One of my favorite family stories is how Mom and Dad met and fell in love.

When Mom was nineteen, Grandma sent her to the Polish Young People’s club to find a husband. She did not want to go. She grumbled to herself the whole way on the streetcar.

The entire experience was overwhelming to Mom: “All those people there were first generation Polish immigrants. They spoke Polish so fast. I couldn’t keep up!”

There was one man there, however, who was a second-generation Polish-American — Dad! Dad knew (somehow!) that Mom’s dad was a Russellite too, and he asked to walk her home. She agreed. But when the evening was over, she took one look at that very tall actor (!!) with a red mustache and ran away.

Dad was not discouraged that easily. And they began their courtship.

They dated eight years and were engaged for the last five. Mom was always afraid to tell her mom that she was actually marrying a non-Catholic: “I thought it would kill her!” So she was waiting for her mom to die before she got married.

Now if you were to hear Dad telling this story, at this point he’d pause the story and say to my mom, “Then you walked up the hill with Chester!” I still don’t entirely understand what that means. It’s not a euphemism for anything — I know that much. It’s a private joke between them. So then Mom rolls her eyes and shakes her head and sighs and laughs. I always thought I’d understand this better as I grew up. But I still don’t get it.

Dad was the Master of Ceremonies for every event, the life of every party. And my mom was the opposite. Look at that picture! There are so many questions that this nerdy daughter has for her even-more-nerdy (or so I thought) parents when I see that snapshot, but I usually just settle for, “Dad! Why aren’t you sitting next to MOM?” Mom always shrugs along with a “Who can know?”

She remembers going to a New Year’s Eve party where Dad was the MC. “There I sat in the audience ALONE! The only one! On NEW YEARS’ EVE!”

When they clearly had fallen in love, Mom was relieved to finally have a permanent dance partner that she enjoyed being near. She told Dad, “I’ve always wanted a man I could look up to.” And Dad quipped in a somewhat thespian but perfectly romantic way, “‘Twere better if we could see eye-to-eye!”

Mom describes Dad arriving for a date wearing his “Henry-Come-A-Courtin’” sweater (That alone is a story. Grandma knitted her son a dozen of these really awful looking vests. They were just plain ribbing from top to bottom. Awful. Scratchy wool. Dad STILL HAS TWO OF THEM! They are over 70 years old! One in Cass Tech colors, one in a wholly practical grey.) covered in cement. He had been helping his dad lay a foundation all day, and he arrived for a night on the town in all his construction glory!

Finally, after five years of engagement, Dad said, “That’s it! We need to get married! July 13. Or else!” Mom bit the bullet and told her mother. Grandma said, “Wait a week and we’ll throw you a shower.”

So on July 20, 1957 Mom the unconfirmed Catholic and Dad the argumentative Russellite married at the Justice of the Peace. My cousin Laurie was the only attendant, and they returned to Grandma’s house on Lyford to have a white sheet cake, boiled ham, rye bread, swiss cheese, a jar of pickles, and a jar of mustard.

And this is the time in the story-telling when Mom ends with, “See? I didn’t have a big and fancy wedding. But you know, I’m still as married as anybody else!”

So after Wladyslava and Konstanty lost their first born in the flu epidemic, they had a girl, Irene, in 1922. Wlady and Kon were very Old World about it, and they really wanted a son. Badly. And my dad still believes that hurt his sister very deeply. My Dad was born just before midnight on May 13, 1923. It could have been on the 14th, it was that close. But JWs don’t do birthdays anyway.

They don’t smile for pictures either. Well, at least Wlady’s brood doesn’t. She insisted. If you find a Kaminski photo with grins, it must have been a candid! So here is this very serious-looking family in 1932 at Belle Isle.

Dad’s birth was a traumatic one. He was breech, and they had to use forceps which hurt Dad’s right arm permanently. So he had to learn to be left-handed. But . . . that loss of dexterity kept him out of battle in WW2 because he couldn’t hold up a rifle while lying on the ground. So he was part of the home front. He did go to Basic Training, however (that’s how they discovered that he couldn’t prop up the gun correctly). He remembers traveling on the train on the way to Basic “with all manner of filth being discussed around me, and I sat there with my New Testament and my copy of The Merchant of Venice and immersed myself in those.”

Dad’s hard to describe. He’s bigger than life. One of those personalities that demands superlative descriptions. Smartest man I know. A complete extrovert. He was the tallest in his family — 6’3″ — and he grew that tall in 7th grade. We still frequently trip over those size thirteens too.

He spoke no English when he started Kindergarten in Detroit. He and his sister would do their homework listening to Tom Mix et al every night while Dad finished the whole apple pie that his mom made him every day. He always told me, “Camillia, the secret to doing well in school is sitting right up front next to the teacher. Don’t get distracted.”

He went to Cass Tech (college prep), U of Michigan (B.S. in Mechanical Engineering), and Michigan State (M.B.A.). He also completed one year of law school and was a professional actor back in the day. Not bad for the son of 3rd-grade-graduates!

He brought home every paycheck to his mom. In college, he did splurge every Friday night and buy himself one stick of gum and a Life magazine. He’d chew half the stick on Friday night and save the other half for Saturday. . . . We Kaminskis really know how to party, don’t we?

Dad always says, “If you don’t know how to do something, go to the library and get a book.” That’s how he and his mom learned lots of things and probably why I can’t resist leaving the library without a big stack of inspiration.

He built two houses for his parents — one right next to the other — on a farm out in the country at the intersection of 13-mile and Hoover. Grandma designed that little brick house herself (all that library reading paid off!). Grandma’s cow always got loose and wandered down to 14-mile and Hayes. Look at that street today compared to back then!!

When he and my mom first moved down here to Greenville, Dad went to the Polish church, the Spanish church, the French church, and, of course, regular church (all Baptist). If he could find German and Russian service, he’d go there to! He’s the kind of person who can talk to anyone and genuinely thinks the best of every person he meets. To Dad there are no strangers, and he’ll accost you with a deliberate and formal “Good Morning!” whether you’re ready for it or not! And flash you a big smile too (Wlady’s not around with a camera now)!!

That’s my dad!