We are a nation of immigrants. Like many Americans, my family tree branches off to many different countries and cultures. The oldest branch of my tree stretches back to Huguenot refugees coming to New Amsterdam in the 1660s. However, the branch that has influenced me the most is far more recent. Perhaps it's the fact that I spent more time with that side of the family growing up. My grandparents' car rarely left on a trip where I wasn't in the back, off to some new adventure.
My grandfather's parents came to this country from parts of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire in the 1910s. They belonged to an ethnic group known as Rusyns (or Ruthenians, depending on the documentation). While they eventually settled in Western Pennsylvania, it was the circumstances of their immigration and their bravery in crossing an ocean for a better life that captivated my imagination.
My great-grandmother came through the famous Ellis Island in 1913 at the mere age of 17. She was accompanied by her cousin and headed to live with her older sister in New Jersey. She had $36 in her pocket (the equivalent of just over $1000 in today's money) and a steamer trunk with various items, including lace curtains. The sum of money and items she brought with her allowed me to determine she came from a wealthier family than the norm for most Rusyns. Genealogical research led me to a cousin whose grandfather was my great-grandmother's brother. We pieced together more information about our ancestors in the Old Country and confirmed they were wealthy landowners. We know she met my great-grandfather here and married not long after she arrived. They had 12 children, but only 9 of them reached adulthood. My grandfather was the youngest of the boys.
Much less is known about my great-grandfather. We know that he arrived through the Passaic, New Jersey port and had a brother with him. The brother had tuberculosis and was sent back home. Nothing more is known about my great-great-uncle or his ultimate fate. In an era before antibiotics, it's almost certain he died at an early age. According to the few surviving documents in my possession, my great-grandfather was from the Galicia. We know he Americanized his name, and his full birth name was unknown to us until a few years ago when we found a baptismal certificate for their eldest daughter written in Cyrillic. As I speak some Russian, I could translate the document, and my pen name now bears the feminine version of his original last name.
In 1936, my great-grandfather died after an accident. He was walking to find work during a blizzard and was struck by a snowplow. This left my grandfather's family impoverished, and my great-grandmother suffered a mental breakdown upon the loss of her husband and the stress of caring for 9 children. Despite her trials, she was a loving mother and grandmother. She died a few years before I was born, so I never knew her personally.
Stories are treasures and are often passed orally from generation to generation. Both of my grandparents turned 93 this year. All I have learned about my great-grandparents came from stories told to me by my grandfather, his sisters and brothers, and some from my mother and her siblings.
Time is running out to hear these stories, my grandfather has recently been diagnosed with dementia and his faculties have started to decline. We can no longer trust the stories he passes on because his brain fills in details he does not remember. Some days, my grandmother is sharp; other days, she struggles to remember details of past events. My grandfather is the last surviving member of his immediate family and is the final connection to my great-grandfather. I still have my mother and her siblings to tell me stories about my great-grandmother, but they do not know what it was like to grow up with her guiding and struggling to keep her family together.
It's heartbreaking to see a vibrant, strong man become so frail. I remember the bear of a man who stood taller than me and worked long, hard hours driving heavy machinery at the local quarry. As I've watched my grandfather decline, I've begun to mourn him. He may live many years yet, but will he still be the man I grew up with?
I call and visit as often as possible, encouraging them to talk about their childhoods, everything they've seen, and family members long passed. Their nine decades of life have left them with many stories, and my hope is to find a way to preserve them for future generations. I have yet to decide how to record their memories, but I started by scanning many of their old photos and speaking with them about the people in them. My grandfather has never been a talkative man. He's very much a stubborn Slav and keeps his emotions to himself. Yet, catch him in the right mood; he'll tell you about the trembita (Ukrainian Horn) that my grandfather played or how his mother wore her fur coat to negotiate with a local grocer. It's that connection to the past that is being lost.
If I can give any advice to someone facing a similar loss, it's to cherish and share the memories you make with your loved ones. The Ancient Egyptians believed that you were immortal as long as you were remembered. When I am blessed to have grandchildren, I will certainly pass on all the stories I've been told about my great-grandparents, and of course, I'll tell the stories of my own grandparents and how amazing they are.
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