Olive Kitteridge

I read Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout  last month but  have not had time to post my review.  My cousin, Carol, recommended it because I absolutely adored  "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society."   In a way Olive is similar but  still very different.   My final verdict on this book though, is uncertain.  I did enjoy reading it and noted several phrases but didn't like the ending.  The  descriptive writing is outstanding, but a peculiar darkness  seeps in at times.  The link to this post indicates that this won a 2009 Pulitzer; a merited achievement.   While the main character is Olive, a  mathematics school teacher in Maine in her  sixty's, it looks back over the area and features  short tales about many characters.   I kept waiting for Olive to appear prominently  or heroically in each story but that was not the way it happened, sometimes she was annoying but each character  reveals more about Olive's character and the area. the town, the times the choices people make.  I am not sure whether I admired or pitied Olive.   The book is a significant  commentary about people, aging and life;  perhaps on the more quiet morose side, but certainly from Olive's eyes with many memorable lines.   I love the description of hope.  Actually I hilighted many lines in the book

Pg. 35,   "Does everybody know everything?......Oh, sure, what else is there to do?"

Pg. 60.  "..that must be the way of life, to figure something out when it's too late..."

Pg. 122.  "..when the years behind you are more than the years in front of you...."

Pg. 125  "..life picked up speed, then  most of it was gone..."

Pg. 126   "..one of the things about getting older, so many moments weren't moments but gifts...."

Pg. 162  "..quietly, joyful....Most people did not know enough when they were living life, that
they were living it..."

Pg. 203  " hope...The inner churning that moves you forward...."

And in  the  beginning of the book, a comment on pg. 33 during Kevin's look back at his childhood home, "States and traits....Traits don't change,  states of mind do."   That stuck with me, confirming that  often there is nothing to be done;  things about a person that  cannot ever change no matter what influences are pressed on the person.   No manipulation or intrusion by someone else really changes traits. Distinguishing wisely and truthfull accepting traits is part of the wisdom we can gain on our life journey.   

Olive Kitteridge is a book to ponder on, especially the  ending comparison  page 270 of two lives as Swiss cheese  slices, "..pressed together, such holes they brought to this union--what pieces life took out of you."

Magpie Tales 4 Elephant click to link to others

Mai Li straightened the desks and chair and smiling anticipating another good day with the third grade. She loved teaching and she loved this class. From their first day, she had connected with them and especially with Katey, the sassiest little girl Mai had ever known. Well Mai had only been teaching for three years, but she sensed something different about Katey, a little girl with skin as black as ebony, with a smile that lit up the room, and yet with toughness fed by a spark. Katey was the most attentive child she had encountered. When any of the class got a bit rowdy Katey would stand up, shout loudly “Yo! Sshhh” stare and indignantly announce “better be shut up right now! I be my Daddy’s eyes and ears and need to hear everything!” This child had a presence and something driving her.

But Mai Li had noticed that beneath Katey’s big black eyes a shadow of sadness floated near the surface. In this first month of the school year, Mai had begun to notice more about Katey and to wonder about her home life. Parent Teacher conferences were set for next week, maybe she would learn more. Yet, the trouble was few parents came to the conferences. Really few children had both parents, most were lucky to have one or a grandparent or any relative. Their lives were tragic. She knew the admonition the principle recited at the beginning of the school year to the teachers, “Do not become engaged with the children. This is Chicago, this is inner city! You will hear stories that you will not believe, many of these are true, stories of families of children that will break your heart, make you angry, make you sick and evoke emotions you cannot spare as a teacher! Be dedicated but have some distance. Else the inner city sanctum will suck you in and drain you. “And that was followed by the caution to be alert for signs of abuse and to report these promptly. Mai believed though that children of poverty still deserved to learn, deserved teachers who wanted to be with them. She was honored to be a part of their lives, and strived to be someone who brought sunshine inside the classroom.

Mai thought about how she had hesitated to accept this job because her parents dreaded her coming here, to Chicago, alone,so far away from her home in Texas. Mai sometimes wondered if it had been a wise choice going against the wishes of her American family who had urged her to stay in Texas. But she wanted to be out on her own. Mai wanted to repay the country that became hers and she had chosen to teach in the inner city of Chicago. Mai was an idealist! She missed her parents and Texas, but here in Chicago she had connected with others and was on her own path. She had grown used to the windy city and it cold snowy winters. Think of it a baby conceived in Vietnam, born in the Philippines and raised in Texas, now in Chicago! A twisted path in a small world.

Her Mom and Dad had adopted Mai Li as an infant and raised her as an American, but told her all they could about her Vietnamese heritage. There was little to tell. She knew the North Vietnamese Communists had killed her father for working with the Americans. For Mai Li the Vietnam War never ended; she lived her life in gratitude to the American soldiers. Her mother was rescued by an American soldier as the bombs dropped, but died giving birth to Mai in the refugee camp. She was a blessed baby, adopted and raised in America with all the opportunities this country had to offer. The only physical piece of Vietnam she had was the carved ivory elephant that her mother had with her in the refugee camp. When her Mom and Dad traveled to the Philippines to take her home the Nun had given them the elephant and told them that that it had been made by the dead woman’s husband. It was one of a pair; her mother had given the matching one to the American soldier who had rescued her as the mortar shells exploded around the village. Mai Li always thought that perhaps one day she would meet that soldier with the matching elephant and thank him for his bravery. Mom and Dad did not discourage her dream, only warned, it’s a very big country and who knows how you would ever find that soldier. We have no name and no way to begin to find him. Don’t set your heart on it.”

