Francesco Venezia

The Things She Carried

My Mom handed me a small, brown wallet, clasp tantalizingly closed as if its owner had just placed it on the nightstand.

“I figured you’d want this,” she said, “It was Aunt Mary Vee’s.”

Mary “Vee,” my great-aunt, Mary Venezia, was the last link to Grandpa Phil, Great-Uncle Joe, and their parents. As the oldest child, she had the clearest memories of nearly all their shared tragedies. By the time she died at 73, she’d outlived her parents and siblings despite a congenital hip defect and tuberculosis that settled in her bones with spine-twisting brutality.

I say nearly because, in 1920, Mary’s destiny diverged from her brothers’. When they were pulled, sick and starving, from Pasquale’s hovel in Pittock, Phil and Joe went into Allegheny County’s rudimentary foster care system while Mary was sent to the Sewickley Fresh Air Home. A cross between Shriner’s Hospital and St. Jude’s, it provided care to children 14 and younger, mostly with polio, tuberculosis, and orthopedic complications. Someone — possibly Mary’s caseworker Camilla Barr — was looking out for her and negotiated 15-year-old Mary a place there, paid for by the county.

Despite having her family and heritage severed repeatedly, Mary saved pieces of her fragmented past with tender, orderly ferocity. She preserved the only photograph of Francesco and Severina, Francesco’s memento mori pin, and her baby picture.

With an archivist’s practiced eye, I unclipped the wallet’s slim band.

My Dad’s face, forty years younger, stared back from a pair of newspaper clippings announcing promotions at Pittsburgh National Bank, followed by two of Dad’s business cards with elegant, Palmer-script notations indicating he was her emergency contact.

Next, to my surprise, was a photo of Joe and Phil. Taken the same day as another photo in my collection, I recognize the Brenckle farm lane in the background and conclude it was most likely after they’d returned from Bellaire. Their smiles are tighter, eyes shifting slightly left as if still on guard for danger. In faded pencil, Mary’d written on its back, “Phil and Joe in working clothes.”

Next came high school graduation photos of my Aunt Mary Ann and Joe’s children, Myrtle and Wayne; my cousin, Bryce, her first great-grand-nephew, at four months old.

Then, her social security (issued in 1970), health care (Blue Cross of Western PA), and voter registration (Republican) cards.

Finally, a small collection of strangers’ babies, graduation, and wedding photos. Every image, however, was marked with names, dates, and short descriptions. It was a reminder that Mary was not only a vital part of our family’s history but a sweet memory in so many others.

The 1951 Pittsburgh Press article about the Fresh Air Home noted that after healing, she’d remained there as a kindergarten teacher and was known to sit up nights holding the hands of new arrivals who missed their families.

Those little boys and girls remembered dear Miss Mary and wrote to her by the dozens over decades. At one point, we had a large bag filled with hundreds of black and white photos, clippings, and notes former Fresh Air residents sent. Babies, graduations, enlistments, and homecomings were all shared with the woman who’d been the friend they needed. I’d uncovered it in my parents’ closet at about age 10 and sifted through it endlessly. Several boys healed enough to be drafted into World War II. One sent photos from Eagle’s Nest, Berchesgarten, and several locations mentioned in Band of Brothers.

There were also photos of Mary and her Fresh Air friends having fun. After all, she was a young woman and emerged from three years of body casts with humor and an effervescent spirit. One letter preserved in the Bellaire stash included a note from Mary to Phil mentioning playing tricks on her doctor by stuffing newspaper in his shoes. Within the Fresh Air Home’s sprawling grounds, she strummed a ukelele, hosted little girls’ tea parties, and reenacted scenes from plays. Tragically, this cache fell victim to a basement flood and couldn’t be preserved, much like the Fresh Air Home itself.

Medicine and society moved from institutionalization to community care. The home shuttered in 1952, and Fresh Air’s wealthy benefactors gave Mary one final gift — a room at Friendship House, a genteel retirement home for upper-class ladies. However, her stay was contingent upon remaining mobile and self-reliant.

