The Search for Roots

I’m determined, before I die, to learn as much as I can about both my mother’s and my father’s side of our family and to take our family tree as far back as I can go.
by Charlie Leck

It keeps me busy – this search for my roots – and I get elated when there are new discoveries and I feel beaten up when I keep running into dead ends.

Have you gone searching for ancestors in an attempt to build a family tree? I have spent the last four years working on this project. First I traced my wife’s family all the way back into the early 1600s and even a family member or so into the 1500s. It was hard work, but the digging was made easier by little clues various family members left laying about when they departed this earthly sphere. My family seems to have left very, very little. So, I pick the memories of my siblings and a couple of cousins and I then dig and dig as best I can.

There is no question that Ancestry.com is a valuable resource – though certainly not cheap. I’ve also tried FamilySearch.org (and didn’t like it) and FamilyLink.com (didn’t get much of anything).

Looking at census records has been the most helpful, but one needs to be careful about them. There is a great deal of human error and there is very imprecise spelling and also poor handwriting. Yet, sometimes, when you find a census report on members of your family and you look at the names of the people living in the household, it is almost as if you are there, in the room, with the census takers and those they are interviewing. And, you often find really big suprises.

My maternal great grandparents, Vaclav and Annie Vavra, lived at 337 East 97th Street in Manhattan according to the 1900 U.S. Census. With them, at the time, lived my grandmother, Emma (age 10) and two of her siblings, William (age 18) and Salma (a sister, age 12). That put them on the very northeast edge or corner of a Manhattan neighborhood called Yorkville. This was a popular neighborhood for German families after Little Germany (Kleindeustchland), down on the Lower Eastside, began to decline in the late 1800s. (I wrote about Kleindeustchland in an earlier blog).

A portion of Yorkville was known as Germantown and another section of it was known as Irishtown. German Boulevard as it was known to the local population was 86th Street, all the way from Carl Schurz Park on the East River to the magnificent Central Park and Fifth Avenue. My grandmother loved to tell us about the fun that could be found in Germantown. There were some terribly popular restaurants there – Café Mozart, Die Lorelei and the Gloria Palast (that also had a movie theatre on the street level). One could count on some mighty fine music and plenty of dancing in all these eateries. The Ideal Restaurant was a popular German style coffee shop and the Kleine Konditorei was a successful little pastry shop.

My Grandma, Emma Svejda, loved having a good time and partying into the wee hours of the morning. My grandfather, Frank Svejda, used to shake his head when she began telling these stories. It was clear that he had a difficult time keeping up with her. German bands played with gusto in many places around the neighborhood and there were always German festival days to recognize and celebrate. Unfortunately, there were strong pro-Nazi sentiments in Germantown during the 30s as well.

Today the Heidelberg Restaurant is still open at 1648 2nd Avenue, between 85th and 86th Street. And, the Steuben Parade still takes place in this neighborhood every year. A couple of German bakeries are still in existence there, too – Orwasher’s and Glaser’s.

Grandfather Vavra and his wife were cigar makers and they plied their trade right out of their home. In the 1910 census, my grandmother, the hot-party-gal, Emma, married then to Grandfather Frank Svejda, was living out in Queens. My Grandpa’s occupation is listed as a fireman; and Grandma listed herself as a “cigar maker.” Clearly she learned the trade from her parents and, perhaps, she dabbled in it.

My grandfather Svejda’s mother, Mary Doubrava Svejda, lived as a widow in that same Germantown neighborhood according to the 1920 census. Her parents, John and Marie Doubrava, lived with her. Mary had arrived in America in 1877, at the age of 12, along with her parents. She married my great grandfather (whose name I haven’t been able to come up with yet) sometime in the late 1800s and had five children: (1) My grandfather, Frank, of course, in 1887. (2) Anna was born in 1883, (3) Louise in ’89 and (4) John in ’92. That fifth child is unaccounted for. Sometime between 1892 and 1900, my great grandfather Svejda died and left Mary, a quite young widow, to raise her brood. So, it was sometime between my grandfather’s 5th and 12th birthdays that his father died. I can remember him telling stories about how difficult it was. At a young age he had to chip in and find ways to make money to support the family. He did everything – from mopping up in the bars at night to selling firewood in the winter. He knew nothing but hard work for almost all of his life. I remember visiting him on his deathbed and regarding how tired and worn down he looked in those last few days and he was significantly younger than I am now.