The school bus pulled into the school yard and the children poured out loudly shouting, shoving while moving into the school. Right in the middle was Katey whose corn rows with sparkling beads on the ends caught the bright sunlight that followed her across the yard.

Yes, Mai knew today would be a good day, but risky; other teachers had warned her,” You never know what those kids will bring into the room!” “Good morning Joe, Skip, Hialeah, Shawna,……” Mai Li greeted each child by name. She prided herself on quickly learning each name so she could speak to each child as an individual, a way to show respect to the children. “Good morning Miss Mai” echoed back. The principle walked by the class room and waved, “Good morning boys and girls!” ”Morning, Mr. Snoots.” The cheerfulness of Mai's classes amazed him and made him wish he could bottle her secret, spread it among the faculty. That young lady had an extra special quality of devotion to her students. He stepped inside the door way for just a minute to catch more of that good feeling.

“Mr. Snoots, could you please spare a moment or two to sit with us, we have a wonderful day planned!” Mai invited.

“Well perhaps just for a little bit, I’d like that” he replied ambling to the side of the classroom to allow Mai to begin.

“Mr. Snoots, Mr. Snoots,,, guess what?” This shout was from Katey, the little girl who was new to the school this year. The family had just moved from Gary; he understood that her father was disabled but attending college on the GI bill and the mother worked as a nurse’s aid. Katey was their only child and they seemed to have it better together than some of the school’s families but then he didn’t know all about them. There was likely some dark spot too, just like the other families.

“Miss Mai, can I please tell him?” Katey asked with that eager smiling voice.

“Tell whom what, Katey?” Mai inquired?

“Can I tell Mr. Snoots what we are doing today and can I be first! Please and thank you Miss Mai” from Katey who seemed so wound up this morning.

“Umm, well, Katey, go ahead, but perhaps Mr. Snoots doesn’t have a lot of time to hear many stories.” Mai smiled. Mai did not want to stifle any of Katey’s extra exuberance this morning.

“Well Mr. Snoots, today is show and tell! My Daddy has this special pet that he let me bring to show.” Katey said, running to the front of the classroom. “He got it when he was a soldier in Viet Nam; it was with him in the hospital where he went to get better after the explosions. They fixed him up as good as they could. When I told him Miss Mai was Vietnamese he let me bring this to show.” Katey pulled a carved ivory elephant from her backpack! Mai gasped but quickly straightened up. Mr. Snoots had noticed her reaction though and raised his eyebrows…. Obviously he would have to warn Mai again about engaging. Too much emotion was not good!

The next week Mai paced awaiting Katey’s parent’s arrival for their conference. The mother had sent a note that they both would attend. Mai wondered how and when she would explain her matching elephant. Maybe she would not say anything. She recalled Mr. Snoots’ admonition against engaging. And what would this family say? What would they think? Despite Mai’s dream and rehearsed words, this meeting was not going to be as easy as thanking the soldier. It was like life, nothing went exactly as planned. “Don’t set your heart on it” she remembered her Mom’s cautious words. As Katey led the couple into the room, Mai Li looked into the unseeing eyes of the man with the white cane. It must be him, the American soldier who had rescued her mother from the mortar fire in Vietnam. “Miss Mai this is my Daddy and Mommy, “Katey chirped, “And this is Miss Mai, my teacher!”

Readers I leave it to you  to determine what Mai did hereafter, or it may appear in a subsequent Magpie post.  These are  brought ot you by Willow's prompts.  To see what other wonderful writiers are contributing about the same photo click on the  heading and then click on any of the  other names on Magpie....

Sepia Saturday Great Aunt Francie Ostrowski Mroz

Frances Veronica Ostrowski Mroz 1906- 1978

Her she is again, my Great Aunt Francie, my grandmother’s “baby sister” as my grandma called her all of her life! This is on one of their visits to PA in about  1945, with my grandpa.  Aunt Francie is  the little girl seated in the mystery Ostrowski gathering photo with the big bow in her hair.  I posted that two Sepia

Saturday's ago.  I am gathering all the Mroz photos I have to send to the adult Mroz children. So this is a good time to feature my memories of her. I have many happy memories of great fun and lots of laughter whenever we were around.  She and my granmother especially enjoyed each other. 

Aunt Francie, the only child of Frank Ostrowski and Helen Sajikowski (Sekoski), arrived on earth December 28, 1906 in PA. She always teased that if she could have waited four more days, she would have been a year younger! I love these wedding photos where she is absolutely engulfed by flowers. She married Alphonse Mroz in Milwaukie, WI  August 31, 1929. He met her when she was working in a flower shop and it was love at first sight, for him anyway. He promised her flowers if she would marry him; the wedding bouquet shows he kept his word at that at least for the ceremony. I recall her saying to him later in life that “It ain’t been no bed of roses with you all the time like you promised. I should have known! Some of your promises faded faster than petals on roses!”  

