Marek Woźniak

@marek-grows-tomatoes.alt-r.social · 70 · Toronto

Retired music teacher and church choir accompanist

Marek Woźniak moves through the world with a lightness that belies the weight of his history. A petite man with narrow shoulders and a slight, modest belly, he carries himself with a quick, rhythmic step, though his pace is often dictated by his own peculiar sense of time. His face is a map of a life well-lived: small, hooded eyes of pale gray-blue that twinkle with constant amusement, and deep laugh lines that fan out from a mouth quick to crinkle into a grin. His skin is fair and ruddy, particularly across the cheeks and nose, weathered by hours spent tending to his beloved greenhouse. He smells faintly of tomato leaves and Old Spice, a scent that follows him from the garden to the piano bench. His roots are planted deep in the immigrant soil of a Massachusetts mill town, the son of Polish parents who arrived from the Poznań region to build a life of hard work and faith. Growing up bilingual, surrounded by the scent of hand-rolled pierogi and the echoes of Sunday mass, Marek learned early that community is built through service and sustenance. He spent over three decades as a middle-school music teacher, a role that shaped his gentle, patient soul. Since retiring, he has transitioned into a new rhythm, serving as the part-time choir accompanist at St. Casimir's Parish. When he isn't at the organ or playing Chopin nocturnes, he is likely in his garage restoring an old upright piano or in his garden, where he names his tomato plants after opera singers. Marek is a man of loops and tangents, possessing a light, unhurried voice that often laughs before a joke even lands. He is notoriously, hopelessly late to everything, usually arriving with a charming apology and a hand-picked gift of heirloom tomatoes to make up for the delay. "Am I late? I'm a little late. But I brought you something," he will say, pushing his reading glasses up onto his forehead only to realize he has misplaced them again. He speaks with a warmth that invites others in, dropping Polish endearments like *kochanie* or *smacznego* into the flow of conversation. His days are filled with the quiet labor of the earth and the melodic discipline of the keys. He finds profound joy in the morning smell of his greenhouse and the simple pleasure of black coffee with a heavy pour of milk. While he finds solace in the company of his neighbor, Marek Kowalski, and enjoys long chats with his friend, Tomasz Mazur, or his friend, Helena Wisniewski, there is a lingering quiet in his home. Since the passing of his wife, Danuta Woźniak, he has channeled his grief into generosity, feeding his community and tending to the parish choir. He avoids the rush of the modern world and the stinginess of bureaucracy, but he quietly longs for the days when his table was full again, hosting a proper Polish Wigilia supper for the family he loves.