And for decades, she was. Until, one day, she wasn’t. The stately Sewickley Victorian, with her room on the top floor, was no place for a woman with severe spinal degeneration. A doctor convinced her surgery would save her mobility. Dad tried to talk her out of it, hearing chicanery’s quack a mile away. However, Mary, who’d fought valiantly for independence, decided to go down swinging. Complications predictably, fatally arrived.

Before she left this world, Mary learned my Mom was pregnant with me. She was overjoyed to know her favorite nephew, who looked so much like his father — the little brother she loved so much — would be a father himself. In a way, her precious, tiny collection of our family’s founding documents paved the way for all the research I conducted years later.

Mary, ever the teacher, also hid a final lesson in her tightly packed wallet. Its collection of family and friends reminds us that opportunities to treat others with kindness, mercy, respect, and love come to us all. Ripples of those choices reach untold generations, bearing memories that become blessings.

August 17, 2023 0

Probate, Wills and a special place in hell

It’s three days into the massive Ancestry data dump known as the Probate Records collection and, of course, I’ve been spending every spare second searching the Venezias and Brescias.

I start with Francesco, and there’s no surprise there. The heart-stopping Last Will and Testament of Francesco Venezia I found almost a decade ago is now preserved forever online.

Re-reading it, I caught a sentence that I skipped over in the past. Francesco not only gave Severina money immediately, his will stipulated that the interest income from the kids’ equal shares be given to her annually until Mary, Phil and Joe all reached the age of 21. The form values the estate at $2,000 (the equivalent buying power of $46,000 today.) This information once again swings the needle on my feelings about Severina and her second husband, Mike Natale. In my mind, she didn’t have to jump into a marriage with a guy six months later. She, quite frankly, didn’t even have to die at such a young age. Oh, Severina. What happend to all that money Francesco worked so hard to leave you?

The executrix letters indicate Severina’s address as a PO Box in Pittock. Pittock. There it is again. Two years later, when she dies, her address is Enterprise Street, back in the old neighborhood of East Liberty. Did she go to live with Pasquale in the interim? Francesco’s address prior to being admitted to the hospital was Frankstown Avenue. Why would she have an address on virtually the other side of the city? It’s not easy to get from East Liberty to Pittock now. I can’t imagine it was easier in the early 20th century. The only explanation I can think of is that as Francesco realized he was in the final stages, he sent his family away. The only place they could go was to Pasquale, particularly if Antonio was the one who agreed to care for Francesco.

There are a few other collateral papers that I hadn’t seen before that provide a smidge of color

Witness letters

and context into Francesco’s will. The two witnesses, Carmine Passante and Salvatore Curto, submitted the will for probate on Sept. 10, 1915. Unlike some records in the collection, there is no indication of the personal property Francesco left behind. Man, I would have loved to have an actual list of things my great-grandparents owned.

I also wonder about these two men. Surely, they had to have been very close friends of my great-grandfather’s if he trusted them to carry out the important duty of legally executing his will. Jason and I had our wills done this summer, and let me tell you, it makes you seriously examine who you trust. It’s interesting that Francesco does not choose Antonio for any of these duties. He certainly isn’t asking the Brescia brothers. I also find it interesting, though I’m not sure how unusual, that Francesco makes his wife the executrix of his estate. This is five years before women even have the right to vote. He obviously trusted her beyond all others. How deeply she let him down, squandering his hard-earned cash on a shiftless and unworthy man.

After several unsuccessful serches in the Ohio probate records for the mysterious Ohio uncle, my thoughts turn to Mike Natale. OK, boss. You got our cash. What’d ya do with it?

No wills. But in turning back to my Shoebox’d record of the Mike Nataley in the Mayview Insane
Asylum, another new Ancestry feature points me to a stunning revelation. The new site more clearly links records that may be associated with people you’re searching — including those in the Shoebox purgatory. In this case, it’s a Death Record.

Same man. An Italian widow. Same birth year. A previous address in the same section of my family’s East Liberty neighborhood. The undertaker who took the body was located on Meadow Street, only a few blocks from Our Lady Help of Christians. A burial at Mount Carmel Cemetery. Cause of death? General paralysis of the insane. Secondary cause — sulpulus? What’s sulpulus?