I’d mailed most of the photos to my cousin, Roland, her youngest son who complained to me once that he had no family photos. After Roland passed on in October, his children asked me if I had any family photos. Who knows what he did with all the others; I  suggested they look carefully when they cleaned out his home; fortunately for them I held onto a couple. I don’t know names of the other couple in the bridal party and as with so many other old photos there is no one around to ask.

She was always Aunt Francie to me. Nearly every summer as I was growing up either she or family came to PA to visit her sisters and stayed with my grandparents, or I accompanied my grandmother and grandfather by train to Milwaukie, WI to visit them. Those were great days of train travel in the 1950’s from Pittsburgh, PA to Milwaukie; it was quite the adventure for me to travel with my Grandparents. My grandmother cooked, baked and packed along enough food to feed an army so we always were well fed on the journey. I noticed that Grandma offered food to others and especially the conductors. I even heard one conductor say, “Why Rosie I am so glad to have you on this trip! Whatcha’ got in the hamper this trip! I sure am hungry!” I suppose that was one reason she made so much food and she was an excellent cook! We traveled in the coach class and once my grandmother opened our food bin invariably, someone would comment, “my that smells good…” That was all the invitation my generous grandmother needed to share her food; fried chicken, polish sausage sandwiches, homemade rolls and wonderful Polish cookies and delicacies. And my Granpap would tell me stories about his early years in America when he rode the rails. But once we arrived in Milwaukie, Aunt Francie took over! She let her older sister know that we were honored guests in their home and Rose was not to do a thing. It never happened. Those two Polish women kept very busy cooking, cleaning, doing dishes, going to masses and talking the entire visit. My grandma was not one to sit still but  she and her baby sister enjoyed themselves to the hilt! I had the best time of all because I was treated like a queen, adored by two couples. If my grandparents didn't coddle me enough Aunt Francie and Uncle Al stepped up the pace!  It was no wonder that given a choice one summer to go to Milwaukie with my Grandma or go to Canada with my Mother and family I chose  Milwaukie, to my Mother's disappointment.  But I would not  give up the festivities waiting for me, I knew back then a good thing when I had it!

Francie and Al had two sons, Jerry born November 11, 1935 and Roland born November 13, 1940. This is interesting because I was born November 13, 1944; so Roland and I shared a birth date and month. Every November as long as she lived, Aunt Francie sent me a birthday card and said she would never  forget me because I was born in November the best of months.  Remember, Frank Ostrowski, her father, my Great Grandfather  was also born November 11. 

I became the “best pest” to these two boys, my cousins. From the time I set foot off the train their mother had made it very clear that they were to entertain me and whatever “little Patty” wants that would be the direction for them to take. It did not take me long at all to figure out I had two slaves and both men reminded me of it in our grown up years. Jerry once said to my husband also  Jerry that “she was the most spoiled kid anyone ever knew…” to which my husband admitted, “Oh I know it!” It was far worse for Jerry who was older and would have preferred to hang out with his friends, but because he was older he had the chore to escort me and his brother constantly. I made them play hopscotch with me on the sidewalk and Jerry had to draw the squares. I made them hold the jump rope for me and push me on the swings! They said that at times  they could just see my  brain thinking up tasks for them.

On our visits, the sky was the limit for me, whatever I wanted had to happen and  Aunt Francie ensured that  it did, the zoo, a row boat ride on a lake, playgrounds, ice cream stores, and candy stores, baseball games where Uncle Al sold concessions, sparklers when we visited over the 4th of July, and the movies to me the best of all. Always I was the one to select the movies and Aunt Francie beamed, saying “My good boys to take such good care of Patty!” I recall one time Jerry scowled and she gave him a swat upside the head, “Don’t you look at Patty like that!” It’s a wonder these boys & I remained close through life! Rollie tormented me to the day he died about a tantrum I threw at the John Wayne Movie, “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon.” For some reason I was ready to leave and he was not, the movie was not over. But I insisted and said “well when we get home I’m telling Aunt Francie that you made me stay here…” he got up from his seat right then “Ok let’s go!” Aunt Francie was a presence and a real threat to them. Several years ago I sent him a DVD of that movie!

I am not sure what year but Jerry Mroz and his family (wife Donna, 3 children) moved from Milwaukie to Bakersfield CA where he sold insurance. Finally he convinced his parents to move to Bakersfield too. I visited them on one of my trips when I was working in the area in   1973.  Here are the three of us.

We always stopped on our way to and from Riverside to visit Jerry’s folks, too. And the Mroz's all would come north  to visit us too. One year Rollie came from WI and we had a reunion. Aunt Francie marveled at the good CA weather and said, “Well in CA nobody starves, look at the oranges on the trees,  all the time something growing!” Aunt Francie was a kind woman but had her limits. I remember one visit to Bakersfield when Uncle Al, both Jerry’s and Donna and others were playing cards in the kitchen. She and I sat in the other room and talked, finally she was ready to go home but Uncle Al was having fun at the card table. She allowed this for a time and finally walked over to him, pulled on his ear and announced, “Al it’s time to go home I said!” He arose quickly as did her son, Jerry who was to drive them home.  Even at his age of 40+ he  knew his Mom would swat him or pull his ears too!

