When I was little, an upcoming visit of my Grampa was announced only the day or two before. Suddenly, our family room would be “out of bounds” and get transformed into his bedroom. The black-and-white television would be moved into the kitchen, a couple chairs relocated into the living room, and a rollaway bed unfolded and set up in front of the family room fireplace. A day or two later, Grampa would arrive, dressed as he always was in black pants, black socks and shoes, a white shirt, and a black button-down vest. To me at that young age, his visits seemed to bring a sense of quiet, peaceful joy.
I was too young to really know Grampa. In fact, it wasn’t until after his death in 1981 that I did. This came through a short biography researched and written by his only son, my uncle Dick. Michael Potocki was born on March 30, 1891, in a small farming village called Glembokie, located in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains in southern Poland. Michael was the youngest of five sons (along with two daughters) born to Thomas Potocki and Catherine Waclawska. He spent his early years helping with farm chores like taking the cows out to pasture, and going to school, at least until sixth grade.
It was during those early years that some of Michael’s older brothers immigrated to the United States, settling in Utica, New York. They sent back money to the family, asking Michael to join them, and so, in 1906 at age 15, he did. Utica was at the time a busy cloth milling town, and Michael’s brothers got him a job at Globe Woolen Mills, earning $4 a week. Because he was under the legal working age, his brothers would hide him under a large cardboard box whenever the labor inspectors came to check the mill works. During this time, Michael began to teach himself English using a dictionary and a newspaper.
After a few months at the mill, Michael left to join the U.S. Coast Artillery Corps, serving at various posts in Boston for two years, reaching the rank of corporal. His discharge papers listed his “character of service” as “honest and faithful.” Michael became a U.S. citizen shortly thereafter, on December 15, 1913.
After working for a few years as a fireman/engineer across Boston, Michael enlisted in the Massachusetts National Guard in May 1917, before being called to active duty in the U.S. Army July that year. He served as a Sergeant First Class in F Company, the 101st Engineers, 26th Division (the “Yankee Division”), helping to repair bridges and build roads in France during several major engagements in World War I. Following his discharge in April 1919, Michael returned to Boston to study steam engineering and to begin his eventual 35-year career in the Boston school system, working on boilers and related piping, gauges, dials, and valves, to keep warm the schools under his care.
Michael met his future wife, Sophie Topolska, while she was on a vacation trip to Utica. He later learned that when Sophie mentioned his name and birthplace to her mother, her mother told her that Michael’s family was a neighbor back in the old country and that when his mother would go into the fields to work, Sophie’s mother would look after both Sophie and Michael! Michael and Sophie were married on August 29, 1922, in Utica, and in Boston, raised three children: my mother Rita, my Uncle Dick, and my auntie Barbara.
Sophie died in September 1951. Michael decided to devote more of his life to spirituality thereafter, eventually becoming a Franciscan brother, first at a monastery in Crogan, New York, then at St. Anthony’s Shrine in Boston. He enjoyed talking with the people coming to the shrine, hearing their stories, and sharing his thoughts and wisdom.
In 1965, Michael, with the aid of my Uncle Dick, took a trip back to Poland, to visit his sister Mary in Glembokie, where he had grown up. He flew to Paris, then from Paris to Warsaw, and then took a train down to the stop closest to Glembokie. There, Michael was taken by horse-and-wagon into his old hometown. He wondered what had changed in the 60 years since he had left. He found the village much as he had remembered it: the same dirt streets, the same village well, the same simple homes. He spent time reminiscing with his sister Mary, who was partially bedridden and being taken care of by one of her daughters. He walked the streets, talked with the residents, and visited the farm fields. He visited the old village church, which had been rebuilt after World War II by townsfolk using monetary donations from other Poles, including Michael. After a three-day visit, he left Glembokie for the second and last time, making his way back to Paris.
Michael returned to Boston and his life at St. Anthony’s Shrine. It was during his time there that he would take trips down to see us at our home just south of Washington, D.C. As I said earlier, he would always bring peace, joy, and a ready smile. As a little boy, life in our home would slow down to welcome Grampa. His quiet, peaceful rhythm would become ours.
Following heart surgery in 1975, Michael began to slow down. He continued his service at St. Anthony’s, even receiving holy communion from Pope John Paul II, on a cold, rainy day on Boston Common in January 1979. But his health continued to decline slowly and in November 1980, he was moved to an infirmary in St. Bonaventure, New York and then to St. Francis Hospital in Olean, New York, where he died on January 24, 1981.
The Drejza-Kowalczuk Funeral Home in Utica had known and buried many Potockis and Topolskis over the years, and they handled Michael’s funeral. Having obtained permission from his Franciscan superiors, he was buried next to his wife Sophie in the Topolski burial plot at the Holy Trinity cemetery in Yorkville, New York. I learned from my mother later that her father’s will had been very simple: “I have nothing to give you. I’ve already given you all that I had.”
Grampa’s life was not one of high office, of fame in film or on stage, or of applause for marvelous inventions or deeds. Rather, his life was one simply lived and lived simply. It was a life of service to community and country, a life of relationships and connections, a life of faith in the Good God and a gift of life back to Him. In many ways, his life was like that of countless Americans, rooted in the stable backbone of faith, family, and service. Grampa’s example is one I’ve tried to emulate, as it brought him such peaceful quiet joy. I’m finding that it is gradually doing the same for me.
This article was originally published in American Essence magazine.