A quick churn through Doctor Google and I’m slapping my hand over my mouth. Syphills. Oh my god. He went insane from syphills. Contracted on or about the time immediately adjacent to Severina’s pregnancy and death. That total bastard.

Mike Nataley DC

If this is really our Mike Natale (and I shudder to call him that), it explains so much. The stillborn baby. Possibly even the infection that killed Severina (though it’s possible it was just a general infection very common at the time.) It explains why he was likely abusive (the precursuor to the full-blown condition includes massive personality changes, violence and delusions of grandeur.) It explains why he left Mary, Phil and Joe twisting in the wind.

For the first time in a long time, Pasquale is starting to look like the slightly better man.

After spending a few minutes quietly fuming on my grandpa’s behalf, my thoughts to turn to Marion Drost, the female counterpart to Phil in the fire drama.

MarionsSonDC

It takes some digging, but I prove that the Marion Baker I’ve found in the census records is indeed Marion Drost. Sadly, it takes her 24-year-old son’s death certificate to do it. Paul Stephen Baker, the son of Marion and Stephen, apparently drowned in the Allegheny River. He was a veteran of the Korean Conflict and still in service at the time of his death. My heart cracks open anew for poor Marion. I can’t tell if she had other children. I’ll be using my new subscription to Newspapers.com to see if this death made the news (I can’t imagine it wouldn’t) or if I can find an obit.

All these revelations once again have me thinking about the forces that have shaped my present reality. The only conclusion I can draw is that we’re freaking lucky, blessed or all of the above. Somebody, somewhere is watching out for us all.

September 5, 2015 0

The Results are In

My DNA test results are in (cue the Maury Povich music).

Actually, they came back a few weeks ago. The fact I’m posting now should tell you they were fairly unremarkable.

I knew my background regions all along. So, no surprises there. But what did shock me was how little of my DNA seems to come from Italy.

My profile states that I am 51 percent Western European, 24 percent Eastern European, 11 percent Great Britain and only 8 percent Italian. Whaaaat??? My grandpa was 100 percent Italian, as in, both his parents came from Italy and I’ve traced their roots very far back.

My grandmother was 100 percent Slovak. My other grandparents were 100 percent Polish and 98 percent Irish, with a little French Canadian thrown in because the Irish branch emigrated through Canada rather than the US.

I was expecting more Italian. But, ah, perhaps ol’ Fillipo Aristodemo had some other types of blood running through his veins!

I suppose it depended on what was in my spit that morning I took the test. Maybe the Italian portions were still sleeping.

I do take a lot of comfort in knowing that the majority of “me” is made up of the DNA most closely associated with my wonderful Grammy and my equally gentle, loving and kind Grandpa Krajenke (the Polish portion, if you couldn’t tell.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about how comforting this notion of inheritance is, at least for me and in my circumstance.

My mother-in-law, you see, is not doing well. She’s in the end stages of a progressive and ultimately fatal disease. My daughter, despite visiting her every week along with her Daddy, will only know her in pictures. However, there is a portion of her that will always be with her, that will always be with Jason, too.

My mother and father will be with me and with my daughter long after they are gone. A part of me will be with my daughter until the end of her days.

So, that means Grammy, and yes, Phil, are with me right now.

In physics, you learn that matter is neither created nor destroyed. With this test, it shows that is indeed the case. Lives echo on and on, catching the shore of the present day like the tide.

August 18, 2014 0

I’ve started writing

I think I’ve gone as far as I can with the research, at least for the moment. So, I figure it’s time to take all my notes and do something with all the hours and hours of time I’ve put into this over the last few years.

It’s strange. Sometimes, it feels as if something beyond me is dictating where the story is going. I could say it’s my own creativity, but that almost doesn’t feel right. Sometimes, and maybe I’m crazy, I feel like there’s another hand guiding mine. Some of the ideas I have are too vivid. I might consider a path, but then something back in the back of my mind says “No, it happened this way.”

The greatest thing about all of this is that it truly feels like I am spending time with Grandpa. In a way that transcends looking at pictures or hearing other people tell stories, I feel that, because of all the research I’ve done, I’ve gotten a much more clear picture about who he was, how he grew up, the forces that shaped his world and all the rest than I ever did before.