Aunt Francie died in 1978 after a short stay in the hospital and I recall it was fall, because I wore a coat to her funeral. I remember being very sad and shedding many tears as they lowered her casket into the ground. She was the last of the old family and I knew there would be no more stories. After all, she is the one who gave me the Ostrowski photo and told me about my great grandfather.  She also is the one who told me my own beloved grandfather had been married once before and had a child somewhere in Chicago.  She said he always said he would go find them and my grandmother would tell him to do that!  I never knew about this and by this time my grandparents were gone and neither my mother nor aunt knew anymore. In this wedding photo here she is with that big bow over her head again!  Funny thing is I never remember her weatring a hat other than to church on Sunday; in her later years she wore a lace mantilla acquired in CA.  She loved that.

I have some beautiful  lacy crocheted doiles and dresser scarves that she made.  She, my grandmother and my Aunt Virginia all were excellent handworkers crocheting and  doing hand applique work and stitching fancy touches to handkerchiefs and scarve; true artists.  In one guest bedroom today I have a set of multi color blue doilies made by Aunt Francie.  In this one of the last photos taken of her she was on her way out to check on her flowers! She loved having flowers year round in CA!   Great Aunt Francie, rests in peace!

 

Click on the title above to go to other Sepia Saturday Posts. This is week 14 and my 4th week participating.

Our Red Dragon

I drew a blank slate looking at the weight that was our Magpie prompt for this Tuesday, so instead I have gone out on my own. I have more than enough material around the house to write about and today I give you the Red Dragon Chair. It is 28 inches in height,, width and depth at its largest part, with only one barely visible point of assembly on the bottom it appears to be mostly one piece of carving.


I inherited this chair from my Uncle John R Irwin whose grandfather was a millionaire, made his fortune on railroad work and hauling iron ore on the Great Lakes in the late 1800’s in PA. Uncle John called this the Chinese Emperor’s chair so I assumed it was Chinese. I know it came from the Glen Irwin mansion in Clinton and although the exact date of purchase is unknown, I was told that they bought it on one of their many trips to England.

All the years this chair occupied the corner of my aunt and uncle's home I never remember anyone being brazen enough to sit in it, except Uncle John who would laugh at Virginia when she said, "John get out of that chair before you scratch it!"  This scolding would delight him into taunting, "too late I already did that when I was about 3 years old!" Uncle John is the only one I know who ever sat in it; and according to the story this was when he was a very little boy and his grandfather would proudly sit him in the Emperor's chair!  His royal red seat shows some two inches of wear of the lacquer across the front where Uncle John claims his feet would dangle and his shoes scuffed the chair seat. Otherwise this chair is in perfect condition. My aunt Virginia was a meticulous obsessive housekeeper who never tolerated  a speck of dust or a bit of dirt in her home. She not only dusted daily, once a week she used q-tips to give this chair the royal treatment it deserved, carefully going over each crevice. We have this chair in a corner in our formal living room where it is a conversation piece. So far no one has attempted to sit in it, but I discourage that by usually having something displayed on it. Over Christmas it provided backdrop to my hundreds of angels. I thought that was a good combo Angels and Dragons--- is that a game and where have we heard that? Oh is that dungeons and dragons, well perhaps I’m on to something here.

Uncle John came into our family by marrying my aunt when she was in her 30’s. They met at the Pittsburgh Plate Glass factory where they both worked in Creighton, PA. Aunt Jinx had a prospering career and expected to remain the old maid, living at home with her parents and providing for them in their old age. But then along came John who was a handsome cad, resembling Clark Gable and who always wore a shirt , tie and hat to go to town even if it was our town! Here is his WWII Army photo. They married to the consternation of my grandparents and for a short time all lived together in the house in Arnold that Virginia and her parents bought together. All was not well because John had a habit that the family could not accept, a love of alcohol. He just enjoyed his shots of whiskey and always had a bottle nearby. He was not a nasty or falling down drunk, nor one who could not function, but as I recall the more he drank the funnier he became! I thought Uncle John the funniest person I knew, always laughing, at least that’s the way I saw him and remember laughing so hard around him and his stories that I would get sick in the stomach. This annoyed my grandmother who disliked John’s “foolishness.” Well his own mother, the grand Mrs. Irwin, felt the same about her son and detested his drinking.

I have to suspect that his entertainment value might have been an attraction to my aunt Virginia because where there was John there was laughter, though later on she complained about his “carrying on” and would tell him to “shut up!” Aunt Virginia seldom spoke harshly so this was quite an utterance. My granpap had no use for John and called him “Chicken Head” among other names. John found this hysterically funny which aggravated my granpap more. I remember granpap swinging his cane at John which would bring more bursts of laughter. Looking back now I am surprised this did not agitate Pap to another stroke! At Granpap's funeral Uncle John had gone down the streeet to a tavern to "replenish", before they closed the casket, Uncle John spoke to  Granpap, "Pap, now there is no one around to call me chicken head no more!  But I will keep that name to honor your!"  He did too; every so often he would tell someone or his wife, "Don't you go messing with this old Chicken Head now!"  The conglomerate house was sold and they went their separate ways; my grandparents rented a small duplex up the hill and John and Virginia moved to Freeport where John became landscaper and groundskeeper in charge over the Irwin acres and had a free small house across the road from Mrs. Irwin’s home. On another Sepia Saturday I’ll relate more of my Aunt and Uncle’s history. They never had children and she was my favorite aunt, who died last year. Here they are in 1974, but I will have more of the family stories another time!

