Grandmother quietly shares the power of a life deeply rooted in God, humanity and nature

By John Shaughnessy

The story of America is the story of immigrants—and the dreams that have led them to want to come to a country that has long offered a combination of freedom and opportunity.

The story of America is also the story of immigrants who have blessed this country with their hard work, their emphasis on family and their belief that God is with them as they pursue their dreams and try to overcome their struggles.

Ray Golarz has been blessed to be born in such a family. And at the age of 85, he is in the midst of writing a book that features some of his defining memories and stories of his immigrant family, including his Polish grandmother, Busia.

“I was born just before the beginning of World War II in a Polish ghetto just southeast of Chicago,” recalls Golarz, a member of St. Paul Catholic Center in Bloomington. “My parents were both born in that ghetto, and my grandparents were all immigrants who lived there and had come to America from Poland.

“Because my parents both worked in the steel mills during the war, I spent most of my early, growing-up years with Busia and Dziadzia (his grandfather). A simplistic definition of my Busia would be a Polish peasant unpretentiously in love with her God.”

The depth of that love shines through in a few stories that Golarz has written about his grandmother. The first one involves a scene shortly after World War II ended.

“Once as a child, I went to town with Busia,” he recalls. “To get there, we walked the tracks to save the five cents each for the bus ride. When Busia had completed her shopping, the weather had turned quite cold, and it was beginning to sleet. So, we went to the bus stop. Three elderly Black women were standing in the sleet on the side of the bus but not boarding.

“The bus driver waved Busia to come aboard. But she just stood there stoically. He then came out into the rain. Busia just stood there and pointed to the Black women. He waved her off, then went back into the bus. He came out again and motioned Busia to get in. She again pointed to the Black women. Finally in anger, he relented and motioned them to board. Busia and I boarded with them, and we all sat together in the back of the bus.

“At home I asked her what that all meant. She explained that the Black women were not permitted to board until the bus was ready to leave and all the white people who wanted to ride were on the bus. I remember being upset and saying, ‘But that’s not fair.’

“She nodded and replied, ‘In old country, these things happen. In America, not supposed to. Remember Raymund, if more and more people let that happen, then more and more it happen. You understand?’ I said, ‘I think so.’ She concluded, ‘Always fight them, Raymund, or America become like old country. Remember Raymund, it is God’s way to fight them.’ ”

Her connection to God also showed in other ways. Golarz remembers the way she said night prayers with him, kneeling by his bed. He also saw the way she would go into her bedroom during the day to pray the rosary. And he noticed a powerful, faith-filled gesture she made each week.

“Every Monday, sometimes on the dining room table and sometimes on her bedroom dresser, Busia would spread out a small, embroidered handkerchief,” Golarz writes. “During the course of the week, any change she found—or that had been left over from a dollar spent for bread, meat and such—she would place in the handkerchief.

“On Sunday morning, she would fold and gently knot the handkerchief and take it to church. At collection time, all would be emptied in the collection basket as it came by. Seldom was there as much as a dollar in change, sometimes less than a dime. The consistency was that all was given.”

His grandmother’s faith also showed in the only time he saw her angry.

A life rooted in God and humanity

“It happened on a warm, mid-summer day near the side of the house where her apple tree grew,” Golarz recalls. “My brother Joe and I had gotten into an apple-throwing war with neighborhood kids. The warring weaponry was apples that had fallen to the ground. When Busia saw us, she rushed into the yard. She was livid.

“The warring enemy ran, and we were alone with her. As she pointed her finger at us, shaking it repeatedly, we could see that her anger had brought her to tears. Our immediate assumption was that we had provoked her wrath as a consequence of fighting. We were wrong.

“Through her broken English, we began to understand something very different. We, her grandsons, had been abusing a gift of precious food that God in his goodness had given to her and her family. Still sobbing, she picked up the battered apples lying on the ground, brushed off the dirt, and gently placed them into her apron. She left us there feeling a shame we had never before felt.

“Every year, I had watched her faithfully plant and tend her garden and her fruit trees. I had even assisted her with the plants, pulling the weeds and hoeing the soil. But until we had seen her express such anger, neither I nor my brother Joe had understood what this all meant to her.

“This growing, nurturing and eventual harvesting was not just a way of life; it was a daily communion with her God. Each plant and each tree was an act of faith that would bring a response in the form of a harvest—a response promised to an old peasant woman who understood and cherished this bond.”

As he looks back across the years, Golarz cherishes even more the bond he had with Busia. Memories of her fill his thoughts. At the same time, he encourages everyone to embrace the love of nature, humanity and God at the root of her life.

“In the late summer and fall, the harvesting of her trees and plants was done in the manner of one accepting gifts from a gift-giver you are very fond of,” he writes. “During those times, in quiet evenings, she often hummed the tunes I believe she carried to this land from the old country. They were probably melodies she had learned as a child while assisting with the harvestings or as she walked through meadows tending the animals.

“I have not, since my time with Busia, spent my life with farmers. As I grow older, I wish I had. I’m not sure that any of us should ever get too far from the soil or from those who spend their lives there. They seem to have learned better how to live their lives in a simpler, more harmonious way with their God and his creation.”

He knows the same is true about his grandmother. †