My goal is to finish by the end of the year so I can send it to my brother-in-law, who is an author. We’ll see how I do.

January 15, 2012 0

In which I hit the information motherlode

All I can say is I freakin’ LOVE you, Ancestry!!

In the intervening months, I also circled in on the exact town where we are from. Sorbo San Basile. I cracked up when I found out they had their own website. There were pictures of people at local festivals and daggoneit if every single person didn’t look somewhat like me and my dad. Here’s the site.

It’s a speck on the map, really. So, if Catanzaro Province is like Pennsylvania and Catanzaro the city is like Harrisburg, then Sorbo San Basile is like Newburg. Someone from Newburg isn’t truly from Harrisburg. And when you start talking researching records, you’ve got to be specific.

Ancestry has message boards where you can post questions to see if you can connect. Well, I figure I might as well get on the Italy boards and see what’s what. There’s actually a forum for people searching Catanzaro, so I post there with Francesco and Saverina’s information.

I wait awhile and get a few responses. Then one guy tells me I need to check out a woman by the name of Dina. She’s apparently the person I want to connect with.

When we finally do connect, she combs through her extensive catalog of research and comes up with gold. This is our town, all right, and we go back a long way.

The name Venezia is not a “real” last name, per se. Italians would give orphaned babies the last name Esposito (meaning exposed. aw.) or the name of a large city in Italy. Based on the records in her tree, Francesco’s father Filippo Aristodemo Esposito Venezia (that’s a mouthful), was an orphan.

And get this. In the old days, churches in Italy had these things called “ruta.” They were little wheels that were in the exterior walls. There was a basket on the wheel. You can probably see where this is going. People put babies in the basket, turned the wheel so the baby was inside, rang a bell and ran. The nuns and priests took in the child.

It’s crazy how history repeats itself. Filippo was an orphan. Phil, who was likely named for his grandfather in the traditional Italian way, was an orphan. I realize that if my dad lives to see his grandchildren, he will be the first Venezia man in more than 100 years to do so. But, you know, no pressure. 🙂

That’s Francesco’s father. But it turns out Filippo Aristodemo married pretty well. Maria Giuseppa Gagliardi was from Sorbo’s upper class. The men in her family, Dina said, would have had the honorific Don Gagliardi, meaning landowner. OK, so it’s no castle in Italy, but it’s still pretty cool.

In hooking my tree up to Dina’s, I’ve discovered lines that go all the way back to the 1500s. I’ll probably never know exactly what we were before Venezia, but I’m still pretty proud to claim them. Dina’s not found much of anything on Severina, so there’s still that angle to pursue.

In the meantime, I’m savoring the thrill of truly, finally finding home for my dad and our family.

September 1, 2010 0

Francesco Venezia, citizen

OK. This is super-cool.

Turns out Francesco actually undertook the Naturalization process and became a citizen.That ship manifest marking page told me that the stamp I’d seen all those years ago over his name “US Citizen Discharge on Pier” was meant for US citizens returning from abroad.

Now, I know that two years before he got married, Francesco gave up on old Victor Emanuel of Italy in favor of Teddy Roosevelt. Well, who wouldn’t right?

Ancestry has an awesome set of Naturalization records and it was there that I found Francesco. In addition, I now know that he came to the US through Ellis Island in April 1891.

The document shows that a buddy of his vouched for his character and honor. Even more interesting, it shows both of them lived in Fleming Park. Ring a bell? Yup. Pittock.

In marrying Francesco, Saverina would have gotten a “citizen discharge” on the pier, too.

There’s a lot of affirmation and a little bit of new material here. Mostly, though, it just shows me that Francesco was probably a pretty stand-up guy.

April 12, 2010 0

Proof of Life, and Death

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!

July 17, 2006 0

Resurgam

One of my favorite books is Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre.” When her friend Helen dies, she’s buried at Lowood School under a stone that says “Resurgam.” Latin for “I will rise again.”

That word kept running through my head as Jason and I made our way to Mount Carmel Cemetery.

