Did you know that if you put Genealogy into Google, you get 61,700,000 pages, and it' the fastest growing hobby in North America today? About 60% of Americans are interested about their own family history. That beats the heck out of stamp collecting, which was big when I was a kid. Back then, the idea that a little square had gone around the world was a great wonder, while today we send mail like Star Trek sent people. Even still, that's a lot of interest for people who are mostly dead. So it begs the question, why? Well, as with all things, there is no one answer that will fit for everyone. For some, the skills involved in genealogy can include a level of Holmes-like deduction of clues, Columbo-esque questioning, charting documents like Marco Polo, and writing that would combine the mood setting of Sam Spade and the magic of the Bard himself. So there's a lot of people who are drawn to the puzzle piece intrigue like Agatha Christie into a murder. However, is it just a large group of frustrated detectives that lead to this rise of a popular hobby? I would like to put forth a theory that family foundation, becomes a major point of appreciation, no matter what skeletons you may find in the closet, or cemetery.
I believe that one thing the family gave to each subsequent generation, was a foundation of right and wrong. This foundation, usually of the Judeo-Christian mode, was the measuring stick that families shared. There was good, true, proud, well-done; and there was wrong, shame, guilt, and sin. This was the foundation left by my own Bronx, Irish, Catholic ancestors. However, we have as a people at large and over the last sixty to one hundred years, run away from this foundation of what is right and wrong. We have done so because of the people who enforced or taught these foundations, but did so badly and for their own gain. When those who are progressive, believing themselves enlightened, point to times in history that horrible things were done, and point to the name of the faith it was supposedly done in. That's not where to look though. It was done by bad people, those who accepted the evil they touted against. People also do good things, like all of our civilization's accomplishments were done by people who repelled the evil, and worked for good. So instead of keeping the foundation of faith and showing the faults of these men and women, we left the foundations and now have nothing to show for it.
For several generations, though, their foundation was their faith in God. Whether it was my family in Britain or in Ireland, or whether it was my wife's family in the mountains in Northern Italy, or traveling through the Ukraine and other countries, or whether it was countless other families across the world, it was their faith in God that was their foundation that strengthened them for any weather. They found a grounding in the Bible and faith in God that secured a family, and in turn, a community. No, it didn't keep everyone straight, but even then crooks had limits (at least in my family!) A family in the true sense, has a foundation to it. Like the story in Sacred Scripture, the house built on sand will fall away at the first storm. The house built on bedrock will keep the home steady, dry, and safe in any storm. I believe we are looking for that foundation once again.
We have grown tired of a system that seems to allow for defiance of everything that was once good, and punishes the innocent. We want a time when if something was done wrong, at least we knew where to point to for answers. We felt that most of the time, our government, communities, and our families made sense, common sense, which is not so common. Our biggest mistake, as a people at large, was placing our trust in people who abused that knowledge and power. We should have kept our eyes on God, our faith in our Father. Faith cannot be farmed out, it cannot be left to others. Faith and family must be the responsible of each member, we are all individually responsible to God and to our young ones.
When the storm comes, when the thunder rolls, and the lightning flashes across our lives, are we on a firm foundation; one shared by our family, our community? Do we receive our news so often that it has caused a numbness to the pain of others, or is it that we have just become too selfish to notice or care? When cancer slowly ravages a body, when a child is taken by evil, when Alzheimers takes away a loved one and yet leaves their shell, or when our fight against evil takes the life or limbs of the strong and courageous of us; are we able to stand firm, or do we blow with the wind like a dry leaf, already dead ourselves? Where and what is our foundation?
This is why, in my humble opinion, genealogy has become a hobby, almost an obsession, of so many. When I look back and see what my family has lived through, what they accomplished, it is more than inspiring. Sometimes it was on what we would call "a wing and a prayer". That phrase comes to us from a popular WWII song (later a movie), about a plane, badly damaged, but over the radio the men at the airstrip heard, "We're coming in on a wing and a prayer". There was a lot of prayer during WWII, and in WWI when my grandfather served the UK with the RAMCTF. There was prayer as my dad served his time during the Korean War, and the Vietnam War had its fair share as well, protests or not. I remember a nation at prayer on 9/11, directly after our terrible attack that took the lives friends and loved ones. In fact, prayer has been a part of my family life as far back as I can go, and I am sure beyond that.
