I kept adding names…

Names of relatives, or relatives of relatives, or relatives of relatives of relatives, some on Barbara’s side, some on mine. That’s how my Family Tree blossomed from 200 ‘leaves,’ to 1800. But I wasn’t just adding names. I was unraveling mysteries, making sense of self-created urban legends. One thing I never understood was how and why Samuel and Mascha Jacobson, indisputably German-speaking Jews, assumedly already united in matrimony, wound up in Riga before coming to The States. What were they doing hanging out in Latvia? Answer: That’s where the family, the whole kit and kaboodle had been living since at least (documented) the middle of the 18th century. Oh. And no, Tante Mascha’s brothers, Willie and Lazer – the ones I’m told would hang out and play pinochle with my grandfather – did not arrive in America one step ahead of the jackboots, as I had assumed They had all arrived by 1900. And no, my grandparents only got married in 1894 – in NYC.

And then it dawned on me a few nights ago. It was 4AM, and I was wide awake, with Lucky either lying on my chest or hogging the bottom half of the bed so there was no room for my legs. I can’t imagine what I was thinking – if I was thinking of anything more than why I wasn’t asleep. Francis Elliot Casden and Frederick Lewis Casden = Elias and Levin.

I’ve probably mentioned this in a previous post; my mother had it all figured out. She was about to give birth to a child long before an ultrasound would enable expectant parents to tell the sex of the soon-to-be new arrival. My mother’s prize bundle would be named for paternal grandmother Fannie, either Francis or Frances – depending on which one showed up. (Nobody – except God – anticipated Yours Truly emerging from behind mother’s rib cage.) The next part wasn’t hard. If you have one named ‘Frankie,’ then call the other one ‘Freddie.’ But a middle name? Actually, that one wasn’t hard either. If you’re planning on naming the expected infant after Mascha’s father, Elias, then you absolutely must name the interloper (me) after Sam’s father, Levin. (Levin/Leib/Lewis Jacobson, born 1831 in Riga, Latvia, the son of Markus Jacobson (1804-1859) and Channe-Lea, and the grandson of Leiser Jacobson (1760-1834); married to Zelda Allschwang, c. 1859; father of Samuel, Alexander, and Sai Benjamin; died Sep. 13, 1900, in Pikeliai, Lithuania – two and a half years before my mother was born.) One year ago, give or take, I had never heard of Levin or Elias, or, for that matter, anybody else mentioned above. I never thought to ask my parents about our middle names, and it never occurred to them to bring it up. And now in the middle of the night in my 82^nd year, I figured it out – all by myself – with a little help from a black cat. I know it’s not a big deal, but… Actually, it is, at least for me. Granted, my efforts to rescue the memory of my great-grandparents and their great-grandparents from oblivion is not as dramatic as the efforts to rescue100+ hostages from their captives in Gaza, but it’s what I can realistically do.

And places…

They came from Shumyachi and Dormoiedovka, Hasenpoth, Pilsen, and Grobin, Katowice and Czestochova, places I’ve never heard of, you’ve never heard of, nobody has ever heard of, unless you’re from those parts yourself or you’ve done a deep dive into genealogical research.  They arrived in New York and Baltimore long ago and have spread out from there throughout the United States.  And now, at least some of us have gone in the other direction, back to where we came from a few thousand years ago. I have to be honest; I can’t imagine that our ancestors, arriving in the New World after a long and arduous trip across the Atlantic, had any thoughts that they or anybody they knew would ever see The Holy Land. Wait a minute. Maybe not mine and maybe not yours, but Natan Shlomo’s sure did. OK, my coffee buddy, it may have taken a while, but you’ve made your great-great-great-grandparents dream come true! Next time, the latte is on me.

And photographs

This was not a sentimental journey, no siree Bob. My mother was doing the unthinkable, or she would have, if I hadn’t said, NOOOOOOOOOO! Prior to a move into a smaller apartment, she was about to ‘ditch’ a small treasure trove of old photographs. Now when I say ‘old,’ I don’t mean ten years old, or twenty years old, pictures from a family summer vacation, done with a Brownie. I’m talking about studio portraits taken when the twentieth century had just begun. Her rationale? I don’t even remember who these people are. Fair enough, although I think perhaps it was, it was so long ago; it doesn’t matter anymore.

We went through them one by one, and sure enough, therewere faces that she could not identify, but there were others…….

