findingphilblog

After the cemetery visit, my research slowed down a little. I got busy at work and was exhausted when I came home.

But about a month ago, I tried one more angle. Now that I had the death dates for both of my great-grandparents, I could write to the Pennsylvania Division of Vital Records for death certificates.

The forms were pretty easy to find. You can download them online and send them off. It takes a few weeks and only costs $9 per certificate. I think it’s hilarious the title of the PDF is Death_By_Mail. Someone in the department has a sense of humor.

 Francesco’s arrived first and brought its own revelations. He’d died of tuberculosis. And at the time of his death, the family had obviously moved from St. Andrews Street (from the 1910 Census) to a new location — 6343 R (rear?) Frankstown Avenue.

He’d worked as a tailor for a company called Crandall-MacKenzie. That was new, and interesting.

He’d suffered for three years with this? Oh man. And he’d died at Western Pennsylvania Hospital of respiratory failure and tuberculous peritonitis, which he’d had for a week. It sounds dreadful.

But hold up a minute! I see a passel of new names. Francesco’s father! His name was Philip Venezia! His mother was Maria Guiseppe! My great-great-grandparents. Oh yeah!

And oh my lord. Antonio Venezia. Address 6347 R Frankstown Avenue. A brother? Francesco had a brother? What’s more a brother who apparently lived like two doors down.

Suddenly, it felt as if the entire picture of my family had shifted again. At least one more sibling, carrying the name Venezia. Could that mean that there were cousins. Legit, blood Venezia cousins somewhere in America? Did they look like me? Like my dad?

Saverina’s was waiting when I got home last night. And ho-boy, does it get interesting.

First, her name is backwards — last name, then first name, both spelled wrong. Then my eyes race to cause of death. Puerpual Infection and Peritonitis. What’s Puerpual Infection? A quick Google search. “Puerperal (correct spelling) infections, also known as postpartum infections…”

“Jason!” I scream. “She did! She had a baby. Oh my god, there was a baby.”

For a minute, I can’t move. I can’t think of anything other than the fact that there might be a half-sibling of my grandpa out there somewhere. Hell, they could still be alive. That would explain the lack of a body interred with her at Mount Carmel.

After I calm down, I see that the record also holds the names of my other set of great-great-grandparents. It’s impossible to tell because the spelling — like most of this document — is atrocious. It looks like it says Jesse or Jurace Bresau and Philippina Oliva. But I know this is my great-grandmother because the next of kin is Mike Natale, 123 Enterprise Street.

“She suffered for a month,” I groan. My ovaries twinge in sympathy. That must have been a horrific, painful death. And once again, my perception of the road she had to walk after Francesco passed away shifts. Her life, I thought, must have been really, really hard. Because how do you go from three live, healthy births in probably a lot less sophisticated circumstances the decade before to death?

So now I have an explosion of fresh leads to follow. Onward!