Family trees are remarkable puzzles to piece together. The effort that goes into the work is awesome and sapping. Yesterday, I spent over 10 hours at the computer – reading, searching, probing!

I won’t burden you with much more of this information – at least until the next big discovery – but, as you know, this is why I write here. This blog is for my grandchildren and for nieces and nephews – that they may one day have some genealogical information to work with in case they want to go deeper.

I have a trip to Germany in mind for this November, to search there, in Bremerhaven (at least) for clues. Family names will dot the labels given for this blog just in case googlers out there are looking for family names that might connect them to me.

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Oh Brothers, Where Art Thou?

My brothers, John and Frank, have neither email nor Internet connections in their homes. Can you believe it?
by Charlie Leck

I want to tell my brothers that I went visiting today. I got on Google Maps and zipped back to Leland Avenue in the Bronx – exactly to the spot where I used to play stickball in the street when I was a little kid who had been shipped into the city to spend some time with his grandparents. This seemed to happen with some regularity and makes me wonder if someone wasn’t getting me out of his or her or their hair.

Well, anyway, I wanted to tell my brothers that I selected “street view” on Google Maps and I found myself standing on the corner of Leland Avenue and Gleason Avenue, peering up the street toward Westchester Avenue. I could see the 5 story apartment building in which my grandparents lived. There was the little corner grocery where Grandma frequently sent me to buy ice cream for her and to pick up “a number” in hopes that it would be a big money winner on that day.

And there was the street in which I played stick ball with the city kids, who regarded me as somewhat of a freak – a hick from the country who could hit a ball harder and further than any of the other kids my age. I was bigger than they were, too. I guess it was the country air. Maybe, truer, it was all cases of Coca Cola I lifted and moved around in the old store in Chester. There was great competition among the neighborhood kids to get me on their particular team.

I had no regrets about being sent into the city. I loved the atmosphere and I loved being with my grandparents. I would fall asleep at night on their sofa bed and, in the distance, I could hear the rumbling sounds of the elevated train that ran above Westchester Avenue. Sometimes my grandma and I would board that train and go to some extraordinary places – the Bronx Zoo, or Jones Beach, or to Battery Park and the Statue of Liberty, or to Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s amazing and huge department stores. I was astounded that we could go anywhere in the city by boarding one of these marvelous trains. I was determined to learn how to navigate around on them and I did. It gave me an enormous feeling of freedom and adventure. The 125th Street Station seemed to be the hub of the world! From it you could go anywhere.

The little rural town in which I lived out in New Jersey seemed so dull and abnormal after a week or two in the spectacular Bronx.

More than once, my grandpa took us to dinner at an Italian restaurant a few blocks down Westchester Avenue and each time explained to me, in a whisper, that it was owned by the mob and that the guys having dinner together in the corner were “made men.” The food was like nothing I’d ever tasted and I left nothing of the big plate of pasta and crusty bread that was served to me.

One time, a big, burly, dark-haired man rose up from the corner table and came over to our table. He had a huge laugh and he slapped my grandpa on his back and leaned over to kiss my grandma’s cheek.

“Hey, Frank – Paisano! How you been?”

My grandpa pointed at me and introduced me to Uncle Carmine. His hand engulfed mine and he gripped it hard and shook it vigorously. With his other hand he slapped my cheek so hard that I felt the sting. He laughed very hard and shook all over as he did.

“Another Bohemian, no? Un bel ragazzo, si?” Uncle Carmine said. “Egli assomiglia a sua madre. How is Milly?”

He pulled up a chair and joined us at our little table.

