Yesterday, in a long-buried collection of file folders, I found some papers of my father's that were written during those last painful years when he was a widower. Some of the pages comprise a "commonplace" book, the theme of which is, 'why am I still alive when my wife is dead?' In addition to the lamentations, there are two anomalous paragraphs of reminiscence -- constituting the sum of my father's known autobiographical writings. For the benefit and edification of my own children and grandchildren and family, I now put these writings on the record.
My father writes: "My maternal grandmother was a thin, almost gaunt woman about 5 ft 5 inches tall. Although I am sure she loved all her children & grandchildren, I cannot remember her ever showing any overt sign of affection. We children always knew when grandma was to visit us. My mother would go into a frenzy of housecleaning. All the curtains would be washed and re-hung; the kitchen floors scrubbed and the silverware washed and polished. Her [i.e. my father's grandmother's] face was unwrinkled, the skin drawn tightly. Her most dominant feature was her eyes, piercing, direct, demanding. There would be Grandma, wearing a little hat, glancing around the room while she slowly took off her gloves. If she was satisfied with what she saw, she would give a little nod as if to say, 'well done.' We would all relax."
A historical footnote: my grandparents came to this continent in about 1895 and the events that my father remembers are all turn-of-the-century and pre-WWI.
Until I uncovered this paragraph, I thought my grandparents came to North America on their own. I did not know that they were accompanied by this formidable great-grandmother. Although she herself was long gone when I came on the stage, I certainly encountered those piercing black eyes in other faces, my father's in particular. I wonder why my father (who was born in 1904) never wentioned his grandmother to me -- she certainly made an impression that lasted to the end of his life. Come to think of it, why the heck was my family so entirely tight-lipped about their ancestry?
But wait. There's more.
"My grandparents (that would be the ferocious grandmother and her equally unknown-to-me husband), had 5 children, 4 daughters and one son. There were born to their children in a space of 10 years, 18 grandchildren. Each one of these children were delivered at home. My grandmother attended every one of these births. About 2 weeks before the expected date of birth, my grandmother would appear wearing her little hat and gloves & carrying a small satchel; she immediately took charge of the household. The expectant mother would be freed of all household obligations."
From this evidence it would appear that in addition to his three siblings (Max, Sol, and Molly), my father had fourteen cousins on his mother's side of the family. Why didn't I know about them? Why did I never meet a single one? Or even hear their names? Or the names of their progeny, if there were any?
Also in my father's hand, scribbled in a corner of the paper, is a calculation: Mom - 4, Manya - 6, Nadya - 3, Mary - 2, Maris (or Saris, or Norris) -3. And then the sum: 18.
So, children and children's children and collateral descendants, you now understand a piece of the family history.
And readers: if there's anyone out there in internetland who had a strong, perhaps dictatorial great or great-great or great-great-great grandmother who came to assist at births armed with a satchel, a little hat and memorable black eyes (first name unknown but surnamed Hessel), and who knows that his or her ancestry includes a woman whose maiden name was Mary Hessel or Manya Hessel or Nadya Hessel, or if there's someone who's descended from Noris or Moris or Saris Hessel, hey, cuz, take a moment and add a comment to this entry and I'll get right back to you.
How fascinating, and what a shame those are the only two paragraphs he wrote. Would it be possible to track down Manya, Nadya et al through school, marriage or death certificates?
My own father at 76 has started talking about his own forebears and early life much more than ever before. At a funeral last year he told me about the day his own father died, when he was 6 years old. A sad and moving story that he'd never told any of his children before.
My father grew up in 20th century Essex, but in many ways it sounds like the dim and distant pre-industrial past.
Posted by: Sarah | May 23, 2008 at 06:33 AM