I believe that it is time for Truth, time for our own foundation. It is time to stop worshiping ourselves, to stop worshiping our own desires, and, like my Celtic, pagan ancestors did eons ago, time to stop worshiping creation, but to worship The Creator. Only He can give us back the foundation that our ancestors had and enjoyed. It is this foundation I pray I lay down one again, and leave for my children, and theirs, and theirs.
30 October 2009
24 October 2009
A Quiet Hero
In 1942, a quiet man, a devoted husband, a father of two, and a supervisor who was keeping the New York City Transit (Subway) System moving along well, registered for World War II. He was 48 years of age, so the chances of him actually being called to action were pretty slim, even though this is after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. He returned to his job later that day, after filling out his paperwork. This seems pretty usual for the time period, even for a quiet, working man that had petitioned for his naturalization just one year before, wanting to be an American citizen instead of his being an English subject.
His closest friends in the United States, and that would include his own children, knew little of the man's life before his sea trip across the Atlantic. More to the point, they knew little of his work in World War I. During my search into my family history, I came across information that completely changed the way I saw my grandpa. First of all, serving the Royal Army Medical Corps, UK, he was a stretcher bearer, or medic. When I trained for the US Army, I trained as a medic and x-ray technician. My training as a medic happened after I found out about his service to the War. What I found out was certainly unexpected, not because of the man, but because of his quietness.
In January 1915, Thomas B. Connolly entered the RAMCTF (Trench Force) as a private with the 22 Northumbrian Field Ambulance. It was in WWI that the UK decided to keep men from the same area together as to have an automatic comradeship, and they were right. The 22nd was attached to the 7th Division. According to the Great War historian, Cyril Falls, the 7th Division was "One of the greatest fighting formations Britain ever put into the field." They were sent to the front of Ypres, Belgium, a place where trench warfare was the death of too many men. It was where you could receive a package from home and have laugh now and then; and that night you or your mate could be dead. if it wasn't gunshots and shrapnel that Private Connolly was working on, it was helping all the men delouse. Lice were one of the worst problems for the medics and the servicemen they served. To "have a chat" was to sit with your mate and pick off the lice from each other. In April of 1915, the Germans rained down chlorine gas on the allies troops. Somehow it takes the romance and glory out of the old Great War.
My grandfather spent five years in the service of Queen and country. He never attained higher than the rank of Private, but won several medals including for Bravery in the Field with two stars. He never took them out to show, never spoke about what he went through, never used it as an excuse for any entitlement or misbehavior. He even made sure he registered with his new country when "the war to end all wars" turned out to be just another in a long line. He was a beautiful, fun, gentle man; and I had great respect for him before I knew about his war time escapades. Now, I have even more respect; first for his service, and second for his being such a quiet man regarding it.
His closest friends in the United States, and that would include his own children, knew little of the man's life before his sea trip across the Atlantic. More to the point, they knew little of his work in World War I. During my search into my family history, I came across information that completely changed the way I saw my grandpa. First of all, serving the Royal Army Medical Corps, UK, he was a stretcher bearer, or medic. When I trained for the US Army, I trained as a medic and x-ray technician. My training as a medic happened after I found out about his service to the War. What I found out was certainly unexpected, not because of the man, but because of his quietness.
In January 1915, Thomas B. Connolly entered the RAMCTF (Trench Force) as a private with the 22 Northumbrian Field Ambulance. It was in WWI that the UK decided to keep men from the same area together as to have an automatic comradeship, and they were right. The 22nd was attached to the 7th Division. According to the Great War historian, Cyril Falls, the 7th Division was "One of the greatest fighting formations Britain ever put into the field." They were sent to the front of Ypres, Belgium, a place where trench warfare was the death of too many men. It was where you could receive a package from home and have laugh now and then; and that night you or your mate could be dead. if it wasn't gunshots and shrapnel that Private Connolly was working on, it was helping all the men delouse. Lice were one of the worst problems for the medics and the servicemen they served. To "have a chat" was to sit with your mate and pick off the lice from each other. In April of 1915, the Germans rained down chlorine gas on the allies troops. Somehow it takes the romance and glory out of the old Great War.
