Family Stories – Page 5 – GenealogyAtHeart.com

Rose is Found – But Not In A Likely Location!

I’ve blogged in the past about the weird finds that I make in locations that had no connection to the relative I was searching. I just had another strange occurrence.

Since I did a surname study, my public Ancestry.com and MyHeritage.com trees contain all the Harbaughs in the U.S. Although they are not all my relatives, I’ve been fascinated with that family since my mother-in-law shared a 1947 book, Harbaugh History, by Cooprider and Cooprider, that contained the family story going back to the immigrant ancestor, Yost Harbaugh, who arrived in Pennsylvania in 1720. I entered the information from the book, along with several older Harbaugh books that were published, into my trees in an attempt to connect all the Harbaughs. I did this pre-DNA so I still have the lines of 13 immigrants (Herbach/Harbo) I haven’t been able to connect. Since I have so many Harbaughs and my tree is well sourced, a genealogy hobbyist shared a find she had recently made.

The hobbyist had visited an annual flea marked outside of Gainesville, Florida one Saturday morning and met a newly retired former antique dealer who had sold his shop in Hagerstown, Maryland and relocated to a rural area of Florida. He decided to sell some of the items he had moved with him to his new home. One of those items was a photo of a woman (above) and in pencil on the back, was recorded Miss Rose Harbaugh. A clue to the location where the photo was taken was imprinted by the photographic studio on the front – Hagerstown, Maryland.

The hobbyist had grown up in Maryland and was familiar with the Harbaugh name. Like me, she is not a relation to the family. For some reason she can’t explain, the photo haunted her and she decided to purchase it. Once home, she went on Ancestry.com and found several trees that included a Rose Harbaugh. The family loves to re-use names – there’s a lot named George and Frederick. Although Rose wasn’t as widely used (I have identified 37), Rose was often given as a nickname. In the case of the woman in the photo above, that was what happened – she is really Rosina Elizabeth Harbaugh.

The hobbyist decided she liked the effort I had put into my tree and that it was public but she wanted to make sure that the photograph was returned to someone who would appreciate it’s uniqueness. It was unique in that no one seems to have a photo of Rosina posted. Also, Rose was noted to be a “Miss.” As a single woman in middle age with no children, it isn’t likely she will be remembered. The hobbyist wanted to find a person who understood the importance of preserving the photo. Just finding a well sourced tree wasn’t enough for the hobbyist so she decided to check me out online. She said her decision was finalized when she found my website and my genealogical affiliations.

After connecting with me, the hobbyist and I chatted by phone about our genealogical passions and within a week, the photo was in my mailbox.

Rose never visited Florida but her photo gets to retire there. The second daughter and sixth of nine children born to Jonathan and Elizabeth Stephey Harbaugh, Rose was born 15 Dec 1838 in Maryland.* At 22, she remained with her parents and siblings outside of Cavetown, Maryland where her father farmed. By 1870, the family had relocated to Ringgold, Maryland and Rose was employed as a domestic servant. After both her parents died in 1879, Rose moved in with her brother, Samuel, and his wife, finding employment as a store clerk. By 1900, Rose was living on her own; unfortunately, her employment status is unreadable in the 1900 US federal census. In 1910, Rose was working as a 71 year old dressmaker and living on her own. She died on 5 Dec 1917 in Smithsburg, Maryland and is buried in Smithsburg Cemetery.

Rose’s photo is a welcome addition to my Harbaugh collection. One hundred and one plus years after her death, Rose has found a new home thanks to Elaine May for her genealogical act of kindness.

*All information from Harbaugh History, US censuses and Find-A-Grave with full citations on my trees.

Haunted Rose Cemetery

Branch found behind my car between 10-10:45 AM on 11/3/18

I actually planned on writing about an awesome find by using an index that happened to me while I was researching last weekend but an event just occurred that I must get out of my mind.