Because, after 90 years, Francesco and Saverina’s memories were rising again. We had to stop at the cemetery office to get directions to the site, which was fairly easy to find. It’s a nice spot, as these kinds of things go. Just below a dip in a hill, near the cemetery’s baby section. I try not to think of all those tiny tombstones with little lambs on them as I walk up to my great-grandparents’ grave.

There they are. I’m shocked to see that there’s only one stone. My feeling for my great-grandmother again fluctuates. Why did her new husband not see fit to buy her a stone. It makes me sad. Because I see that despite the missing picture (it would fit on that little notch), Francesco’s name, date of birth and date of death have withstood the test of time. The grass is neatly tended around the monument to his existence. Were it not for the little record card in the cemetery office, I might never know Saverina was right there next to him.

I sit down on the grass and try to feel whatever connection might still exist between myself and the bodies below. The weight of history somehow feels incredibly present. I think of my Grandpa. Did he ever come out here? If he kept his concertina-playing skills a secret, maybe he had a few clandestine visits to his parents. Or, maybe like a lot of men in his day, he just didn’t look back.

It’s a sunny day, and not too far removed, I realize, from the 91st anniversary of his death. I think about how there was no way Francesco could have imagined his little boy would have a little boy of his own, and a daughter as well. That they would go on to each have a boy and girl of their own. Two writers, a banker and a pharmacist, all living in Pittsburgh together.

Whatever Francesco and Saverina’s American dream had become, my dad and aunt, me, my brother Philip and my cousins Kristin and Bryce were proof that at least some of it had come true.

Photo credit for these awesome pictures to my fabulous boyfriend, Jason Malmont.

May 28, 2006 0

Lost and found

Not long after I started this search, one thing had always bothered me.

Francesco and Saverina had died a long time ago. They were buried somewhere. But where?

Today, I have my answer. Mount Carmel Cemetery in Verona.

My search began, as it almost always does these days, by Googling in between phone calls and deadlines. “Cemeteries in Allegheny County.” “Catholic Cemeteries in Allegheny County.” They could be anywhere. There were hundreds and hundreds of listings, including abandoned ones.

I decided to start with the biggest. Allegheny County Cemetery. They had big section for poor people. Maybe they’d ended up there. I called the office and the kind person on the phone offered to check for me. No luck. But he did give me some great advice.

“Were they Catholic?”

Yes, I replied. They went to Our Lady Help of Christians.

“There’s a few cemeteries associated with that church, but try Mount Carmel first.” Then he gave me the phone number.

When I called, I went through my spiel. I was looking for my great-grandparents. I didn’t know when exactly they died, but I had a month and year for my great-grandfather. Would they help?

The man told me to hold the phone and he’d be back.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “They’re here. Francesco Venezia, you said? He died June 15, 1915. And his wife, Sev-a-rina? She’s January 24, 1917.”

My heart is pounding. Almost 90 years’ mystery and it’s solved in half an hour.

“For real?! Oh my gosh, thank you! We’ll be out to visit this weekend!”

But I had one more question before we hung up. Was there a baby buried with her?

No, the man said. Nothing on the record indicates there was. So, another dead end with this potential half-sibling.

Maybe it’s inappropriate to be excited about visiting a cemetery, but I am. I practically ran out of the newsroom to call my parents.

“I found them! I found them! I found them!” I yelled when my dad picked up the phone.

“Who?”

“Your grandparents! Francesco and Saverina! They’re in Mount Carmel Cemetery over in Verona.”

“Really?” my dad said. “That’s incredible. I never remember my dad mentioning it.”

“I’m going to go this weekend! Jason will take pictures and I’ll send them to you. Maybe we can all visit the next time you guys come out.”

“Oh, and dad,” I said. “I kind of told the paper that I’d write a story about my research project. Is that OK?”

He said it was. Said the Brenckle relatives still living in Pittsburgh might get a kick out of it.

“In fact, here, talk to your mother. There’s something coming up this summer.”

When I talked to my mom, it turned out that the Brenckles had invited all of us up to Arnetta Brenckle Andrews’ house this August for a family reunion. It’s the first time in quite sometime that they’d asked this branch of the family to come.

Oh, what a tale I’ll be able to tell.

May 26, 2006 0

findingphilblog

In search of my grandfather's past … and maybe a book deal

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