My grandfather spent five years in the service of Queen and country. He never attained higher than the rank of Private, but won several medals including for Bravery in the Field with two stars. He never took them out to show, never spoke about what he went through, never used it as an excuse for any entitlement or misbehavior. He even made sure he registered with his new country when "the war to end all wars" turned out to be just another in a long line. He was a beautiful, fun, gentle man; and I had great respect for him before I knew about his war time escapades. Now, I have even more respect; first for his service, and second for his being such a quiet man regarding it.
21 October 2009
Teresa Rosa or Rosa Teresa
One of my most favorite people in all the world was my wife's maternal grandmother, Nona (Naw-nah). Now there is a very good chance that you know her. Well, maybe not my Nona, but if you're Italian or have been to a real, family-owned Italian restaurant, you've probably seen her. She was about five foot high, if she stood upright, but she was always just a little hunched over from a lifetime of hard work. She could care less about what her weight was, and she dressed all in black because she was a widow, not because it looked slimming. She almost always wore an apron, and only took it off for visitors; and visitors were those she didn't consider family, except almost everyone was family to her. Her hair was short, but somehow she was always brushing a little piece away from her eyes. Yes, her faced was what we would call weathered, and she would have never, in her more than 105 years thought of Botox. She had a pair of glasses on a chain she used to read, and even then she had to use a magnifying glass, and still squinted at times. When Nona spoke to me, it started in an Italian accent, but over the years she included a little of her native language, another sign that I was part of the family. At the age of more than 85, she would read two newspapers a day; one in Italian and one the local NY paper. She walked to the small, village grocery store with her net bag and bought what was needed for the day, then came home and would make food that should be reserved for God Himself; and the pasta was always handmade. She knitted blankets, sweaters, baby dresses, socks, and something called doilies.
My Nona, Teresa, came from the North of Italy, among the beautiful Alps. Born in 1903, she was a daughter of a farmer, which meant that her mom, Teresa, and her eight other siblings were farmers. There was no schooling for a farm girl in the Northern Italian mountains in those days; there was, though, a lot of work. To have Nona tell it, the only reason she learned to read and write, was due to the benevolence of the local doctor. I do believe, if I listened between the lines, she had quite a crush on this "rich" man of town. For his part, he took enough interest in her to teach her the basics, and then continue her lessons via mail. Whether there was a budding romance for real or not, Nona married a great man, a local builder of houses, at the age of 22. It was at that time they came to America. And that leads us to quite an interesting story.
This all came out one morning over a cup of Nona's coffee, something she and I would share quite often. We somehow got on the subject of her and Rinaldo (Nonu) coming over to America after the wedding. Now I had known they had to come from France because Rinaldo's family had been a circus family, and Rinaldo had been born in Paris. Now at the time, Ellis Island had stated that there were enough Italians from other areas that had come in, but there was still room for Northern Italians, and of course French were still no problem either. So, the newlyweds were good to come into the land of the free. Now here is where it gets a little odd. It seems that my Nona's name was Rosa Teresa, just like her older sister, Rosa Teresa. That's right, they both had the same name. Now there have been stories that Ellis Island workers changed peoples names on purpose, but the current checking of those documents shows that didn't happen near as much as thought, and certainly not to be mean. However, when Rosa Teresa went to come in, there were two Rosa Teresa's listed in the family. According to the ship manifest, which I have, she did came over as Rosa. So, from the time of Ellis island, my Nona was known as Teresa Rosa! Her husband called her that, her name was signed that way, and we all knew her as Teresa Rosa. It wasn't until that cup of coffee, when she was probably about 90 years old, did we find out that her parents used the same name for both girls. Whether she was Rosa Teresa, or Teresa Rosa doesn't matter. She was our Nona, to hundreds of people, as everyone called her Nona; and she was loved by each and every one of them.
She went home to the Lord at the age of 105, although she left us a few years earlier in her mind. Even then, at the age of 103, she had a great few days with my girls, her great-granddaughters, with exceptional clarity. A remarkable woman to the end.
My Nona, Teresa, came from the North of Italy, among the beautiful Alps. Born in 1903, she was a daughter of a farmer, which meant that her mom, Teresa, and her eight other siblings were farmers. There was no schooling for a farm girl in the Northern Italian mountains in those days; there was, though, a lot of work. To have Nona tell it, the only reason she learned to read and write, was due to the benevolence of the local doctor. I do believe, if I listened between the lines, she had quite a crush on this "rich" man of town. For his part, he took enough interest in her to teach her the basics, and then continue her lessons via mail. Whether there was a budding romance for real or not, Nona married a great man, a local builder of houses, at the age of 22. It was at that time they came to America. And that leads us to quite an interesting story.