My friends in Chester didn’t have the foggiest idea what it meant that my Uncle Carmine was a made man. I didn’t either, but I couldn’t wait to tell my buddies at home.

“I had dinner with my Uncle Carmine DeLeggio. He’s a made guy! Big and tough! And he carries a gun underneath his jacket.”

“Oh, go on! You ain’t got no Italian uncle!” They weren’t so impressed.

I thought about that and realized it didn’t make sense. We had not a single Italian in the family. My grandpa had to explain to me that we just called Carmine an uncle as a matter of respect for his lofty position in the gang. “It’s the thing to do.”

My grandpa could take me to the ball park from that same train station up on 176th Street and Westchester Avenue. They were wonderful trips. We’d go see a ball game in Brooklyn, in the day time, with the sun shining on green, green grass, and then we’d stop for ice cream at a special Italian place he knew.

“The Waps make the best ice cream,” he’d tell me. “I think if I had to do it again, I’d be an Eye-talian,” he’d laugh at himself. “They’re the best. Except, the Germans make the best beer and the Irish make the best whiskey. We Bohunks, we got the best women, though!”

So, my brothers, today I went back in time. I returned to the corner in that neighborhood and looked it over and faintly heard the sound of the broom stick connecting with a rubber ball and I saw the ball soaring way out over the row houses on the west side of the street. My teammates were screaming and hollering as I jauntily rounded all the bases. A train was clacking along on the elevated rails up on Westchester Avenue. Uncle Carmine was walking down the avenue, on his way to visit Grandpa, and he cheered loudly for me.

"Ehi, guarda il bambino!"

Oh brothers, where art thou?

Had you the right connections you could have gone with me – for just those few magical moments I spent there today, in my youth again and happy as a clam as I ended the day in the arms of my grandma!

Grandpa Svejda and Sheepshead Bay

Grandpa Svejda and summer on Sheepshead Bay
by Charlie Leck

Once each week, I offer my readers the opportunity to go down memory lane with me. Obviously, those you who don’t care to make the trip can just click away from here in the blink of an eye – but, please, come on back for more opinion, ranting and raving on another day.

I’d like to remember more clearly. I’m trying to go back nearly 60 years ago. As I now speed on toward the stars, I desperately want to bring back to mind some of the times that meant so much to me as I child – times that I wish I had appreciated more fully then, so I could remember them more clearly now; and, perhaps, relive them in the great theatre of the mind.

The very south tip of Brooklyn is the site of Coney Island, which was an extraordinary amusement park and beach when I was an adventurous boy in the 1950s. Brighton Beach, a spot made famous by the Neil Simon play, and Manhattan Beach, are very nearby. Just above them is an inlet, called Sheepshead Bay, which opens to the East to Raritan Bay and the very western tip of Long Island.

Though I visited Sheepshead Bay only a few times, there was something I loved very much about the place and I have warm, cherished memories of my time there. I’m going to make a trip back yet this summer, or early this autumn, to try to stir up some of these boyhood memories.

I’d guess that I was around eleven years old when I spent a bit of time there with my grandparents, Frank and Emma Svejda, one summer. In addition to their place in the Bronx, they had a small apartment on Jerome Avenue, two or three blocks off Emmons Avenue. On the Southside of Emmons were the 10 piers or so from which the commercial or party fishing boats left each day. Along the Northside, facing out to the bay, were a host of wonderful restaurants of virtually every type you could think, mingled here and there with other small retail shops selling everything from groceries, beer and hardware. Lundy’s wonderful seafood restaurant was on the avenue. Folks say it could serve more than 2,500 dinners on a single day, and often did on special occasions like Father’s Day or Easter Sunday. It was housed in a massive, multi-story building. There was another good restaurant a couple blocks from Lundy’s called Pappas. It was run by a Greek family and it was rated highly also. Way down to the east end of the avenue was a placed called The Lewis House. It was always crowded, as well, and the ships’ captains and professional fishermen liked to eat there.