On this beautiful cool fall morning, a World War 1 Centennial Commemoration service was scheduled at Rose Cemetery in Tarpon Springs, Florida. I typically don’t attend these types of ceremonies because my schedule doesn’t allow it but I got an email message from a neighborhood list that I’m a member of Thursday afternoon apologizing for the late notice and something just made me want to go. I’m not sure if it was because it was an Eagle Scout dedication for installation of a memorial stone and flag pole that piqued my interest since my children had achieved both Eagle and Gold Award in the past. Earning those recognitions are a major accomplishment for a busy teen and I well remember all the work that was involved. I’ve been working on a book about my husband’s grandfather in World War 1 for the last few years and my goal had been to get it epublished this year but life got in the way of that happening; the ceremony’s tie in to a project I’m working on was definitely a draw. I also always wanted to visit historic Rose Cemetery, the African American burial site in my region, but every time there was a clean up planned I had to be elsewhere.

Last evening at dinner I told hubby my plans of attending the event. He was going to be helping out a family member prep for painting. I arrived about 5 minutes before the ceremony was to begin. As it’s an old fashioned cemetery – you drive on the grass and park on the grass, I parked in the closest space next to the table set up for volunteers for a local club who were going to perform some maintenance after the event. I walked a short distance to where others were gathered for the ceremony.

Towards the end, hubby called telling me he needed the garage door opener I had in my car for the family member he was helping as he couldn’t access the house without it. He asked where I was parked and I gave him directions. The ceremony ended minutes later so I quickly called him to make other arrangements for him to get the opener as I didn’t want him to try to pull in when the dignitaries that had just spoken were pulling out. There’s only one path and if someone is driving the “wrong” direction the only way to get out is to drive backwards which I didn’t want anyone to have to do as it’s a curve with stones close to the edge. He told me he hadn’t left home yet so I told him I’d deliver the opener.

I had just hung up and was walking fast when I noticed a late attendee had parked parallel to the road directly behind me. There was room for me to pull out but just barely. As I walked into the dirt drive I noticed the branch pictured above gently laid between my car and the late attendees. Now there are lots of trees and we had a cold front come through yesterday bringing severe weather – a tornado had hit to the north and south of us and 60,000 people had lost power – so a fallen branch was not unusual. What was weird was the faded plastic flowers that appeared to be gently placed adjacent to the limb where it had broken from the tree. This did not look like a random fall of a tree branch. It had landed right smack in the middle of the small dirt drive and the flowers were standing upright as if someone had planted them in the dirt. There were no loose leaves or sticks. There was no obvious place in the tree above where the branch had broken off. In this small space of just a little over the width of a car, the branch had fallen without touching either car. The plastic flowers were not stuck in the leaves so yesterday’s wild winds did not blow them up into the boughs. The flowers were standing straight up as you’d normally see a bouquet with the metal stems stuck in the dirt at the end of the broken limb. It made me shiver.

I looked around and there were two women standing by the table talking. They were oblivious to the limb. How they had not hear it fall was beyond me. I didn’t think to take a picture. I thought to get out of there but I could only do that if I removed the branch. I reached down and picked up the flowers with one hand and dragged the branch over to rest beside my car and the table. Both women watched me but said nothing. I said, “This was weird, the branch and these flowers were right behind my car and I couldn’t back up. At this point, the late attendee and her husband arrived and she asked where the branch was. I pointed to the empty space between our cars. She said, “That wasn’t there a few minutes ago.”

Even stranger, although the marks where I dragged the branch were visible in the dirt, there was no impression made as you would expect when a heavy branch fell onto dirt. It simply looked like it had been gently laid there.

The women at the table just shook their heads. Now it’s a well known story in my town that this place is haunted. You can read about some of the happenings here and here and here. You an also check out YouTube for more info. None of us wanted to say ghost but it was clearly what we were all thinking. I said, “It’s okay, weird things happen to me all the time.” One lady walked away and the other just stared at the branch. I didn’t want to offend anyone as the place I put the branch was the closest empty space but it wasn’t a good location since many of those who had been at the ceremony were going to be arriving at the table and the branch would be in the way. There just wasn’t anywhere else to put it. The table lady just looked at me and said, “Things happen here.” I replied, “I understand, I’m a genealogist and I’ve had many strange things happens to me when I visit cemeteries of my family members.” But I have no family members, to my knowledge, buried in Rose Cemetery and I’ve visited lots of cemeteries over the years and have not had anything odd happen. I have no idea why what I said even popped out of my mouth. I was blabbering. “I’m just going to leave the branch there,” I said. She nodded a yes.