This all came out one morning over a cup of Nona's coffee, something she and I would share quite often. We somehow got on the subject of her and Rinaldo (Nonu) coming over to America after the wedding. Now I had known they had to come from France because Rinaldo's family had been a circus family, and Rinaldo had been born in Paris. Now at the time, Ellis Island had stated that there were enough Italians from other areas that had come in, but there was still room for Northern Italians, and of course French were still no problem either. So, the newlyweds were good to come into the land of the free. Now here is where it gets a little odd. It seems that my Nona's name was Rosa Teresa, just like her older sister, Rosa Teresa. That's right, they both had the same name. Now there have been stories that Ellis Island workers changed peoples names on purpose, but the current checking of those documents shows that didn't happen near as much as thought, and certainly not to be mean. However, when Rosa Teresa went to come in, there were two Rosa Teresa's listed in the family. According to the ship manifest, which I have, she did came over as Rosa. So, from the time of Ellis island, my Nona was known as Teresa Rosa! Her husband called her that, her name was signed that way, and we all knew her as Teresa Rosa. It wasn't until that cup of coffee, when she was probably about 90 years old, did we find out that her parents used the same name for both girls. Whether she was Rosa Teresa, or Teresa Rosa doesn't matter. She was our Nona, to hundreds of people, as everyone called her Nona; and she was loved by each and every one of them.
She went home to the Lord at the age of 105, although she left us a few years earlier in her mind. Even then, at the age of 103, she had a great few days with my girls, her great-granddaughters, with exceptional clarity. A remarkable woman to the end.
19 October 2009
Breakup? The Spirit had Other Ideas!
Before Stefanie and I had ever met, we shared quite a lot in common. She was a Bronx, Italian, Catholic girl who moved up into Westchester County with her family. For my part, I was bred and buttered as a Bronx, Irish, Catholic boy who had to move up into Westchester after my brothers were born, right after my 8th grade graduation. AS Irish as my family was, hers was Italian. One of our best family friends were the Italians, the Sliva's. For her family, they're closest friend were the McShane's. Stefanie had one sister, and one aunt, but no first cousins. I had two brothers, two aunts, and no first cousins either. And not an uncle between us. We did have plenty of other friends and "cousins", and many of those came from both of our dads being bankers. Our mother's were the stay at home type that was still common on the sixties and seventies, and they both volunteered at our respective schools. They held cocktail and dinner parties for their husbands careers, and had the occasional priest over. Each of our mother's also ruled the house with the ancient Chinese art of Iron Hand, if you know what I mean. Whereas my mom had spent time working as a secretary before she married, Stefanie's mom, Lydia was a professional opera singer. Other than that, we had all those similarities, and had never met.
Of course, my true attention was on Stefanie herself. I would be lying if I said it was her "nice personality" that caught my attention; although it did help down the road! No, she was (and remains) incredibly beautiful. We met at an evening Emergency Medical Technician course; her to understand what to do for her dad should something go wrong, and me to make sure I could specialize in emergency room nursing down the road. To me, there was no other girl in the room, and for her, she didn't even know I was in the class. One evening, she came in looking very upset. Being early as well, I sat down next to her and she spilled out everything; she told me about her dad's disease, how she had to quit NYU School of Acting because of it, and how she just didn't know what to do, what would be next. We had to stop talking as class commenced, and directly after she left before I could reach her. Not having her phone number, I had to wait for the next class to talk to her again. That evening came and I couldn't wait to talk to her and see if she was any better. I sat down next to her and she looked at me as if to say, "Boy, who gave you permission to invade my space and attempt to approach me? And really, how dare you speak to me as if you knew me!" Safe to say I was crushed, as she had totally forgotten our "intimate discussion". In my defense, I did know quite a lot about her, and this was before internet stalking. She decided to allow my intrusion, and we even began to work together in class. Now, also in her defense, I was dating a different girl (not in that class) and after class would say, "I've got to go home and see Liz and the baby". Naturally, Stefanie thought Liz and I were living together and that it was MY baby. Neither were true! After class, I wold go to Liz's parents house to check in on her and her daughter, from a previous marriage. Then, I was off to my won apartment. At the end of class, neither of us knew what to think about the other.