Uncle John told me when I was young  and would stand and admire the chair where he would allow me to place my dolls, “someday Patty when I am gone, I want you to have this red chair and the camel.” (The camel is another marvelous piece which is on our mantel.) He had determined this because I so admired the chair and he said, “Red is good luck!  It has been in the Irwin family since forever, I’d like to see all their faces when it is no longer part of the Irwin’s!” This was usually followed by his tale of “I’ll outlive them all!” And the truth was he did! John wasn’t treated kindly by the last surviving Irwin, his mother, Jessie who lived in the big house across the road. She often told John that she would leave him nothing in her will unless he would give up his drinking; she was a tea totaled and could not understand how my Aunt Virginia could put up with him!

I thought this red chair was one of the most magnificent things I had ever seen. I still feel that way about it as does Jerry. By the way red is considered good fengshui to have in the home! I prepared to become its owner by researching carefully for years, looking in every museum I visited. I never found anything like it. Arrival of the internet was not much more help but I carefully looked at websites and any auction with antique Chinese furniture.

Uncle John died in 1994 but I never asked my aunt for the chair. I would not have dreamt of doing so. She often reminded me that she was keeping it for me and it was to be with me ultimately. In 2004, we started our moved to our retirement home here in MN. That year we went to PA to spend Thanksgiving with my aunt Virginia and she had determined that we should take the red chair and camel and some other antiques home with us to MN. Besides she said she was tired dusting them. That same year an article appeared in the Sunday Parade magazine about the Johnny Cash estate and there was something very similar to our red chair, only in black. It was one of the estate items that were to be auctioned off at Sotheby’s and referred to as an ebonized, Chinese chair. Our red chair has dragons on the ends of the arms and the ebonized Cash chair had Fu Dogs. This is ironic in that Uncle John loved Johnny Cash because he had triumphed over addictions!  Uncle John enjoyed his music as we did, Jerry more than me because I'm not a real country western fan.  I smiled when I saw this article and thought about how Uncle John would have enjoyed this and added it to his repetoire. Maybe he had a hand in this from the beyond.

I continued my research by sending photos and letters off to Kovels and to the Antiques Roadshow. The only response from Kovels was an offer to buy some of their books! I did not renew my subscription to their magazine. Finally in 2005 I hit pay dirt! A Canadian appraiser from the Antiques Road Show online, accepted many photos and advised me that the chair and its history were almost correct. However he was certain that “…it is in fact Japanese, not Chinese and dates from the late 1800’s. This type of exotic furniture was very popular in the UK and the USA at that time and it was made specifically for those markets.” The appraised value was higher than we expected. So it occupies its corner here, evoking admiration of all. A local friend who is an antiques buff admits to never having seen the likes of the Red Dragon Chair. I continue to look in museums, in my antique magazines, and on line and have not yet found anything else like it. My cousin who helped Jerry load this in to the trailer for our transport to MN said he expects to see us on Antiques Road show! A magnificent chair. I have assembled a huge red scrapbook, about the wealthy Irwins, Uncle John, the mansions. We keep the book beside the chair so visitors can learn about the Irwins, the chair, and other antiques we have in our home.

Sepia Saturday 13 for February 27, 2010

Frank ( Francis) Ostrowski 1855 appx--1915 

Frank Ostrowski is my maternal great grandfather who was a coal  and sometimes iron ore miner in Poland and in the United States. I grew up knowing the family was full Polish on all sides, but some ancestral research indicates German, Prussia, etc. My study of the history of Poland reveals how often it was invaded conquered and became part of another country. My grandmother and her sisters spoke Polish as did my mother and aunt; it was especially annoying as a child because I could not understand what they were saying. I know that was the reason they spoke it around me! I discovered Frank in 1977 when my great aunt Fran gave me the photo of the Ostrowski (aka Ostroskie) gathering which I posted last week on Sepia Saturday. I spent most of my childhood growing up with my grandmother, Rose, Frank’s daughter from his second wife. How I wish I had known about him back then and could have asked my Baba (Polish) about her father. She talked very little about her family but said that her father died of stomach cancer and that there were several others in the family who had it too. She feared that and sadly she died of pancreatic cancer; perhaps that was Frank’s diagnosis too.

After Aunt Fran gave me the gathering photo she found this snapshot of Frank in his miner’s hat which I had copied and enlarged into a 5 x 7 Sepia print. It has always been prominently displayed in our home and is a good conversation piece. My grandmother’s hand writing is on the back so at one time she had the photo but there is no date. I adore the old coal miner hat. Those were the most dangerous days of the mines and many Europeans flocked to the states to do the dangerous dirty work. My mother and aunts were of no help in verifying dates, saying that they never knew any grandparents but lots of aunts and uncles. Notice the clean shirt and the pick axe over his shoulder, arm crossed and holding hands with someone.  Someone really had to work at keeping that shirt clean and without today's automatic  washers and dryers. 

Frank married three times and outlived two wives. By his photo he does not appear to be that handsome, but I suppose a coal miner in America was a good catch for the times. If the historical fiction “A Coal Miner’s Bride “by Susan Campbell Bartoletti has any truth, the old miners wanted a woman to care for them. Frank fathered many children so that would also account for his need to remarry when one wife passed on. I notice he has one eyelid that droops and my grandmother had the same affliction.

