My first kiss was at Margaret Eckman's party, at her parents' home. I was 12. When I got home, my mom asked if there had been kissing.

"Yes."

The following weekend, Jimmy Dooley was having a party in his garage, and it was to be the Superbowl of kissing. My mom wouldn't let me go. She wanted me to stay pure so I could become a priest.

When we were maybe 16, we started crashing Polish weddings. We'd get all dressed up and walk in like we belonged, then have a few beers and dance the polka with the old ladies. Old is a relative term. Most of my dancing partners outweighed me by 70 pounds, and they'd swing me around like a bag of potatoes, but it was great fun. Those were the times I wished I was Polish.

On Aug. 19, 1954, my buddy Carney and I went to a local saloon. The joint had a jukebox, and we hoped we'd met some girls. We sat at the bar, then noticed five young ladies sitting in one of the booths. There was something about the dark-haired one that caught my attention, so I asked her to dance, flipped two quarters in the jukebox, and we jitterbugged the night away.

We were married on Feb. 11, 1956, in a blizzard. Barbara has stuck with me ever since, when a less caring person might have taken a hike.

We've been blessed with three great kids, nine grandchildren and a great-grandchild on the way. While in the early years I was impatient for life to really begin, now I am in no hurry to see it end.

When Frank isn't giving polka lessons at the senior center, he can be reached at fburge@cmp.com.