My grandparents’ favorite dining spot, however, was a place call McGinnis. What wonderful memories I have of it and how much I wish it still existed so I could return to find out if food could really be that completely wonderful. Everyone claimed that Lundy’s was superior, but I will never forget the popovers, chowder, clams and lobster that I shared with my grandma and grandpa at the McGinnis restaurant. Somehow, I remember, the place could be opened to the avenue in good weather and, with tables spread out on to the sidewalk, one could look, as one dined, across to the bay and watch all the boats coming and going.

There was another restaurant on the bay that they also enjoyed, but it was very small and the tables were in a yard behind or alongside the building. One had to wait a terribly long time to get served because every meal was prepared from scratch. “That,” my grandpa would say, “is what makes it great here.” He’d pass the time waiting for his meal by munching on ever-full baskets of wonderful, crusty bread and by sipping on his cold Shaeffer’s beer, brewed right there in Brooklyn, from which he’d allow me an occasional sip.

Now, I was a country boy from the rural, back hills of New Jersey. My cousins in the Bronx called the area where I lived “the sticks.” And we who lived there were considered “hicks.” I loved taking those infrequent trips into the big city to spend time with my grandparents in Brooklyn or the Bronx.

My grandpa Svejda was a tall, lean man with long, gangling arms and massive hands. I remember feeling terribly secure when my little hand was engulfed in his. We would walk along the avenue, hand-in-hand, and my little feet had to scurry to keep up with his long, strong strides. He had retired from his work by that time and was living off his pension. He had worked for the city for many years as a bridge painter and retired and took that retirement fund in a lump-sum rather than incremental payments. He and Grandma planned to put a good sized dent in those funds quite quickly. I loved to hear him talk about his work – like how they would start at one end of the bridge and begin painting and, by the time they reached the other end, then just turn around and begin painting it again. I would look at the Brooklyn Bridge or the George Washington Bridge – at their cables and towers, railings and long spans of steel – and feel so proud that my grandpa roamed up and down the bridge working to keep them so beautiful and majestic.

Grandpa was a big Dodger fan. The Brooklyn Dodgers were everything to him. They played in Ebbets Field at Bedford and Flatbush Avenues, about 20 blocks north of my grandparent’s summer place on Sheepshead Bay. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, everyone referred to the Dodgers as the Bums.” A couple of trolley rides would get us to Ebbets Field pretty quickly. Grandpa bought the really cheap seats for us, but that was okay because everything was much closer to the playing field in those days and we could see the stitches on the players' uniforms even from where we sat.

I remember one night game when my father joined us. While my grandmother took me to Coney Island, very nearby, my grandpa and Dad spent the day on an “adults only” fishing trip. They came home and cleaned up quickly for the ball game. There were just three of us and I sat between these two great baseball fans to watch the Giants, my dad’s team, and the “Bums” playing under the lights. Never was there a sound so sweet as the cracking of a bat at a night game in Brooklyn’s Ebbets Field. It was sheer heaven – a place of perfect and complete happiness. I loved listening to my father and grandfather bantering about each other’s teams.

The big adventure of the summer visit – the absolute and terrifying highlight – was the trip with Grandpa out on the big fishing boats that docked with their noses in, pointing to Emmons Avenue. The eight or nine “party” fishing boats could hold about 20 or so people who wanted to go out on the sea to fish. The crew would solicit business up on the Avenue, inviting people to join them in a quest to bring in some fluke, blue fish and flounder. Grandpa would get me pretty excited about the prospect of catching enough that we’d have a surplus that we could sell along the Avenue to residents who gathered as the boats came in, to purchase fresh fish.

The first time out with my grandpa I got ill pretty quickly. The little ship was rolling – rising and falling – over the swells in the ocean and my stomach went up and down with each wave over which we passed. The eruption seem Vesuvian to me. I was distraught and my grandpa was embarrassed.“Fisherman don’t get sick,” he told me. He sounded like Tom Hanks in the film, A League of Their Own, screaming at his lady-players: “There’s no crying in baseball!”

