The Generosity of Amateur Genealogists

I have recently been reaching out to members of my husband's family, trying to finish up interviews and gather as many old photographs as I can in order to complete the family history book.  A planned interview for this weekend with a senior member of the family had to be postponed due to illness, but hopefully will be rescheduled soon. 

In the meantime, I have reached out to some of my husband's cousins.  Through one cousin, I was put in contact with an in-law who has reportedly done extensive research on the family.  I only recently found this out and am anxious to see what he has compliled in his research and trips to Croatia.   Once he had my email address, he was more than willing to share his information with me, and will be sending me his findings next week. 

I have also contacted a few people through the message service offered by ancestry.com, and they have all been willing to help out with information on their branches of the family.  Consequently, there are now 3055 names in my husband's family tree.  After my upcoming interviews, I expect to add a few more. 

Of course, the internet and specifically ancestry.com has made all of this possible.  When I think of my father trying to gather information through letters and phone interviews, writing to libraries and city records' offices,  and only towards the end using email, I realize how fortunate we amateur genealogy sleuths are.   Much of what we search for is online, thanks to the efforts of countless volunteers who have taken the original records and put them there.

And as these generous genealogists share their findings with each other and the entire genealogical world, and as we who benefit from their generosity are able to add more and more names to our family trees, it becomes clearer and clearer how connected we all are to each other, not just electronically, but also biologically.  

Goals for the New Year

Last year was a big year for me.  In finally finishing my book, The Waiting Room, I closed a chapter in my life.  Not only did I accomplish something very important to me, in a way I also said good-bye to my parents again.  Even though they passed away over two years ago, writing about them nearly every day for over a year kept them in my thoughts constantly.  Now, it is time to return to genealogy and involve myself in family activities. 

And, in that regard, this is looking to be a busy year.  In June we will be traveling to Seattle for my son Terry's graduation from Seattle Pacific University (with a Master's in Education) and in August, we're heading to Ireland to meet a distant cousin, explore some genealogy, and get to enjoy the land of my great-great grandparents' birth. There will be at least one family wedding to attend, and a number of wedding and baby showers.  But in between all the planned vacations and events, I have some genealogical goals.

First, with the help of my husband, I'm writing an  Eterovic family history.  Last year I hired researchers in both Croatia and the Czech Republic and I have all of their findings dating back to the 1700s.  I have already written most of the narrative regarding the genealogy, but I am waiting on a few pictures and stories.  I have also collected Croatian recipes and even tried cooking a few.  Most of the narrative is already written. What remains on my to-do list are a few interviews with senior family members.  In the meantime, my daughter-in-law, who is an amazing artist, is working on the cover.  Fortunately, one of my husband's nephews went to Brac, Croatia on his honeymoon and brought back pictures of the towns of Milna, and Pucisca, the birthplaces of my husband's grandparents, and one of those pictures will be the focus of the cover.  My hope is to have the book completed and printed sometime in March. 

Once that project is finished, I want to return to my father's side of the family.  So another goal is to see if there is anything else I can find in the nearly non-existant Irish records regarding Ned Brennan and Mary Fahey, my 2nd great grandparents who arrived in America from Ireland in 1860, the year before the beginning of the Civil War.  I have asked a research company to do some preliminary work for me and they have suggested several possible avenues they can follow to see if there are any other hints regarding the family.  I have also been contacted by a second relative in Ireland who may be able to put me in contact with her uncle, who has done some genealogical work on the family.  Then, of course, I hope to meet more family members when I visit Ireland.  Maybe someone will have information that has so far eluded me. 

A third goal is to find out more about my mother's side of the family. Her ancestors are from Germany and Belgium and while I have many names and dates, there are a few ancestors who remain a mystery.  One is her great grandfather, Herman Henry Frecker.  He died in his thirties and while I believe I have located a sister and mother, I know very little other than the fact that he was born in Germany and lived in Delphos, Ohio.  Recently, my cousin Tim sent me a newspaper article announcing his death.  It said only that he had been ill for years because of multiple tumors.  I don't know when he arrived in America or how old he was when he came, though Tim believes he may have been born at sea on the journey from Germany.  I have so far been unable to confirm that.  I'm going to look into the possibility of hiring a researcher in Germany, though the cost my be prohibitive. Maybe in another year or two, I'll travel to Ohio and spend some time looking into records there.  I'm certain there must be information locked away in some dusty library or county hall of records.  In the meantime, I'm also going to learn more about Germany, its history, and its many geographical regions. After my visit to Ireland, followed by a visit to Croatia in 2013, I may have to visit Germany myself.

A fourth goal is to work on another family history - that of my mother-in-law's side of the family.  Hers is the one that goes back to at least three Mayflower passengers.  I have already written some of the narrative, as I find it so compelling, and I'm anxious to put it all together for the rest of the family to see.  (Before I began doing this work they had no idea they were descendants of Mayflower passengers.)

Finally, like all professional and amateur genealogists, I look forward to the release of the 1940 census in April of this year.  That census alone will answer many questions about many relatives, and I can't wait!