After our state certification exams, Stefanie called me on the phone, by getting my number off the class list passed out at the end of the semester. Anyway, she told me that she had passed the exam and asked how I did. I told her I had also passed, although she had beaten my score. She then said, "How's Liz and the baby?" "I don't know, she broke off with me for some janitor, and even though we're in the same nursing class, she doesn't even speak to me" was my honest reply. "Oh, I'm so sorry", she said. And before the next millisecond, "What are you doing Saturday night?" She has denied this for over twenty years, but I tell you the truth! That Saturday was our first date.
Thereafter, a time was when I held a phone and an answering machine in my parent's basement, meanwhile I was living in a spare room in Stefanie's parent's house. It's not what you might think, that's of course if you're thinking dirty things. You see, with Stefanie's father stricken with Lou Gehrig's Disease, her family needed help. ALS, which stands for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. For some guys, this would have been enough to make a guy leave right then and there. Not me, I was a nursing student for the US Army so I was more than happy to help wherever I could. Our dating life was great, and I couldn't ask for anything more.
After about nine months of this however, I went up to my parent's house to sleep there for the night. I called her the next day and said, "Why don't we do to dinner tonight?" I know Stefanie thought something was wrong, but I didn't know myself. I remember telling my mother something along the line of, "This girl is too close. Thsi is not what I had planned. Something has to give." I picked her up and took Stefanie to a local sports bar in Mamaroneck. For whatever reason, the two of us always had our date books with us, and this night was no different. After we ordered, we made some small talk. When the food arrived, I couldn't eat. "Are you ok?" she asked. "I don't know", I replied quite sincerely. I began to go on about how I loved our time together, how I would be graduating paramedic school in about six weeks, and would be then leaving for an Army Reserve stint about a month later. For some reason, I picked up my date book and flipped open to September, and said, "So, with all of that, I guess that leaves September 12th or the 19th for a wedding date." Stefanie looked at her book and said something like, "Well, I don't like the sound of the 19th, so I guess the 12th will do." The two of us dutifully wrote down, "Tom & Stef's wedding" on the 12th of September, 1987". After which, Stefanie looked up at me with these very wide eyes and said, "Did you just propose to me? And did I accept?" "I think so" was all I could come up with. After ordering a beer, I told her the whole story about coming that night to break up with her, probably out of fear, but apparently the Lord had other plans for me, well, us. I loved her, and she, despite my lack of passion, loved me as well.
We went directly to her parent's home, and I alone went upstairs to Dominic's room. By then, her dad was completely paralyzed and was on a ventilator, making communication nearly impossible. I told him all that happened, and asked his permission to marry Stefanie. he didn't have to say anything, his smile was so wide and bright, you couldn't mistake his approval. I can't tell you what Stefanie's mother and sister told me, they were both being Italian protective, as they felt Dominic was unable. Stefanie's Nona (Naw-nah), her grandmother, was very happy and gave me a big pinch in the face. I am happy to report that since that time, we all are one, big, loving family. This blog-Celtic & Cannoli-will be a testament to how we got here, and about all those who made us possible.
Of course, my true attention was on Stefanie herself. I would be lying if I said it was her "nice personality" that caught my attention; although it did help down the road! No, she was (and remains) incredibly beautiful. We met at an evening Emergency Medical Technician course; her to understand what to do for her dad should something go wrong, and me to make sure I could specialize in emergency room nursing down the road. To me, there was no other girl in the room, and for her, she didn't even know I was in the class. One evening, she came in looking very upset. Being early as well, I sat down next to her and she spilled out everything; she told me about her dad's disease, how she had to quit NYU School of Acting because of it, and how she just didn't know what to do, what would be next. We had to stop talking as class commenced, and directly after she left before I could reach her. Not having her phone number, I had to wait for the next class to talk to her again. That evening came and I couldn't wait to talk to her and see if she was any better. I sat down next to her and she looked at me as if to say, "Boy, who gave you permission to invade my space and attempt to approach me? And really, how dare you speak to me as if you knew me!" Safe to say I was crushed, as she had totally forgotten our "intimate discussion". In my defense, I did know quite a lot about her, and this was before internet stalking. She decided to allow my intrusion, and we even began to work together in class. Now, also in her defense, I was dating a different girl (not in that class) and after class would say, "I've got to go home and see Liz and the baby". Naturally, Stefanie thought Liz and I were living together and that it was MY baby. Neither were true! After class, I wold go to Liz's parents house to check in on her and her daughter, from a previous marriage. Then, I was off to my won apartment. At the end of class, neither of us knew what to think about the other.