I got in my car and took the picture as I drove away. All I wanted to do was go home and take a shower. I’m thinking that comes from an old family tradition; my grandmother always entered the house after a cemetery visit refusing to speak to anyone until she went to the kitchen sink and washed her hands. I asked her about it once and she said it was just a family custom to wash the spirits away. I’ve never felt the need to do that but today I did.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever go back to Rose Cemetery. Maybe my mind is just making a mountain out of a mole hill. This past week was Halloween, All Saints and All Soul’s days. I’d like to think that perhaps those holidays were influential and made me lose my rational side.

I just would like to understand how a large branch can suddenly appear on the ground with plastic flowers upright and no one saw or heard anything. Strange, indeed.

A Creepy Weird Family Story

Every October I like to blog about a family story passed down to me that I consider spooky. The odd thing about the story I’m about to tell is that I can find NO DOCUMENTATION to support the facts. Zero – Nada – Zilch! Since this occurred in my lifetime I find the lack of proof frustrating and a little strange. You’ll see why at the end of the tale.

I come from a large extended family on my maternal side. My grandmother, Mary Kos Koss, was the family matriarch who loved to entertain which greatly contributed to people keeping in close contact with each other. After her death on 5 Jun 1985, the relatives, for the most part, lost touch with each other. I witnessed the retelling of this story in the presence of my mother and grandmother from the individual it happened to and they are all now deceased. One of my aunts also had knowledge of the event, along with two of my cousins. My aunt is deceased and I have lost touch with my two cousins.

Here’s what I recall…

On school days as a child, I awoke every morning at 7 AM so that I wouldn’t be tardy to school which began at 8 AM. I lived a block from my elementary school and about 6 blocks from my high school so the walk was quick unless the snow was deep. During my late middle and high school years, my mother worked a few blocks from our home and also had to be at work at 8 AM. She liked to listen to the radio and catch the 7 AM news report that included the weather report because weather was fickle in our area; a warm morning could change to snow dusting by afternoon.

While mom was listening to the radio in her bedroom I was getting dressed in mine. I heard her shriek and I quickly came out to find out what was the matter. She was running down the stairs to the first floor, something I rarely witnessed, so I ran after her. My grandmother was in the kitchen enjoying a cup of coffee and toast. Mom ordered my grandmother to turn on the kitchen radio. Mom never ordered anyone to do anything so this was strange, indeed.

Grandma got up from the table and turned the radio on but all that played was big band music. My mother reached over and changed channels but my mom couldn’t find whatever she was looking for. After stopping at several stations she turned the dial off and told my grandmother that the news reported that there had been a plane crash at the home of George Kos. My grandmother paled.

George was my grandmother’s only son. He lived a short distance from us in a small home he had purchased after his second divorce. At the time, Uncle George worked for US Steel as a laborer. As was typical, his work schedule varied; days, nights or midnights as the three shifts were commonly called. We didn’t know what shift he had been assigned so we didn’t know if he had been in the house when the plane hit.

Grandma immediately dialed his landline phone number but it was out of service. I suggested we call the news room for further information. While I looked up the number in the phone book, my grandmother tried to reach another of her daughters who lived in the area. No one answered. My mother called the radio station but no one answered, probably because the office didn’t open until 8 AM. My grandmother then called the police station; she was informed that there was no information to disclose. I remember thinking we should call the hospitals but I kept that thought to myself. Grandma called my aunt again and still there was no answer. It was now about 7:25 AM and the adults decided they would drive to George’s home to see if he was there. My mother told me to get my shoes on and as we were heading out the door, the phone rang. My aunt told my grandmother they had just been awoken by the phone and figured we had called. George was safe and had slept the night at her house.

I was glad Uncle George was fine but certainly disappointed I had to go to school that day. My aunt told my grandmother George was going to sleep in and meet with the insurance agent that afternoon but they’d all be over for dinner that evening.

Over dinner that night, Uncle George said he after he had gotten home from the day shift, he showered and turned the television on. He had fallen asleep in the living room and was dreaming that his grandmother, Anna Grdenic Kos, was shaking him. Anna had died on 14 Feb 1966 and had doted on George in his youth. Granny, as we called her, was whispering in his ear and shaking him to get up and get out of the house right away. In his dream, George told Granny he was tired and needed to sleep but she was insistent that he rise and leave. He awoke, startled. The dream had seemed so real. As he sat in the armchair, he could still hear her voice in his head telling him to go now. He arose, grabbed his truck keys and wallet and decided he needed a drink at the local bar. He was there when the plane crashed into his home. The living room had been destroyed. He believed Granny had saved his life. We all believed it, too.