So, in terms of genealogy, (as well as family activities and vacations)  it's going to be a very busy year and I look forward to many exciting discoveries. 

Pictures

I am currently working on a family history book for the Eterovic side of my husband's family.  We have sent letters to family members and are in the process of collecting photographs.  After the first letter requesting stories and photos, we had only a small response, but I have recently sent out an email reminder and people are beginning to respond (lesson: it takes more than one request to get people's attention, especially with everyone so busy these days). So in the past few days, I've been getting many emails with attached photos and just a few days ago my husband's cousin began putting up family photos on Shutterfly. The above picture is the oldest one I have.  It is of my husband's great grandmother Antonia Mladinich and was probably taken sometime between 1900 and 1910.  The two men were not in the original picture and were put in the frame, probably by my husband's grandmother.  (A primitive form of photoshop.)

The Shutterfly site contains wedding pictures of a number of people and some are incredible and gorgeous reflections of the times.  For example: 

I am so excited to see all these photos.  Some have damage from age, but I'm hoping to have them restored and printed in the book so they can be viewed and appreciated for generations to come.

An Unfortunate Loss

My cousin Tim called yesterday to inform me about the loss of some valuable genealogical records we had both hoped to benefit from.

The records had once belonged to my uncle Pete, my maternal aunt's husband.  He had been studying genealogy for decades, sending and receiving letters from sources in Germany, many of which were written in German and had to be translated.  He ultimately filled a dozen binders with his genealogical research into both his family and my aunt's family (which is also my family and Tim's) and before he died, donated them to a library.  A few years ago the library suffered a flood and the genealogical collection was moved to another location. In recent days, Tim found out from a distant cousin who tried to access the records that the entire collection was destroyed in the flood. 

We both had such high hopes for that collection.   Tim had seen some of it before Pete died, and hoped to return to the records to find the answers to some puzzles we've been unable to solve regarding the family.  Now that is no longer possible.

I know there are many people who do not understand why this is such a big deal.  Like any who pursue a hobby, sport, or intellectual pursuit and become addicted to it, we are much more invested in the process than those who have never become involved in it.  I've had many relatives of my husband's, for instance, who let me know in no uncertain terms that genealogy doesn't interest them and they don't want to participate in a family history project and aren't interested in hearing about my finds.  To them, life is for the living, not for a pursuit of "dead people."

I don't see it that way at all, even as I understand their lack of interest.  When my father was alive and immersed in genealogy, I was too busy raising my family, seeing clients, and teaching classes to inquire about what he was doing.  I really regret that now.  There are so many questions I would love to ask him and my mother about their families.  While I do have some of my dad's records from his research, I fear some of them were thrown out by my mother.  She spent many days, in the year before her death, cleaing out his office and his desk and throwing out files she felt were unimportant.  I feel fairly certain she threw out important genealogical data, but at the time I was too busy helping her stay alive and supervising my dad's care.

In our conversation, Tim brought up a distant cousin who used to visit my parents from time to time.  She was a nun, Sister Agnes, and we spent every Christmas Eve with her for decades. Tim was sure she was a font of information, and I'm sure she was, except at the time, I never thought to ask her anything.  Ultimately, she was transferred back to the motherhouse in Indiana, I believe, where she died. 

So Tim and I will have to explore other avenues to find the information that Pete had uncovered, though it will take us a long time, even with the internet, which my uncle did not have access to.  And we will both do it because, even though many do not understand, it is important to us to keep searching for our ancestors.  For me, it is even more than that.  My parents moved my brother and me out to California when I was ten.  We left behind grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, most of whom have died. My few living cousins still reside in the Midwest, but I hear from them only sporadically.  Ten years after we moved here, my brother died, and two and a half years ago, both of my parents died within the same week.  So genealogy for me has become a way to reconstruct my family, to gain an extended family, and to once again feel part of several clans that were left behind many years ago.

"The Waiting Room," continued

You can read more of the prologue to my book, The Waiting Room on Family Wisdom.

My Book: "The Waiting Room"

My book is now up on Amazon.  It's a memoir of the 18 months I spent with my parents when they were suffering from incurable and devastating diseases.  It's sad, but I believe the story, and especially the ending, will inspire you. The story begins forty years earlier.  Here's a sample:

There was something about mid-afternoon—the way the sun reflected off the Spanish Colonial architecture, the view of the Pacific on a smogless day, or the chapel bells ringing on the hour—that always lifted my spirits.  Classes had ended for the day and I was free to read a novel in the shade of a live oak, meander across the elegant campus, or gaze at the forested canyons below. Each time I strolled through the arched colonnades on my way to the library, I celebrated my good fortune.  There I was, the first in my family to attend college, and not just any college, but a magnificent cocoon high in the Santa Monica Mountains, far from the turmoil that touched so many college campuses in 1965.  I was just eighteen, an idealistic and naïve young woman who still believed in dreams, miracles, and happily ever after.  That anything could go wrong was beyond my imagination.

Then on Thursday, just before dinner, Mom called. 

