darcy's coming!

It is my lot in life that I live in a house full of women. And so I got stuck watching Pride and Prejudice last night. At first it was like, yuck, 19th century British teenage girls gossiping about the ball? But then I noticed one moody bastard brooding in the back, unwilling to dance with the others: Mr. Darcy. I could relate.

The other character to whom I could relate in the film was Mr. Bennett, the father of five girls, who seems at times, a bit keen to marry them all off (to the highest bidder). Of course, Mr. Darcy had to go consult with Mr. Bennett about his proposal to Elizabeth, played by Keira Knightly, at the end of the film. I found this quite funny.

"Some day," I told Epp, "some guy will come groveling to me asking for my daughter's hand in marriage and I'll have to weigh the merits of his proposal."

"Oh, I don't think so," Epp responded.

At this we both had a really good laugh. Both Marta and Anna liked the film, though Marta fell asleep half way through. At the end, when Darcy finally made his proposal to Elizabeth, Anna was standing on the bed yelling "Darcy's coming! Darcy's coming!" She's only two and a half years old.

menagh

It's amazing the stuff you can find on the Internet these days. Take these photos from the Oshawa Community Museum and Archives. Where is Oshawa? It's the town in Ontario where a slice of our family lived for a few decades in the 19th century. These photos have been preserved as part of their historical collection, but they are also of individuals who are our, and, I am sure, many other people's ancestors.

As referenced in last post, Grandma Ann's family name was Miller. But it was changed to Miller at the end of the 19th century from Menagh. The Menaghs were originally from County Down in what is now Northern Ireland, near a place called Bangor. From what distant relatives have told me, the surname is an Irish corruption of the Scottish name MacNaughton, and the Menaghs were Protestants. Grandma's father (my great grandfather) was born Alphonse Menagh in Oshawa, Ontario, in 1886. He died with the name Fred Miller in 1936. The following photo is of John Menagh, who I believe to be his grandfather. John Menagh was born in Ireland in 1832 and died in Oshawa in 1912:



And this photo is of John Menagh's son Franklyn Boyns Menagh (my great great grandfather), who was born in 1859. The photo must have been taken in the 1860s. Forgive the poor kid for being so pasty, he's Irish:



This final photo is of John Menagh's wife and Frank Menagh's mother, Rachel Boyns Robinson Menagh and an unidentified daughter. The little girl might be Ethel, Frank's sister, who was the witness at his wedding to Annabelle Jaynes (hence the family name, Annabelle).




Here's a record of Frank Menagh and Annabelle Jaynes's marriage, just to sum up:

8303-81 Frank B. MENAGH, 22, moulder, Oshawa, Detroit, s/o John MENAGH & Rachel ROBINSON, married Annabel JAYNES, 20, Grafton, Oshawa, d/o William H. JAYNES & Mary MALE, witn: Thomas GALE of Whitby & E. MENAGH of Oshawa, 12 Dec 1881 at Oshawa.

To think of how disconnected from these people we are at this stage. All it takes is 150 years, and you become completely estranged from the past. For some reason, it's really hard for me to feel Irish or connected to Ireland. My whole body type is different, and I have to admit, I have stereotypes about Irish people (they are too eager to fight about small things, given to blood feuds, and pasty. Most of all, they take offense!). That being said, they make great bouncers. If you ever need someone's ass kicked, employ an Irishman. But I am lying a bit here, too, because I have red in my beard, and it's got to come from somewhere. There is an Irishman in here somewhere, buried amongst the piles of Italians.

grandma a

I forgot to post a celebratory birthday announcement for Grandma Abbatecola, who turned 85 on Dec. 28. They're all stacked back to back: Grandma Peg (91, Dec. 26), Grandma Ann (85, Dec. 28), and Marta (6, Dec. 30). A straight run of birthdays.

I was thinking of Grandma A yesterday when we drove home because I was describing her to Epp. Grandma A (birth name: Annabelle Margaret Miller), gets up early, real early. I stayed there a few times and would hear the radio alarm go off at something like 6 am. Then she would vanish to the kitchen. I might follow a little while after:

"Do you want pancakes now or later?" she would ask, standing near the kitchen sink.

"Now!" I would plop happily into a chair.

"You're like your mother, she likes to eat when she gets up," Grandma would say. "But Steven, he's like Mary. He likes to wait a while and then eat."

Grandma's house was dark and adorned with religious imagery. I found the abstract drawings of Christ in "Father Joe's room" -- where my great uncle, the Catholic priest, used to stay when in New York -- pretty intimidating when I was trying to go to sleep. "Father" Joe (who I didn't figure out was grandma's brother until I was seven or so years old) had very interesting books on his shelves. I remember one was called "Blitzkrieg" -- it was about the German invasion of Poland in 1939. He also had the old leather-bound box, the one belonging to someone named William C. Carroll, a person to whom I have never been able to figure out our relationship. Someone had been in the Civil War. There was a secret compartment to the box: a bloody 500 dollar Confederate bill. There were lots of mysteries in that room.

There were mysteries in the basement, too. Books about strange groups of men: Jesuits, Franciscans, photo albums of Italian art. Grandma could talk about these groups with some authority. The Franciscans were her favorite. Her favorite saint? St. Francis of Assisi. There is even a framed 17th century Catholic text down there somewhere. Aye, there's something old and musty down in grandma's basement. I remember from time to time I used to find toys that belonged to my uncles Joe and Bob (about 20 years older than me). Those toys seemed like artifacts from a different age. I imagined that Joe and Bob, two giants who then lived upstairs, were millions of years old.

Yes, grandma's was a very mystical place. Grandma, though? She grew up in a family of boys in the '20s and '30s in the city. She wanted to wear slacks, not skirts. I've asked her about growing up in a house full of guys (I imagine it sort of like "Our Gang" meets "Boys Town") but I am short on stories. I called her a few months back: she was watching the Yankees game. She has a New York Irish accent and talks a bit out of the side of her mouth. We used to call her brother John "Popeye" at least partially for this.

When I was at Grandma's house, I would think of my grandfather, Frank, who was dead, and who I assumed had died in the house. I knew very instinctively that he had been there, even when I was a small child. I guess he had only died about 15 years before; he had left some residual energy. Great-grandma was there too at some point. She was gray, like a ghost. She seemed to be a billion years old. Now when I see the photos of her from this time, I am surprised I see it that way. She looks puny and inoffensive.

There are lots of other memories and associations with grandma. Really rich, fattening foods. Mince meat pie. Hard sauce spiced with whiskey. Empty seltzer water bottles in the garage. The tree in the front yard that they gave her for her first mother's day in that house back in nineteen fifty-something. But the most fantastic thing about grandma is that she is still here and my daughters know who she is. Marta calls her "Mimi's Mimi." But in our family, she's basically everybody's Mimi.