitchen, eating paczki. The most remarkable moments of our lives come unexpected. And they’re even better if they include powdered sugar on your face and custard dripping down your chin.