I’m foggy about the exact time period the event occurred. It happened after Granny’s death in early 1966 and before I met my husband in 1972. A cousin had lived in George’s home after her marriage and at the time of my grandfather’s death in 1970 as I stayed with her while my grandfather was dying. I don’t recall my grandfather being at the dinner table when Uncle George told us his dream so I’m inclined to think this happened in 1971 or early 1972 as my cousin had relocated from the area and George would have returned to the house. But if Gramps had been there, it could have occurred between 1967-1969.

Now here’s the frustrating part with the records. We used to get the local newspaper, the Gary [Indiana] Post Tribune but I don’t recall an article about the crash. My family were newspaper clippers so I would think I would have inherited the story but I have not. Sometime during this time period, we did purchase the Chicago Tribune instead so that could be why I don’t have a clipping. I wanted to check the Gary Post but those years are not online. The newspaper had changed ownership and those years are missing. The local library has been closed due to funding cuts. On to the next record –

I know my Uncle’s address as I do have a US Public Records Index from 1987 listing it. (The house was rebuilt and he continued to live there until he retired and moved from the area.) I tried to search property records but the city claims they have given the records to the county who claims the city did not do so. I was hoping the property records could show when my uncle purchased it to narrow the earlier dates and possibly, to show when permits were pulled to rebuild. Onward with the search –

I have no relatives to help me recall the dates further. Next –

Could not find the event online, although there are several websites that record plane crashes in Indiana. Some do not go back into the 1970’s; those that do have missed it.

Trying to think outside the box, I thought of possibly contacting the present owners but the street view of Google from 2013 (above) shows the house was abandoned. The living room was the front window on the right.

For now, I have no proof of the event. As the only surviving witness to the story, I wanted to record it. Perhaps someday the missing records and newspaper story will surface to add support to the my tale. Even if documents are never found, I will continue to take heed of dreams involving my ancestors. I just wish they’d tell me the winning lottery numbers!

Another Family Story Shattered!

You know the feeling when you discover a long held belief isn’t what you thought?! Shocked, Saddened, Denying it, Attempting to disprove the new information – yep, those stages of grief. But learning the truth is important and I know it can change my genealogy sleuthing to find what I really need to get a better understanding of the family.

I’ve written previously about one of my husband’s great grandmothers, Mary “Mollie” O’Brien, who with her purported half sibling, ventured to New York City during the height of the Potato Famine from Ireland.

Cousins and I have surmised that Mollie and her sister must have been orphaned as Irish church and civil records show no trace of her parents after her Baptism in Limerick. This would explain why she set out for a new life in a new land.

Mollie worked as a maid in New York City and it was there she met Scotts immigrant, John Cook. After a brief courtship, the couple “eloped” via Newark, New Jersey where they had a quickie wedding and then took the train to Chicago where they lived out their life. Now “elope” is another fable that seems plausible but hasn’t been proven. Mary and John’s marriage record was found at a Roman Catholic Church in Newark that was close to the train station. The maid of honor and best man seem to be parishioners and not family or friends of the couple. Mollie was not honest about her age, adding a few years to make the union legal.

According to family tales, John was Protestant but agreed to marry Mollie in a Catholic church with the stipulation that any boys they had would be raised Protestant and the girls, Catholic. I always thought that was so forward thinking for the mid-1800’s. Love overcoming long held beliefs and the ability to compromise said a lot about their relationship. What a couple! Except, this story wasn’t true.

I first heard the tale from my father-in-law who explained to me why he was raised Protestant. His father, Andrew, was supposedly taken to church by his father, John, as part of this deal. I then met a descendant of William, Andrew’s brother, and she had heard the same tale. Using social media, we reconnected with a long lost cousin of Mary, the only girl the couple had and not surprising, that line had all remained Roman Catholic. So this story seemed true, except it wasn’t.

Recently, FindMyPast.com released Chicago, Illinois Roman Catholic church records. I initially went on to find my relatives – my mom and great aunt’s Baptism certificate and my grandparents’ marriage record. I still haven’t found the marriage and I had terrible difficulty locating my mom’s document. I have a copy so I knew it existed; I knew when and where it had been made but the search function did not allow me to search by the known church, even though it is supposed to work.