I have two different years for his birth 1855 and 1857 and have been unable to confirm which is correct. However, the date of November 11 is certain. This would make him and me fellow Scorpios. Perhaps on our next trip to PA I can visit the Union cemetery in Arnold where he is buried and that may clarify date of his death. I should hope it will not add yet another date.

Frank was born in Prussia or Germany to Franz Ostrowski and Catherine Biegonski. I surmise that his parents likely immigrated to America with the children, but there are no records of when and where they arrived. His sisters were Kate, Mary and Pauline who is recorded to have been born in Cleveland, and a brother Maryn John who died in 1869 in Poland and may not have migrated with the family.

Information shows his father was buried in Detroit, MI in 1893. His mother is buried in Cleveland, OH and died in 1910. That date makes me wonder if the mystery Ostrowski photo taken in Ohio which I dated at about 1910 could have been for Frank’s mother’s funeral; perhaps confirming some of what my mother alluded to of a funeral in Ohio. The research is flawed but I am nevertheless grateful to my 2nd cousin who attempted to piece all this together with infrequent trips to PA. Maxine lives in Utah today is in poor health and as a member of the LDS church had access to many records. Still, I know there are some errors in the lineage and names and am skeptical of some of the information; dates show as appx. Maxine spent some time interviewing my grandmother in the 1960’s. But I know that my grandmother could be evasive; many of the Polish relatives had this same trait. Whether they were untruthful to avoid attention I cannot determine. I know that they feared and respected government authority and as immigrants escaping tyrants or worse in Poland, they kept quiet about many things. Someone usually knew someone back in “the old country” though and kept in touch, frequently sending some  cash along to help out.

Frank married his first wife Frances appx. 1877. Her last name is incorrectly recorded as my grandfather’s last name on the documents and I know that is wrong. She was born in Poland and died appx 1888 in PA. They had three children Joseph (born 1878 with a twin John who did not survive the birth), John (the second son to be so named born appx. 1882), and Benjamin Frank who was distinctly given the middle name (born 1883 appx.) Years ago when we lived in CA a previously unknown to me cousin, Sharon, granddaughter of Benjamin contacted me. When I asked my mother and aunt about this, they shrugged their shoulders. While they knew nothing about a grandfather they recalled their aunts and uncles and made no distinction of their being half brothers and sisters.

Frank’s second wife and my grandmother’s mother was Frances Swartz (aka Schwartz) whom he married about 1889. Frances came from Poland, was born in 1869, died in 1902 in PA. Sometime during this marriage they dropped the “w” from Ostrowski. They had five children although I recall my grandmother mentioning that some of her brothers died when very young; there is no record of others. These were Walter  (born 1889 in Detroit, MI who went by Bill and changed the family name to Austin), Mary (born 1891 in Salamanca New York), Veronica Bernice (born 1892 in PA), and Rose (my grandmother born 1894) and Adam Maryan who died at birth in 1895 or shortly thereafter. My grandmother said he was her mother’s last child and did not live. I spent so much time with my grandparents I never called any of her sisters or brothers Great, they were aunt and uncle to me just like to my mother. Growing up I called them the Polish word for aunt, “czotczhe” (sp?). We spent many Sunday's across the river at Aunt Mary's.  My grandmother was close to her sisters.  Observing the different places the Ostrowski's moved before settling in PA, it appears Frank was following the mines. It was the heyday of coal mining in PA and that  must have offered him steady employment.

Frank married his third wife, Helen Sajowksi (aka Sekoski) in 1905. Their only child was Frances born in 1906. She was always known as the baby sister without distinction as to half sister. Helen is seated next to Frank in the Ostrowski Ohio gathering photo along with many of his children from his other wives. Helen would survive Frank who died April 19, 1915 making him either 60 or 62 depending on which birth year is correct.   Whether Frank fathered more than nine children is unknown but each wife seemed to give birth annually. How they traveled around from Michigan, to Ohio, to New York and to Pennsylvania is a mystery; I suspect it was by rail car. They certainly did not have vehicles to drive. His descendants are all over the eastern United States, Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, and on to Michigan and Ohio into Newfoundland, Canada and some in California. All my years in CA I never knew of any Ostroski relatives there. When I see the Ostrowski (Ostroski) name today I wonder if that is a shirttail relation. Writing this piece I googled and found many; one example is Frank, a "falseley accused murderer in Canada" released on bail to his daughter. 

Finally here is the third photo of Frank with his son, John. I found this in a drawer after my mother died in 2004. The back has the names and says coalfield, but no date. My grandmother told that she learned to cook as a very young girl because her father was skinny but could eat like a horse and said that her daughter, my aunt, Virginia took after him. Not all Frank’s progeny were as lean as this photo where Frank is poking John’s belly! John who was born in 1882 must be at least  20 years old here which would date this to 1902. Imagine what was being said here, but there he is my great grandfather, Frank Ostrowski.

Click  on the title Sepia Saturday to go the Sepia website and visit other posts from shared stories.

Blog frustration today and writing

I am frustrated that my profile photo does not show when I comment on other blogs; I looked at the suggestions on Help and have done all those; the profile photo still only appears as a small white box with my comments. I am more fidgety about this now that I have several others writers to follow on Magpie and Sepia,  I do not want to appear rude by not sharing my face to them!  Ahh, maybe they don't think about this but I do!   Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.   Cyber challenge again. 

