Unexpected Mail

I may be in love with the United States Postal Service… after an adulthood of distaste for the institution, this is saying a lot.  A LOT I tell ya!  Why all the love for the folks in blue shorts and weird utility vehicles?  They brought me a present.  Sure, that’s nothing terribly new, as a lucky and loved person I’ve been on the receiving end a time or two…  but today’s mail pick up included and lovely green envelope that was weighty and a bit chunky.  Are you itching to know what was in it?  Sure you are, that’s why you’re reading this!

Pictures.  I got PICTURES!  I have faces for many names now, WE have faces for many names now!  Cousin Bea, I know you won’t read this, but thank you SO MUCH for this unexpected treat in the mail box today.  I’m just beside myself and I keep looking at these faces.  I want to will them to talk to me, to tell me about themselves, but I will be content with these frozen moments of time for now.

There are a fair few I could share with you, but one that feels terribly precious to me is this one.

Fraza Men, 1936. L-R: Robert “Bert”, Gustav, Martin (Father), Bob (Bert’s son), Otto, August “Gus”, and Harlan (Gus’s son).

I adore how the grandsons are standing with the same crossed arms.  The only two Fraza sons missing are Emil, who had already passed away in 1934 and then my own grandfather, John “Jack”, who was in California by this time.  I don’t know what month this was taken, but I doubt it is a coincidence that Jack is not present and his first/only son was born that same year.

I just keep staring and looking for the parts that are my own father… that forehead!  That hairline!  Those noses!  The wide smiles…  And, for as keyed into the idea that I’m a cookie cutter of my mother… do I see some of these features in me?

I hope they were kind men who loved their families and could spare a smile for anyone.

Yes, indeed, today was a special day.

Their Dash

There is a famous poem by Linda Ellis titled “The Dash”.  It reflects on the idea that when you’re looking at the dates on a grave marker, it’s “the dash” between the birth and death dates that matters most.  That the line represents all the living and loving, joy and pain, experience and risk… the human experience in all it’s shattering glory.  It’s a poem worth the read, find it here.

So often in this search, the grave markers are all I’m finding in the way of photos for those that came before me.  It may seem morbid, but I’m treasuring those images.  The dates and a dash seem to bring them to life for me.  And indeed, it’s the dash I want to know more about.

One grave marker had been difficult to get a hold of.  Martin and Hulda Fraza.  I have a photo of Martin, but I have no guess what Hulda looked like.  I’ve really, really wanted to see that marker to put her to rest in my mind, even just a little.  Finally, just recently, a technological serendipity happened and, thanks to my Fraza cousins in Michigan, I was able to access the picture.

Martin and Hulda Fraza’s resting place in Michigan. Photo courtesy of D. Hughes

I was stunned by the beauty of their marker… large and solid, it meant to last and proclaim.  I had expected a small memorial plaque laid in the grass, maybe a headstone.  The stone isn’t ornate or ostentatious compared to what is around it, but it IS more than I expected. The size and simple elegance of it spoke unexpected volumes to me and changed the story I’d created in my mind for who these people had been.  I’d assumed that Martin and Hulda were respected and honored by their children to a degree, but I think I thought it was a basic kind of affection given how scattered the family became over the years.  The grave marker makes me rethink that view.

I have to think that the honor done to Hulda and Martin’s lives by the purchasing of such a monument speaks loudly to the idea that they were not just honored and respected, but loved.  I don’t know if Martin made the purchase on his own when Hulda passed away in 1919 or if it was done after his death and placed by one or some of his children… but either way, I really believe there was more affection and love in their dashes than I realized was possible.  This pair is meant to be remembered.

These are the moments that are going to keep me searching for a long time to come.  The moments that are going to keep me reaching out to perfect strangers to ask, “Do you have…” and collaborating to share information.  I feel like, having seen this marker, that my basic understanding of Martin and Hulda has changed… for the better.  Their dash, in that context, speaks volumes.

I might be wrong… my romantic side coming out again… but this viewpoint makes me happy and I’ll keep it.  I’m so very glad you were loved, Hulda and Martin.

Mom… Those People Are Staring At Me…

…and they won’t stop!  I once stuck my tongue out at an open air tour bus guide because I thought she was staring at me and giving me the stink eye.  I was six.  I got caught.  Staring isn’t nice… but it’s effective.

A few of my own family members have had to ask me who the four people in the Claiming Our Clans banner image are.  Well… they’re the chosen representatives of each clan!  Clever, yes?

Mathias Frith

First up is Mathias (or Mat) Frith.  He is one generation further back than I have detailed here, so far, but I just love the photo for it’s clear attempts at conservation through the years.  Mathias was born in 1858 and died fairly young in 1901 from complications of malaria caught while working on the Panama Canal railroad.  I suspect this photo was snapped around 1890.