This one is of Zelda. THAT Zelda. My mother’s paternal grandmother. The one who lived forever (almost). It says it was taken in Riga, obviously before she left for The States in 1906, when she was seventy-eight or so. Who, if anybody, was she leaving behind in Latvia, and did she have the photograph made for them? She obviously made sure to bring the portrait with her.

This one is of my mother’s father, Samuel Jacobson, Zelda’s son. It doesn’t say where it was taken or when. So I have to guess. What do you think? He’s looks about thirty-five, give or take, meaning it was taken in NYC a few years after he was married. Shouldn’t there be one of his wife, Mascha, taken at the same time? Maybe yes, maybe no, but my mother didn’t have it. I only knew my grandmother as an elderly woman, but I know she didn’t start out life looking like that. Maybe there’s some software that could turn her back into a blushing bride, but that’s beyond what I know.

This one is the most perplexing. That’s Henry Cohen (the father of Nathaniel Casden) on the left, Yishai/Charles Cohen (the great-great-grandfather of Jason Casden) in the middle, and some random dude (maybe A. H. Frankel?) on the right, at number 16 on some unidentified street in NYC. They seem to be holding something, but I can’t figure out what it is. What prompted someone to engage the services of a photographic studio (S. Marksville, 343 East 34^th Street [Photographs of Residences, Groups, Machinery and Architectural Work a specialty] and have them shlep their equipment down to the Lower East Side? Was this supposed to advertise the business of A. H. Frankel? We’ll never know. But what I find fascinating is that all three of these photographs were taken under very different circumstances within a few years of each other, probably between 1900 and 1906. And what is even more mind-boggling is that my mother was prepared to throw them away. We went through the collection, one by one, identifying those we could, with me making my chicken scratches on the back, notating who was who – one of the rare times when she talked in detail about her family. So that’s how I have what I have, and what’s missing – that’s the spilt milk that there’s no use crying over.

Cousins don’t grow on trees

I was assured by people who know about these things that taking a DNA test from Ancestry.com was my ticket to success. Instead of getting information about folks who might be my fourth cousin once-removed, I would start getting information about real live relatives. After a good deal of foot-dragging, I took the plunge. And the people who know about these things were not just whistlin’ Dixie. I certainly got results, some of which was not what I expected, but sure enough, there were DNA matches with people who might be real live relatives, two in particular worth noting.

Who is this Marilyn F., who is supposed to be my second cousin on my mother’s side? Forget the F., that might be her married name. But Marilyn? Could it be; it has to be. The only ‘Marilyn’ that I know about in our family (except for my departed sister) is Dave and Rose’s daughter, and I certainly know who she is. The last time we ran into each other was at a party we held for mom’s 90^th birthday, which is what I mentioned when I reached out to her. Are you who I think you are, and are you alive and well?  Yes on both counts, she replied, and glad to reconnect. One thing I thought about later: the first time I met her was at a party the family threw at the Concourse Plaza Hotel (You get several points if the name rings a bell!) for Tante Mascha’s birthday – probably also her 90^th. We won’t even discuss how long ago that was; let’s just say we were both a lot younger then.  What does that say about time moving slowly past us?

OK. I know who Marilyn F. is, but Lester? Who is this Lester guy? Only one way to find out. Once in a while, on a good day, you might hit the jackpot, as in BINGO! There on my Family Tree, hanging out all by his lonesome, was William Jacobson, my grandmother’s uncle (pictured above). Did he ever marry; did he ever have children? And out of nowhere (actually out of Chicago, which, to be fair, is not ‘nowhere’) is a living, breathing grandson of this esteemed gentleman, with lots of information to share about his family. If nothing else, he has saved his grandfather from an eternity of virtual bachelorhood. But we’re not just taking a stroll down memory lane. Lester Jacobson mentioned that “My beloved nephew, a rabbi, moved with his large family to Jerusalem two years ago. His son and son-in-law are in the IDF (the latter in Gaza). My nephew is David Begoun and he’s been podcasting interviews with victims of the 10/7 attack.” If it’s his family, I guess it’s my family too.

I would never have known any of this, if I hadn’t taken the plunge and sent my ‘completed’ DNA kit back with Ron and Esther when they went to The States to visit ‘the grands.’ Genealogy isn’t just about making entries, filling in the blanks on a genealogical table. Cousins – especially the ones you’d want to hang out with – don’t grow on trees.