Last night I went to our library for the second  presentation by a local author in the Hot Reads for Cold Winter Nights series.  I was not familiar with Diane Wilson, the MN author of "Spirit Car"who was to speak.  It is a memoir and "carefully researched fiction"  about the Dakota people, the Indian uprisings in the midwest, the tragedies and an untaught shameful  episode of local MN history. La Vonne, our librarian knocks herself out hosting these events.  When I arrived there outside the library stood Diane because the door was locked.  Oh much to LaVonne's consternation who was unaware that the departing help had locked the door.  Lavonne and her assistant were merrily occupied inside setting up chairs and arranging the coffee, cider and cupcakes.  I no sooner  spoke, "It can't be locked" than Lavonne scurried to the front in an apologetic frenzy.  She was embarrassed that her guest speaker was standing at the door puzzling, "is this the right night?"  But inside we made light of it.

I almost  did not go last night because I wanted to watch more Olympics and  my weekly "24" episode of Jack Bauer.  But, when I considered that I could learn something interesting and meet someone new to me, I overcame the urge to burrow in.  I am glad I did.

First, I was the only one who came!  A sad sad comment on people in La Crescent. It was not an icy cold  snowy night so the weather was no excuse.  I had talked with Jean at Curves that morning and she intended to go but  she did not show up.  To go to all this effort, great publicity and the  talk of the town and nothing.  Well La Crescent I was there!  LaVonne maintained her pleasant demeanor but commented, "where's my board, where are the members of Friends of the Library?"  I guess I represented the Friends association as well as the town last night.  We all got acquainted and discussed the thriving AM senior group that meets at the library to discuss  whatever topic of the day interests them.  Lavonne shared that they are reliable and bound to show up regardless of weather or any obstacles.  They are more committed to sharing their time with each other in a pleasant setting. 

Somehow my dabbling at writing came up; all right once LaVonne spilled the beans I admitted to my interest, dabbling and blogging. I am such a dabbler.  This stirred Diane's attention who suggested "then let's sit and talk about writing tonight!"  While I had gone to hear her, it became a private intriguing conversation amoung the four of us. The young woman intern, whose name I cannot recall, discussed a novel writing  month where aspiring writers produce a novel in  30 days. Little results from the effort as nothing is published; it sounds like college students amusement.  LaVonne shared that her  dream job would have been to become a famous reporter.  We laughed  about the rarity of fame and success in that field.  We all talked about our fascination with reading, words, and writing.  I told them about Magpie tales and my creative efforts.  I also said how many other writing blogs and affiliations I have discovered thanks to the followers now looking at my blog.  Neither Diane nor LaVonne were very familiar with the  blog outlets.

Diane  pronounced me a writer, with a compelling life story that would make great memoir.  She concluded that at this point with the blogging I am to consider myself a columnist. I still shake my head as I write this because I merely consider myself a dabbler.  She urged me to join a writer's group something which I've hesitated to do.  She said it was how she became able to put her book together, which was a 9 year long journey!  Associating with writers is different than just getting reader feedback, the questions and urging are priceless.  She discussed her writing mentor. She gave me excellent advice about writing my life story as a WWII orphan and finding the information stashed in my mother's closet in 2004 when I was almost 60 years old!   I told her about AWON and  the front page newspaper interview in 2008, current contacts with cousins in my father's family and reconstruction of my father's history.  All three were all ears. 

 I learned a lot from Diane, who slipped me her private email s we walked out the door.  "Stay linked" was her goodbye. I had shared that I will need to gather my stuff which is here and there. I recalled my series of talks, sermons as a lay speaker in CA at the UMC's.   She shared that is exactly how her memoir became a reality.  She had a story from her mother and no more. She did a lot of historical research.  She urged me to write this as a gift to other generations.  LaVonne agreed and mentioned that WWII is a fascinating subject now.  I told her about my visits to the places my father had  photo'd in 1942,  in Madison, locally Ft. McCoy and in Indiana but that I had not yet journeyed to Charleston.   I discussed my contacts with George Miller the historian in SC who intends to write a book about the old Charleston AAB, the additional material he has shared with me.  I was surprised how eager she was to hear more; to me it's become a routine story, but that Diane advised is the trick of my own mind. 

So today as I fidget with this blog I am committing this to writing that I need to gather my stuff and continue.  Most of all seeking a local writer's group which will not be easy.  I do not want a group that gives assignments, but affiliation and feedback and inquiry. The questioning and advice on more of this and what about this, etc. would be so valuable.   Last night was another door opening.   

Magpie Tales 2 for Feb 23 Matchbox (click here to link)

Angelina poured the golden sherry into her grandmother’s crystal snifter. Although she’d inherited the crystal when her mother passed on, Angelina still thought of it as still her grandmothers. When does a possession become our own she mused? How can it ever be just ours when it is accompanied by ancestral lineage and grand memories of its use by family long gone? Aaahh and what happens when that lineage reaches the end of the line? Hmm, I suppose then it truly becomes a possession of someone else. Grandfather always said, “Enjoy it now, there are no pockets in a shroud.” Will they call it the “old crystal acquired at an auction?” Will they wonder about its history? She smiled savoring the golden liquid, swirling it first clockwise and then counter clockwise, pondering her reverie.