I began to eliminate first names in the search and kept the search vague – just the last name and not even the complete name. The surname was Koss but when the family emigrated, the spelling had been Kos so I used just that. The search engine then gave me all the Kos’ and Koss’ to explore further. Lo and behold, there was my mother as Dorothea and not Dorothy. I hadn’t thought that the Latin word would have been used in the database as the hard copy record clearly recorded Dorothy. (Side note: I’m now wondering what my real baptismal record shows as I recall my mom telling me that there was some discussion with the local priest that my name did not have a Latin translation and that was a problem. I really need to find out what the church decided to call me! Perhaps my mom always knew she had been recorded as Dorothea but this was the first time I learned of it.)

But back to Mollie…I decided to find the Baptism record for Mollie and John’s daughter, Mary, and based on my new found knowledge, entered only Cook. There were many of them but using the known birth year I thought I’d find Mary quickly. Nope, instead I found Andrew and William. So the boys had been Baptized Catholic after all. Interestingly, William’s name was not Latinized to Gulielmus nor was Andrew’s as Andreas. When I finally found what I think was Mary’s, it wasn’t either, but her parents first names were and I’m not sure I have the correct record as their last names are off. No one else seems to have Latinized surnames so I’m not understanding what’s up with this record.

To be honest, these records were a hot mess. My Great Aunt Barbara’s had several errors that were corrected by cross outs. First, my great grandfather’s name was entered as the infant and then corrected; my great grandmother’s name was crossed out then added. Someone wrote sideways “Were married” and my great grandmother’s maiden name, Grdenich, was also added sideways in pencil in what appears to be a different handwriting.

After several days I still can’t find my grandparent’s marriage and I have the pictures so I know it happened.

But once again, back to Mollie…I guess it is possible that the boys attended another church and Mollie just took daughter, Mary, with her to mass. My father-in-law never told me what particular denomination his father attended. I’m not convinced the boys ever went to any church as John Cook, Mollie’s husband, happens to be buried in the Catholic cemetery next to her. John was originally entombed in nondenominational Calvary Cemetery but after Mary’s death, the family moved him to Catholic Mount Carmel. So I have no idea if he was approving or opposed to the change. His sons didn’t seem to mind. Daughter Mary is in the same plot with her Catholic husband.

I looked for Roman Catholic marriage records for all 3 children but like with my grandmother, haven’t found them yet. I also haven’t found anyone’s Confirmation record. The search continues.

Stories from Sadness

Yesterday I attended a funeral for a woman I knew well but had never met. Her daughter was a former Client and I had done much research on the deceased’s grandmother. I’ve never attended a Client’s family member’s funeral before and it was an interesting experience. The Minister spoke about the importance of connections and he was so right in ways he didn’t even know!

I should have thought of this years ago but somehow this escaped me until now. In grief, a lot of memories are evoked that can explain or provide hints to better understanding of the individual and their place in the family. During the Reflection phase of the memorial service, I was struck by a piece of info that the Client had never previously shared with me regarding the family residence years ago. Since this was between census years in a rental in a place that didn’t have a City Directory, I would have been hard pressed to find where they were living and why. It had been a troubling time, based on what I heard yesterday, and that would explain why the Client never shared it while I was working on the lines, however, it readily connected the family to another family 2 generations previously that I knew was living on that same block.

Many of the reflections confirmed other stories I had heard; that the deceased had an uncanny ability to know everyone’s date of birth and address for this large extended family. I readily agree. When I was in the early stages of the research, I met to share some of the findings and the Client was certain I had made an error. After checking with the very knowledgeable family member, my data was confirmed.

Her passing yesterday is a loss to the family in many ways; from a genealogical perspective, the stories she did not pass on might never be learned. One of the grandchildren recorded the service thus preserving the recollections of some of the family members.

Although emotions are raw during a funeral, important genealogical information is decimated. If you are distraught, your spouse or friend might be helpful at this time to unemotionally record the information that can assist you later. I plan on meeting with the Client for lunch in the next few months to share the information that I learned. I think she’ll appreciate it and gain a better understanding of the past.

Mother’s Day Ideas

Mother’s Day is just around the corner and I thought of some unique ideas that don’t take a lot of time that mom would really value. Lucky you, since you’re into genealogy, you’ve got the information to share.