Esther Hookanson, circa 1915, California.

The next looker in the strip is Esther Hookanson.  Daughter of Carl and Anna Maria, Swedish immigrants to California.  I believe she was always a fashionable type, this soft portrait is quite post-Edwardian in feel and she ROCKED the 1920’s Flapper era.  This photo doesn’t hint at her more adventurous under-takings like camping, auto trips and golf.

Martin Fraza, Naturalization application photo, circa 1931.

The rather grim looking fellow is Martin Fraza, the patriarch of the Frese/Fraza/Fraser clan.  The photo was pilfered from his Naturalization documents provided by the National Archives.  One thing’s for sure, by this point the man was about 70 odd years old and he could not remember one detail of his life with perfect clarity!  Though, with 14 children to his credit, I’d probably be too tired to remember 40 year old facts too.

Nellie Cole with daughter Marjorie, circa 1940, California.

Last in our visual time travel is Nellie Cole.  She wore glasses most of her life, so it’s fun to see her without them.  Normally a quite stern woman, this is another picture I value for it’s softness.  Her daughter is a tiny thing here, probably about two years old.  Nellie’s family, mostly girls, is not unique for the fact that they all were clearly family in attitude and appearance.  One person I know said, “They liked to throw clones!”  More than one photo has been misinterpreted as the wrong sister or their mother!

So… that’s them.  The elected Clan Representatives.

Take notes, there will be a test.

What’s in a Name?

What’s in a name?  A lot of confusion if you’re me…

I was born with the surname Fraser, a solid and storied Scottish clan name.  I somehow got to skip the time-honored tradition of a school project to trace your roots and I spent many happy summer afternoons at various Highland Game events and haunting the aisles of tartan shops when possible.  I was Scots!  The belief was never challenged.  Then, somewhere in my middle teens, I began paying attention.  How could I be of German heritage but have a Scottish name?  I had not understood the act of “anglicizing” names during the immigration process and the washing away of culture that many immigrants felt was needed when they arrived to the United States- at least not in a personal way; it was academic facts only and a phenomenon left in the history book at school. (Never mind, too, it’s still happening today.)  When my “true” surname was revealed to me my conscience was bothered a bit but my identity as “A Scot!” was firm… I didn’t want to give it up.  And I didn’t, and I won’t.  What’s in a name, after all?

For more than two decades, I’ve let the sleeping dog lay in it’s shady spot.  But it’s awake and in the full sun now.

As I’ve researched my patriarchal lineage, this is what I’ve learned…

Frese– the name the family “got on the boat” with and at least one child kept.
Freese– the name that Castle Garden electronic records keep this family under- that was a pain to figure out.
Fraza– the anglicized and/or phonetic spelling of the surname.
Fraser– the chosen, similar-ish, but *completely* different culture name the younger siblings adopted.

And this does not touch on the census, marriage, divorce, phone book and other official documentation misspellings of the name!  Variations I’ve found include Freze, Fresa, FROZE (that one fried me), and more.  Martin Albert Fraza’s Naturalization application has two spellings and a struggle visible on it.  In the typed area, it says “Freze”, *after* something was XXXX’d out.  In this document signature, it says Frese quite clearly.  On Martin’s signed photo, though, it looks like he could not decide what to write… I swear he wrote an “a” over an “e” and it’s not clear if he made an “s” or a “z”…

I doubt any of this meant they didn’t know who they were.  It was just part of their “American Story.”  But it does seem to express some frustration and, in later years, some shame. Yes, they knew who they were and where they came from.  It breaks my heart a little bit that they found reasons to change that even a little bit.

Do I dishonor these people by keeping and valuing my variant and the alternate history it offers me?  I cling so dearly to my name that I’ve tattooed it’s representation on my body… Does that mean I don’t honor what I now know of the Frese/Fraza/Fraser clan- that I’ve ignored the vast adjustments and changes a couple undertook to, ultimately, bring me into this world?  Was Martin saddened by his children’s choices to leave their heritage behind?

A family member once announced to me their intention to change their name back to the original Fraza.  I got piping mad.  I waxed poetic about the idea they were about to dishonor their personal history and challenges that their forbearers had faced and were going to separate themselves from the ones who love them.  I regret that moment now.  Their idea feels more honorable now, that they somehow knew the truth of it better than I did, even before the evolution of the name was clear to any of us.  This family member was setting out to honor their own truth and I stomped on it.  I am sorry.

In the end… I am a Fraser.  A fake Celt and a proud descendant of the Frese family of West Prussia.  I will wear my tartan proudly, proclaim my American Story of change for the sake of finding a home in a new place, and- perhaps- add another tattoo in the years to come.  Indeed, what IS in a name?