Angelina, at 87 years of age, celebrated her blessings each evening in a ritual of sherry and candlelight. Who knew how much longer it would be until she would join “her People” who had made their transition to the other side. She was blessed with good health and enough money to live comfortably. Daily she walked four blocks to mass, slower this past year but still without need for any cane or appliance. When and if that day came, she was ready; she had her grandfather’s cane in the umbrella stand. Daily mass was another Angelina ritual that ensured that people would know she was alive; if Father did not see her in her pew, he would be curious and someone from the church would check on her.


If Angelina was anything, it was ready, prepared. She’d drawn her will and made all burial arrangements years ago. She’d spent a lifetime living well, enjoying and traveling. Her home was filled with memories but she never mourned the past. She’d buried her parents, sisters, three husbands, two daughters, aunts, uncles, cousins. She’d outlived all her long time friends. However on this back side of her life, she could still smile and not slip into maudlin regret. She enjoyed her evening sherry toasting the end of another day. Angelina sipped the sherry thinking “Well done Old Soul” and hummed ...” Life is a Cabaret old friend, come to the Cabaret!”


That song reminded Angelina of her Grandfather whose spirit had been so strongly with her today; she’d said a special prayer for his soul at mass. He’d migrated from Austria, arrived at Ellis Island penniless and made his fortune hauling iron ore on the Great lakes. He was the son of a single mother before that was socially acceptable; he’d laughed about the scandalous “illegitimus” notation on his baptismal certificate. When Angelina cried as a child over her father’s death, Grandfather consoled her with stories about how he’d gone ahead and that now she had a special angel watching. Grandfather always said her father would wave at her when the time was right for her to join him. He’d tell her he had no father on earth either but reminded her that God was everyone’s father. She matured nurtured by his wisdom that life is for the living and can be good, life can be outstanding, your choice, what makes you stronger is going on. She had learned from her Grandfather that while one cannot always control what happens in life one very well can control one’s reactions to happenings. She’d never forgotten that. Her strength in living had always kept her going on.


The box of matches she retrieved to light the evening candle reminded her of her trips to Europe. She’d never found any more information about her grandfather’s family; the old church was bombed in World War II destroying all records. No surviving long lost relatives were found. But she had visited her grandmother’s home village in Germany. These matches from her last grand European trek were 15 years old, but they still lit. They symbolized an unhealthy habit. Angelina had never smoked; she’d tried it but could not abide the dirt and the odor, found it repulsive, a useless indulgence. She recalled a time when smokers were not ostracized and matches were complimentary! That was back when tobacco was advertised with glamour and sex and virility like the Marlborough Man. How sinister. Pathetic addicts in its control ended with wrinkles around their mouths like a cats’ ass, bad breath, coughs and even worse cancers. But the Europeans, oh they were smokers. She wondered if they still gave complimentary matches today over there. She’d ask Georgina about that the next time they talked.


She lit the candle and sipped her sherry, ummm smooth satisfying. Relaxing in her chair, ready to read for the evening, Angelina closed her eyes for a second and caught a vision, of her father waving at her, beside him her grandfather waving too and there alongside all her People! Across the river of golden flowing waters that looked like sherry, they were all waving, singing “come to the Cabaret Angelina, come to the Cabaret.” She waded across the shallows and up the bank.


The next day at mass Father Mizuski noticed Angelina was not in her pew. After mass he called her home but no one answered the phone. So the priest came to her house and rang the door bell but no one answered. Opening the door with the key Angelina had given the church, the quiet greeted him. . Inside he found Angelina’s body slouched in her chair, open book in her lap, peacefully smiling, box of matches and an empty sherry glass on the table next to her and the candle still burning. Angelina had gone on to join her People.

If you click on the title you should be able to see  the link to other writers in the Magpie blog; this is week 2 for our attempts to build a tale on what Willow posts...

Another read

I have not read a book like "Rules of Deception" by Christopher Reich for a long time; it is thriller, espionage, terrorism, murder or not, intrigues and so many characters that I considered diagramming who was who and when to follow the story. It is difficult to select one genre for this book. Set in Switzerland it features Jonathan Ransom, an American, chief surgeon turned administrator for Doctors without Borders. His wife Emma dies in a ski accident in the Alps, and a day later with the mail Jonathan begins to follow a trail that will lead him to question Emma's activities. He discovers she was not the wife he thought she was; how do we really know another person? It is wonderfully descriptive of the geography and the Alps. The story has so many twists and characters that I had to pay attention and concentrate when I read. Still throughout the 548 pages this paperback kept my interest. Just about the time I thought I could predict what would happen I was wrong and the tale took another curve. Every and any sinister plot and twist is covered, the CIA, the Pentagon, Swiss neutrality, Israel, Arabs, Iran, Iraq, terrorism, and more. I have never read any of Reich's books but would do so and recommend this to anyone who loves intrigue.

Outstanding  descriptive good writing throughout the book. I became so intrigued that I only noted two passages as quotes.  I did not have time to stop and hilite...I really did not want to stop reading at night and would sit long past my bedtime hoping to solve the dilemma of the chapters that engaged me at the time.

Page 35..."Memories fluttered behind his eyes like a trapped bird beating against a window... "

Page 119 ”Dusk had turned the sky into a pallette of warring grays doing battle low over the city's rooftops."