This idea I got from my church – they requested a brief (meaning less than 500 words) bio of a special mom. Note the word special; that mom doesn’t have to be by blood. I really liked that concept. So remember those special moms on Mother’s Day, too! Not sure who that could be? Think family friend, neighbor, teacher, or perhaps, an older sister. that you looked to for guidance. If they’re no longer living, create a Find-A-Grave memorial page or donate to a cause they were passionate about.

Now back to the brief bio idea…this only takes a few minutes to write, print and frame. Add a picture and get some input from siblings or grandchildren. A personalized gift was always valued by my mom and I wish I had thought of this while she was still living.

Last month, Ancestry.com advertised a Mother’s Day promotion and even though it’s too late to enter, the method, a video, is another wonderful way to honor mom. I think it would be awesome to highlight several moms in a line this way. Adding music of the time period, documents with signatures and your voice over as a connection across the ages could be powerful. Geez, you could even make copies on a thumb drive to use for stocking stuffers at Christmas.

A spin off of the Ancestry.com idea made me think of a mom in my past that had overcome adversity. Your tree is most likely full of hard working women who have made a positive impact. Pick one as your heroine and simply write that individuals name on a stickee to be placed near your computer. If you have her picture, put it on your phone for another visible reminder of strength. We can all use a little motherly love during a stressful workday! It’s a neat gift to give yourself.

Helix Results Have Arrived

I got the results of my Helix-National Geographic DNA test back this week. I had sent it off the day after Christmas at the same time two family members mailed their samples to Ancestry.com. Ancestry had the results back 3 weeks ago so I patiently waited my Helix analysis.

If you’re planning to test with Helix, please know that you will not discover any matches – these results take you back thousands of years instead of the past few generations. I purposely wanted to see if the findings were similar to the mitDNA Haplogroup results I got about 8 years ago from Ancestry and more recently, from 23andMe. They were basically the same and also confirmed my Neandertal ancestry that 23andMe had found last summer.

Alas, I had no Denisovian which I suspected I might have since they were known to be in the Siberian/Mongolian/China regions. My thinking was my eastern European genes might have come from way east in the distant past but I was wrong.

My favorite part of the results was the interactive web timeline. It’s a nice touch to have pictures of all ages of people and the countryside pop up with the description of when your ancestor resided in the region. Think National Geo Magazine and you get the idea of how well done this is. The migration pattern is also clearly shown and as I’ve blogged about many times, follows the family lore that’s been passed down to me. (If I could only figure out why my family can’t get the stories of the last 100 years right but can remember things from thousands of years ago I will never know!)

You do not get to download your chromosomes to upload anywhere else. I didn’t need that as I’ve already tested with companies that provide that result but that may be important to you so keep it in mind.

My family thought the link to genius was the most interesting result. Personally, I thought it was meaningless as the connections are far removed. Hubby thought it was just phenomenal so, shhh, I bought him a kit for Valentine’s Day. It was on sale and even less expensive than what I paid for it at Thanksgiving. I figure he’ll get the results back by his birthday so he can gloat over his genius cousins. My prediction is that we’re going to have similar findings since our lines have crossed several times in the last 300 years in various parts of the world.

One of those “geniuses” and they qualify how they came to define the word, was of course, Marie Antoinette who shows up in every DNA test I’ve ever taken. I’m thinking I should probably investigate exactly where that connection is so this summer, I’ll be heavily researching my Croatians which, at the time my ancestor’s resided there, was Austria-Hungary. Marie was born in Vienna, Austria. My maternal lines were in the military for generations so I suspect they traveled throughout the region. For displaying valor on the battlefield, they were titled and that’s where I’m going to start my research.

Funny, for years I’ve had the stories and tried to validate them by uncovering the facts. Now I have the DNA facts and I’m trying to find the story. Genealogy upside down!

Genealogy Connection at the Car Dealership

On the way to the Croatian Picnic, Hobart, Indiana, 4 July 1923. Left to right: Frank Trputsis, Mary and Joseph Koss

So here’s my Serendipitous Saturday event of yesterday…

Hubby’s 10 year old car was ready to bite the dust. In the past week the gas cap refused to come off, the driver’s visor fell out, the windshield wiper fluid wouldn’t pump out and the air stopped working. Definitely time for a trade in!