After our state certification exams, Stefanie called me on the phone, by getting my number off the class list passed out at the end of the semester. Anyway, she told me that she had passed the exam and asked how I did. I told her I had also passed, although she had beaten my score. She then said, "How's Liz and the baby?" "I don't know, she broke off with me for some janitor, and even though we're in the same nursing class, she doesn't even speak to me" was my honest reply. "Oh, I'm so sorry", she said. And before the next millisecond, "What are you doing Saturday night?" She has denied this for over twenty years, but I tell you the truth! That Saturday was our first date.
Thereafter, a time was when I held a phone and an answering machine in my parent's basement, meanwhile I was living in a spare room in Stefanie's parent's house. It's not what you might think, that's of course if you're thinking dirty things. You see, with Stefanie's father stricken with Lou Gehrig's Disease, her family needed help. ALS, which stands for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. For some guys, this would have been enough to make a guy leave right then and there. Not me, I was a nursing student for the US Army so I was more than happy to help wherever I could. Our dating life was great, and I couldn't ask for anything more.
After about nine months of this however, I went up to my parent's house to sleep there for the night. I called her the next day and said, "Why don't we do to dinner tonight?" I know Stefanie thought something was wrong, but I didn't know myself. I remember telling my mother something along the line of, "This girl is too close. Thsi is not what I had planned. Something has to give." I picked her up and took Stefanie to a local sports bar in Mamaroneck. For whatever reason, the two of us always had our date books with us, and this night was no different. After we ordered, we made some small talk. When the food arrived, I couldn't eat. "Are you ok?" she asked. "I don't know", I replied quite sincerely. I began to go on about how I loved our time together, how I would be graduating paramedic school in about six weeks, and would be then leaving for an Army Reserve stint about a month later. For some reason, I picked up my date book and flipped open to September, and said, "So, with all of that, I guess that leaves September 12th or the 19th for a wedding date." Stefanie looked at her book and said something like, "Well, I don't like the sound of the 19th, so I guess the 12th will do." The two of us dutifully wrote down, "Tom & Stef's wedding" on the 12th of September, 1987". After which, Stefanie looked up at me with these very wide eyes and said, "Did you just propose to me? And did I accept?" "I think so" was all I could come up with. After ordering a beer, I told her the whole story about coming that night to break up with her, probably out of fear, but apparently the Lord had other plans for me, well, us. I loved her, and she, despite my lack of passion, loved me as well.
We went directly to her parent's home, and I alone went upstairs to Dominic's room. By then, her dad was completely paralyzed and was on a ventilator, making communication nearly impossible. I told him all that happened, and asked his permission to marry Stefanie. he didn't have to say anything, his smile was so wide and bright, you couldn't mistake his approval. I can't tell you what Stefanie's mother and sister told me, they were both being Italian protective, as they felt Dominic was unable. Stefanie's Nona (Naw-nah), her grandmother, was very happy and gave me a big pinch in the face. I am happy to report that since that time, we all are one, big, loving family. This blog-Celtic & Cannoli-will be a testament to how we got here, and about all those who made us possible.
16 October 2009
The Woman of His Dreams, Jack & Edie
After six months of dating Edith H. Grogan, Jack Coll knew he wanted to marry this most incredible woman. She on the other hand said, "No". She was a tad concerned about what people would say, they had only dated a short period of time, and he was also known to be quite the rip (as she would often say). Then there was her mother, who was so angry about Edith marrying anyone at all, because it would leave her all to her lonesome. Now this is not to say that Edie was against the idea altogether. Jack was funny (even if he didn't mean to be at times), loved to dance, and most importantly, he treated her like she was a queen; his queen. Knowing them long after, I can attest to the fact that those qualities did not change during their entire marriage. Now, since his heart and mind would accept nothing but a yes, he simply continued to set the date, until she finally said yes. That was about 18 months after their first blind date.