“This is just a matter of your mind,” he would tell me. “You roll with these waves and become a part of them. You mustn’t fight them. You are not to get sick on the ocean!”

It wasn’t a request and he wasn’t kidding. It was a command. He was no pansy. He was a stern, tough man. He wasn’t about to have a grandson of his getting ill in front of these professional fisherman who all knew him well and were his friends.

I realized how serious he was and how important it was to him. I rose to the occasion and somehow recovered to enjoy the day on the sea. And, in subsequent trips I never got ill again – though I have a queasy stomach now as I remember those moments and write these words.

Then I had another trauma when one of the crew hollered to me that I had a bite. My first fish ever! My heart pounded like crazy and I tried to follow my grandpa’s instructions as carefully as I could. I reeled the catch in. Grandpa leaned over the rail to grab the line and bring “the catch” high enough to net it. He laughed loudly and so did the men of the crew, who had gathered to see what their buddy’s grandson had caught.Grandpa dropped the big sting ray on the deck of the ship and I jumped backward to get away from the monster. Everyone around me was laughing. My face burned with both fear and embarrassment.

My grandpa wanted me to learn to take the hook out of its mouth. I wouldn’t have anything to do with. I backed off, so he did it for me and then pushed the creepy thing with his foot to the side of the deck and back down into its home in the Atlantic Ocean.

I caught nothing else on that first trip out to sea. Grandpa caught a couple of blue fish, but not enough that we had anything to sell on the dock. I was surprised to see all the people who had come to Emmons Avenue and the amount of fish that was being put on display as our little ship moved alongside the pier. My face and arms were bright red and my grandma laughed at me as she watched us disembark. I carried the blue fish to her and told her we’d caught dinner.

“We could have had lobster at Lundy’s for a lot less money,” she laughed. I spotted Grandpa shaking his head at her. He didn’t want me discouraged. He wanted a fishing partner.

Nevertheless, Grandpa gave the two small fish to one of his friends who was hawking his day’s catch along Emmons Avenue.We’d clean up, he suggested, and go on down to McGiniss’ and have some real fish for dinner. Visions of clams and oysters began dancing in my head as we headed for the apartment. I’d need some ointment for my sun burn and a good washing of my hands. I’d slop some goop on my hair and comb it stiffly into place. A clean shirt tucked into my jeans and I was anxious to go, pacing by the doorway and waiting for Grandma to finish prettying up her hair and adjust her jewelry just so.

Writing it all out doesn’t bring it back to mind the way it really was. I loved Sheephead Bay. How can I reproduce the aromas of the sea and fish stands where the catches were put on display? Standing on the sidewalk along the bay side of the Avenue and looking at all the boats, listening to the fish mongers, looking across the inlet to see the neighborhoods of Manhattan Beach and Brighton, realizing that the massive, endless ocean was off to the left and the huge, dense city just over there on the right, I thought that this was a mighty fine place to stand and think.

It was certainly another world from the little Jersey town where I lived, where my father’s general store was one of the few businesses in town, where you knew everyone who walked the streets and the only joints in town had nothing like the chowder and fish that I could get at the McGinnis restaurant.
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It was five or six years ago that I first scribbled notes about these memories in a journal – and I included these words…“The boy in Chester, New Jersey, lying in his bed at night with a bright, hot sunburn stinging his face and arms, wondered if he’d ever be lucky enough and rich enough to live on Sheepshead Bay – within walking distance of McGinnis’ extraordinary café.”

I’m pretty sure I was sitting in Paris a few years ago when I scribbled the paragraph above in my journal, at the Café de Flore. Sheepshead Bay was so far away then, and is now – not so much in distance as in time – and so is all that delightful, childhood discovery. My tall, strong grandfather died at about the age I will be in another year or so, and has gone to dwell among the stars. He was a heavy smoker and the cough, cough, cough boomed from his chest as we walked along Emmons Avenue toward the boat we would take out on to the sea.