He absolutely loved the car so he considered getting those things fixed but when we started tallying up the price, decided to invest that money towards a new vehicle. He wanted the same make and model since it had been such a low maintenance car but we couldn’t agree on a price at the dealership, which was ironic because the by line is they never let a customer down.

We drove to another dealership where I had purchased a car two years ago and as we were negotiating, I heard a deep voice say, “I’m Croatian.” This totally distracted me from the sales person for several reasons. First, I am Croatian and I only know of one other person of Croatian descent in a three county area adjacent to where I reside. Second, in the 45 years I’ve lived in the area, I’ve never heard anyone make that statement. Third, entirely unexpected, it surprised and startled me to the point of losing focus on the the sales person’s conversation. Fourth, what was really weird, though, was that my husband and I had just had a side conversation about my Croatian grandmother and her love of new vehicles so much so that she would buy a new car every year. My grandfather never drove because of his poor vision and rarely went with her when she negotiated prices. I had just remarked to my husband how I would have preferred to be anywhere else than in a car dealership and I didn’t understand how Grandma could possibly enjoy the experience annually.

I looked at my husband after hearing the voice from no where and asked him if he had just heard “I’m Croatian.” Sitting right next to me, he hadn’t. For a second I thought I was hearing things but the sales person said, “That was Boris, he works in financing.” I told her I had to meet him so after we agreed to terms (HALLELUJAH!), she introduced us.

Boris emigrated at age 18. He was born and raised in the same city my grandparents were from. Knowing the area well, he corrected my pronunciation of the small neighborhood they where they had resided. When I mentioned how much I missed my grandmother’s cooking he let me know that there is now a group meeting locally for those of Croatian descent. My first question, “Do they have lamb at their meetings?” With summer coming, I’m really missing those old picnics from my youth. I do live in a Greek community where cuisine close to my upbringing is readily available but those small nuances in ingredients make a difference and it’s just not quite the same. He said, “Yes, and they have kolaches, pita, and other desserts.” Oh my goodness! I have the recipes but they just don’t taste the way grandma made them. I blame Florida humidity but that’s probably not it – I just don’t have the knack for baking the way she and my mom did. So today, I’m heading to meet some folks and possibly kin.

This experience got me thinking about a different way to build your tree. It had never occurred to me to try to find a Croatian group locally. Whatever is your ancestral origins, it’s possible they are meeting near you. Check them out! Even if you don’t find a connection to your family you’ll be able to enjoy the culture and cuisine that will give you a better idea of what made your ancestor tick. Happy Hunting!

A Tub Full of Memories

Laundry – it stinks if left undone, piles up and never ends. Kind of like genealogy! I had to use the machines in my local laundromat recently due to home renovations. Check out the picture above – it costs $5.00 to wash ONE LOAD. Of course I didn’t have as many quarters as I needed and the change machine in the facility jipped me which made me even more determined to get our laundry room back in order quickly.

I have several memories of laundry from my childhood which is funny when you think of how mundane doing laundry is. My earliest memory is of my mom running among the rain drops to retrieve nearly dry sheets hanging outside on the line when I was about 3 years old. She told me it was God’s final rinse and it smelled delightful. I imagined heaven as scented with a summer rain. We had a washer and dryer but my mom loved to hang out clothes which my father never understood. She never adapted to using dryer sheets.

My maternal grandmother was the same way; grandpa had to make her special laundry stakes – a slit on the end of a long pole – to raise up the wet clothes on the line so it wouldn’t drag across the ground. She was barely 5 feet tall and used a step stool to reach the line, dragging it across the backyard grass from space to open space. On windy days, I would run between the hanging clothes trying to not get slapped by the wetness. If I made it through untouched I got a point. Usually the laundry won.

Doing laundry could be scary, too. My grandparents had an old wringer Maytag washing machine in the basement and occasionally, my mom would drag it across the basement floor to the double cement laundry tub which she would use to “catch” the clothes going through the wringer. I thought it was fascinating to see the water squeeze out until mom leaned too close to the wringer and her headscarf went along for the ride. Immediately, she reached for the wringer arm mechanism and placed it in reverse so she could be free. That was fast thinking and probably saved her life. Mom told me that she knew a woman who had died from a broken neck because she hadn’t been able to reach the lever in time. I’ve never seen that in an obit but I imagine death by laundry wouldn’t be memorialized as the way to go.