Just before the wedding, Edie had her lingerie specially made for the event, a very big deal for their income and the times. The wedding veil was rented and the dress was a simple white dress she already had. This was all very well, except as I said earlier her mother, Jane Walsh, was not the least happy with this marriage. Just before the day of the wedding, Edie's mom took the scissors to most of Edie's clothes! Thankfully, she did not cut up the veil since that was rented, and the plain white dress was left alone as well. Even with all of this, Jack and Edie married at the Sacred Heart Church in the Highbridge section of the Bronx on the twenty-first of June. The reception was small, held at Jack's mom's house, the norm for the Irish in 1933. Another time, I'll tell you about the honeymoon, which included mother-in-law, Jane, and the visit to Dannemora Prison in New York!
Just before the wedding, Edie had her lingerie specially made for the event, a very big deal for their income and the times. The wedding veil was rented and the dress was a simple white dress she already had. This was all very well, except as I said earlier her mother, Jane Walsh, was not the least happy with this marriage. Just before the day of the wedding, Edie's mom took the scissors to most of Edie's clothes! Thankfully, she did not cut up the veil since that was rented, and the plain white dress was left alone as well. Even with all of this, Jack and Edie married at the Sacred Heart Church in the Highbridge section of the Bronx on the twenty-first of June. The reception was small, held at Jack's mom's house, the norm for the Irish in 1933. Another time, I'll tell you about the honeymoon, which included mother-in-law, Jane, and the visit to Dannemora Prison in New York!
A Coal Miner’s (Grand)Daughter?!?
For as long as I’ve been with my wife, I’ve known that her paternal grandfather was an orphan. In fact, that’s where the family got it’s name, it’s the Italian equivalent to the American-Doe. He died when my father-in-law was still young, and from what my wife’s maternal grandmother said, it was due to black lung. Nona (pronounced Naw-nah, which is Italian for Grandma) would know, she was there. The two families became quite close soon after they all entered New York City. In fact, it was Nona, my wife's maternal grandmother that gave my father-in-law his first bath!
Well, years later as I began my search into the family history, I found two rather interesting facts. First of all, her paternal grandfather, Natale, was not an orphan! I was able to find his birth registry on line, in Italian, along with the signatures of his parents. My mother-in-law now thinks it may be her husband’s grandfather that was the orphan, I haven’t gotten that far back yet.
Once I found his birth registry, I continued to dig and found him on a passenger list coming from Italy to America. Imagine my surprise (the second one) when he was listed as an American! It turns out, Natale had left Italy as a young man and came to America to find work in the Pennsylvania coal mines. As both my wife and I were bred and buttered in the Bronx, I never thought we had anything in common with Loretta Lynn. After he made enough money, he was able to go back the the old country, marry Giuseppina, and return to the United States and start his family. How tragic that his work in the mines, the source of his minimal fortune, was also what took his life at an early age. He gave his best years to the cold, dusty, tunnels of coal, deep within the Pennsylvania mountains. As we'll see, this is another similarity that the Irish and Italians had over the years of their immigration.
As for Natale, I know they’re still out there in the vast sea of fragile, yellowing documents; those two passenger lists showing him coming to America for the very first time and then returning to his family. His citizenship papers were done in Pennsylvania, and those need to be found as well. Someday, I hope to find more information about Natale, maybe when my wife, daughters, and I can visit family in Italy.
Well, years later as I began my search into the family history, I found two rather interesting facts. First of all, her paternal grandfather, Natale, was not an orphan! I was able to find his birth registry on line, in Italian, along with the signatures of his parents. My mother-in-law now thinks it may be her husband’s grandfather that was the orphan, I haven’t gotten that far back yet.
Once I found his birth registry, I continued to dig and found him on a passenger list coming from Italy to America. Imagine my surprise (the second one) when he was listed as an American! It turns out, Natale had left Italy as a young man and came to America to find work in the Pennsylvania coal mines. As both my wife and I were bred and buttered in the Bronx, I never thought we had anything in common with Loretta Lynn. After he made enough money, he was able to go back the the old country, marry Giuseppina, and return to the United States and start his family. How tragic that his work in the mines, the source of his minimal fortune, was also what took his life at an early age. He gave his best years to the cold, dusty, tunnels of coal, deep within the Pennsylvania mountains. As we'll see, this is another similarity that the Irish and Italians had over the years of their immigration.
As for Natale, I know they’re still out there in the vast sea of fragile, yellowing documents; those two passenger lists showing him coming to America for the very first time and then returning to his family. His citizenship papers were done in Pennsylvania, and those need to be found as well. Someday, I hope to find more information about Natale, maybe when my wife, daughters, and I can visit family in Italy.
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