My mother’s Ukrainian parents had come to America in the early 1900's. My mother was born in America in 1932, but had a tough immigrant resolve to get through the situation of being a widow with six kids. There were times when I remembered her losing her temper with us and other times when she was on the edge of a mental break- down. Through it all she maintained a good sense of humor, which carried her through the difficulties of being a single mother. We did have my mother’s family to help out with some sense of who we were. My mother’s brother, Steve, would help by buying a home for us on Bentley Avenue, just down the street from our grammar school and Lincoln High School, where my sisters and I went to school. We went to St Peter and Paul Ukrainian Catholic private grammar school. It would be for the family the best thing my mother had done for us.
My older brother Walton was named for my father’s brother. “Wowo” as we called him would assume some father responsibilities, as we grew older. Wowo would be the brother I looked up to but I never really became close to. He was always more of an absent brother to me growing up. I wanted to do things with him but, he being 5 yrs older, had no time for me. Later in young adulthood we did bond some and even more when he first married. But there were obstacles, his first wife Lorraine, needed help trying to get him under control because he was drinking more and more. He soon became ill and was diagnosed with diabetes something that didn't mix with alcoholism. Lorraine and I actually attempted an intervention with him. When this didn't work she eventually left him and I gave him up for lost. I became emotionally disconnected with him because I knew it was just a matter of time before he killed himself with alcohol or by not taking his insulin. He made attempts to straighten out and then entered into a second marriage to Doris, with whom he had a daughter, Kyrsten. When Kyrsten was born he was a new man it seemed. In time he separated from Doris but there was still a resolve to stay on the wagon. Eventually he died at the age of 42 from insulin shock. As much as I became emotionally disconnected with him, I was distraught with him dying and to this day wish he was still here to see his daughter grow up to become a beautiful woman and successful athlete. Then also to learn of our proud family history that I have learned about in the last few years, it would have been as interesting to him as it has become to me.
My sister Deborah was seven years older than I was, and she was able to remember our father. Deb was the source for me to later find out more about him and the history surrounding our family name. It was Deborah who knew a few stories about our father’s previous life. It was later in our lives that she shared what she knew; the stories were more urban myths than truth. One such story was that our father had been married before and that he had a family that lived in California. There was a story about my father’s funeral wake, where strange young girls showed up who shared a striking resemblance to my younger sisters. It would be fodder for future family gatherings for years to come. We also knew our family name was derived from the Dutch and there were family members buried in the Old Dutch cemeteries in Jersey City. Year after year, as we grew older, I would often ask if Deborah knew anything else; but to no avail.