Hubby’s dad lost a piece of his thumb as a young man helping his mom do laundry. As he tried to adjust the bulky, heavy clothes going through the wringer his thumb slid forward and caught in the machine. He lived to tell of his dangerous encounter taming wet sheets.

Now when it comes to laundromats, until recently, I had more pleasant memories. My Aunt Betty, for a short time, owned and operated a laundromat. My cousins and I would sometimes accompany her to the business and play around by “driving” the carts, climbing on the tables to be tall and checking out the laundry product machines and the pay phone to see if there was change left. I can’t ever recall a customer while we were there which could explain why she sold the business and moved on to owning a beauty shop (now that was really fun for a young girl!). I suppose the broken machines were another reason for the sale; we thought it was hilarious when suds billowed out of the top and down the sides but Aunt Betty never looked pleased.

My last childhood memory of laundromats is related to this time of year. In late winter or early spring, mom would take our heavy winter garments to the then new concept of Norge Village – an upscale laundromat that housed huge machines from a child’s perspective that not only washed and dried clothes but also dry cleaned. A modern woman in the 1960’s sure had come a long way, baby! Mom would save money by doing her own dry cleaning of the winter coats; I was always glad to see them folded and stored in the attic in plastic tubs with moth balls. Give me hot weather anytime.

And give me my own machines! In our laundry room, we have hanging an old glass National washboard that my husband purchased at his first auction for $10.00 years ago. It serves as a reminder of how far a simple household task has evolved and I’m thankful for that.

Diversity in the Family Tree and Its Importance Today

Last month I took part in an activity at a workshop in New York City on Cultural Competence that’s been haunting me ever since. The presenter, Vivian V. Lee, Ed.D. from Johns Hopkins University provided an adapted handout from M. Loden & J. Rosner’s book, Workforce America (McGraw-Hill, 1991) that opened my eyes to my family’s core values in ways that I had never experienced before.
The worksheet consisted of a Diversity Wheel – a circle within a circle that listed 12 category descriptions of an individual, such as your level of education, geographic location and gender. Participants were asked to identify and record a word that described their personal category descriptions. For myself, it would be master’s degrees, USA, female.

Next, participants were asked to record the complete opposite of their personal description. So mine would be no degrees earned, anywhere but North America, male, etc. A few minutes was provided to reflect on the recorded responses by thinking about:

how would the opposite from yourself identity be perceived and treated by society and by the individual
how different would your present life be compared to that of the opposite individual
how would you adapt in society as the opposite individual
I was shocked to discover that my polar opposite in most categories would be my maternal grandfather, Ivan “John” Kos[s] and great grandfather, Josef Kos[s]. Although they both had the same surname, these men were distant relatives. Josef was my grandmother’s father and John was her husband of an arranged marriage. So, my grandmother’s maiden name was the same as her married name (now that’s convenient!). But back to the exercise…

Both John and Josef emigrated separately from then Austria-Hungary, now Croatia, to the U.S. for reasons that so many emigrants continue to come – economic opportunity, freedom, a new start. Manual laborers with little to no education, limited English and no citizenship rights, these men, along with others like them, were the backbone of the United States’ economy for generations as continue to be so today. I never met Josef who died young; he caught the flu and passed away in 1919. Of John, I never heard one complaint from him about his status in society. Even after residing here for over 60 years, though, he knew he continued to be identified by a slur – I heard a shopkeeper once call him a D.P., aka a displaced person. Although he took a citizenship oath, would never be fully accepted and remained subject to distrust by those who fate allowed to be born here. Although I’ve become the opposite of my grandparents, I know they would have been very proud of my children and my role in society. They would not begrudge that I am not treated as they had been.

I reaped the fruits of Josef and John’s difficult lives. If you take a moment to think about your own roots, you most likely have an immigrant story in your family. It may have been as long ago as 1600 or just in the last decade. Your ancestors may have come of their own volition or not. It matters not when or how they arrived. What matters is that the hardship they endured afforded you comfort and security that was lacking from their point of origin. Perhaps it’s due to my childhood interactions with and knowledge of my grandparents’ life experiences that make me thankful for their risk in immigrating and I will always have a place in my heart for those who are so courageous that they would begin again in a new land.