"Come home this weekend," she said soberly.  "We need to talk."

"About what?" 

"Not over the phone," she said. 

A stream of possibilities flowed through my mind—none of them good. I wondered if Dad had lost his job and I'd have to leave school. My scholarship only covered tuition, and without Dad's income, we could never afford room and board.

"Can you at least give me a hint?" I said.

"It's about Terry," she replied.  "Will you be able to find a ride?"

When I told her I could, she abruptly ended the call, leaving me to wonder what had happened in the weeks I'd been away—she hadn't said anything about my younger brother in her weekly letters—but before I could think more about it, my friends breezed by on their way to the cafeteria and asked me to join them. 

Fortunately, my roommate was planning her own trip home for the weekend and agreed to give me a lift, so after Friday morning classes I threw my books and overnight bag into the backseat of her Volkswagen Beetle, and we joined the rush hour traffic leaving Los Angeles for Orange County.  I walked in the door around five-thirty, parked myself on the turquoise sofa in front of the television, and waited for Mom to come home from work.  One hour later, she sat across from me, underneath the white balloon lamp that cast eerie shadows on her face, causing her to look much older than her thirty-nine years. She stared at the floor for a moment, and when she looked up there were tears in her eyes.

"Your brother's sick," she said.

"What do you mean?" I said. 

She put her head down again but didn't speak.

"I'm sure he'll be all right," I said a little too hastily.

"No he won’t," she replied. Then she took a breath and said, "He has cancer."

Like a rogue wave catching me off guard, her words sent me reeling.  I shook my head, certain I had misunderstood.

"What did you say?"

"Terry has cancer. There's a lump on his neck, and the doctor did a biopsy. We got the results yesterday.  He has cancer of the lymph system," she said, speaking slowly and dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief she always kept tucked in the sleeve of her sweater.    

"No, Mom," I said, rushing in with the infinite wisdom of an eighteen year old. "He’s just sixteen.  You need to talk to a different doctor."

"The doctor is certain," she said.  "Terry has cancer.  And there’s no cure."

The wave was pulling me under, stealing air from my lungs and immersing me in darkness, but I struggled to the surface, desperate to get my bearings and stand on solid ground.

Terry had been tired lately, Mom said.  He'd had some fevers and nose bleeds.  Then he found the lump on his neck—the most ominous sign of all—and the diagnosis was now certain: my brother had Hodgkin's disease, a cancer of the lymph system. I didn’t even know what the lymph system was.

"There has to be some kind of treatment," I said. 

"We’re going to Long Beach next week to see a specialist. Maybe," she said, "he can give us some time."

"How much time?"

"If we're lucky, we might have a few years."

This couldn’t be happening.  I closed my eyes, shook my head, and willed time to go backward, back to the ride home with my roommate when we talked about our boyfriends, back to this morning when my biggest concern was passing my weekly French quiz. Time wouldn’t cooperate.

My mother composed herself and stood up.  Barely five foot two, she seemed suddenly smaller, struggling to manage the tragic burden that had just fallen on her.   She didn’t hug me, or look to me for comfort, or acknowledge her pain, though I knew it was there, ripping her to pieces. Instead, she walked slowly into the kitchen to start dinner, keeping herself busy as she always did whenever painful emotions threatened to engulf her, then returned to add one more thing.

"Terry’s out with his friends," she said.  "He doesn’t know the results of the biopsy yet.  He has no idea…"  She stood silently for half a minute, choking back tears.  "So I want you to control your feelings when he comes home."

Solving the mystery of Latin records

The parish records (births, marriages, christenings) for my husband's family in Croatia are mostly written in Latin, though some are written in Italian and a few in Croatian.  Having taken four years of Latin in high school and two years in college, I can read some of the entries.  However, my skills are rusty and I had forgotten how the endings of names can differ depending on the relationship of one person to another, and this had me confused regarding the names of my husband's ancestors. It was another mystery to be solved.

For example, many men in my husband's family are named "Anton" which is the Croatian form of Anthony. Anthony is also my husband's name and he is named after his grandfather Anton.  In the records of his ancestors, however, the name is often written "Antonius," the Latin form.  Occasionally the name was written in the Italian version, "Antonio."  This was because the island of Brac, his ancestral homeland, was frequently under the rule of Venice, and some of the priests were Italian. However, at times, the name is written "Antoni" or even "Antonii" which puzzled me. 

Then I found a website that reminded me of why the name might be spelled with one or two i's at the end.  This ending signifies that the individual is the father of a previously named individual.  So if I were to write my husband's name in Latin, it would simply be "Antonius."  If I were to write in Latin about "Matthew, son of Anthony," it would read "Mattheus filius Antoni (or Antonii)." Since christening records and marriage records list the parents of the child to be christened or the individuals to be married, it would be common to see the father's name ending in i or ii. 

So now when I see Antonii or Antoni, I realize my researcher was simply copying records exactly as the names were written in Latin, and probably didn't realize the endings represented a relationship between two individuals in the record. The actual name of the individual would be Antonius in Latin, and Anton in Croatian.

Mystery solved!