57Could I pass for a polka chick?
That was the question I asked myself as I gazed at my reflection in the full-length mirror. But the answer didn’t come to me right away.
A day had passed since the fateful confrontation with Uncle Stush. I was backstage at St. Adalbert’s festival grounds, getting ready to kick off the opening night of Polkapourri.
And I was nervous as hell. I could hear the noise of the band tuning up and the huge crowd on the other side of the black curtain.
I flirted with the idea of lighting a cigarette to take off the edge, but that wasn’t going to happen. I was back on the wagon again, committed to quitting for good this time. My brush with death at the hands of Uncle Stush had given me a new respect for mortality and a renewed desire not to end my life prema
