I Come From a Land Down Under: My Australian Relatives

Happy Crown Roast of Pork Day! If you're like me, you can't spend Crown Roast of Pork Day without ruminating on your dad's Australian cousins.

Photos of my father's side of the family are hard to come by. My dad pulled the whole "going out for cigarettes" thing when I was two years old. His exact words were, "I'll be back on Thursday!" And I didn't see the dude for a quarter century. After that, he wasn't extraordinarily forthcoming with the family snapshots.

But I digress. My late Grandpa Jack (1892-1964), who I never met (he died 12 years before I was born), was himself born and raised in Nenagh, Ireland. He and his older sister, Mary Elizabeth "Maureen" Kearney (1890-1935) were the eldest of 12 children born to tobacconist and hairdresser Patrick Kearney (1870-1920) and his wife, Johanna Mary Kearney née Reynolds (1872-1927).

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Unfortunately, five of the Kearney siblings died in infancy. I don't know how common that was, but 32 Castle Street couldn't have been a very happy house. Also, patriarch Patrick Kearney himself began to develop debilitating health problems in his 40's.

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My Great-Grandfather Patrick was, by all accounts, a popular business owner and valued member of the community. However, toward the end, he was in major arrears. Regretfully, I may have inherited his accounting skills.

Patrick Kearney passed away at age 50 on 30 August, 1920. According to his death certificate, his demise was brought on by heart failure related to "Pernicious Anemia." His final residence was also a workhouse. Before this, the only thing I knew about workhouses was that the Elephant Man seemingly relied on them, and they weren't so much with the work-life balance. Now I find out my Great Grandfather kicked the bucket in one. It's a dark day at the Mystery Snapshot Adventure. R.I.P.

Today's medieval science (aka Wikipedia) will tell you Patrick succumbed to a Vitamin B12 deficiency that could've been the result of an autoimmune disease, Coeliac Disease, a tapeworm or a Vegan diet (!). It's also now known to be one of the many complications of alcoholism.

Interestingly, Patrick died never knowing exactly how old he was. On the 1901 census, he lists his age as 35. Then, ten years later, he says he's 42. In 1920, his death certificate said he was 50. Yet an obituary published in the local Nenagh paper said he was 56. And yes, this is all the same person. According to a fellow genealogist, this isn't uncommon.

“My experience with emigrants from rural Cork to Massachusetts, is that the lack of knowledge as to the exact date made it more likely that people would make themselves younger than they really were. Curiously, as they reached old age, they sometimes added years to their real age, perhaps to impress the census enumerator.”

Between the siblings' deaths and the dad's illness, life in this household was, most likely, very stressful. That may have been why Grandpa Jack bolted to Sheffield, England at age 18 in 1920 and married into the Bateman family—but not before Maureen married a man named John Patrick Hodgins in 1912 and moved to Australia. After that, nobody heard from my Great Aunt Maureen again. She remains an enigma.

But, thanks to the internet, I found some snapshots of Maureen's Australian-born kids—my dad's cousins—posted by a distant relative. They all lived and loved in the greater Melbourne, Australia area. To put things in perspective, they grew up roughly 10,779 miles (17,348 km) away from Ireland during Patrick's later heath problems—and were already teenagers when my (now 88 year-old) father was born in England. It's no great surprise that we knew nothing about them before, but it's great to become acquainted with them now.

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This dapper Virgo is John Patrick Hodgins Jr. (1913-1988). He was born in Richmond, Victoria on 11 Sept, 1913 and died in Mulwala in 1988. He may have been married to a woman named Daphne. I think this photo was taken in 1940, which would've put him at 27 years old. I see my dad's nose and ears in this photo.

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Here's a snapshot taken a year earlier of John's 21 year-old brother, Francis Gerald Hodgins (1918-1977). The horse is named Sky King and it was three years old according to some text on the back.

Someone appears to have used this photo as a coffee coaster at some point.

This photo of Francis Hodgins was probably taken in the early 1960's. He definitely grew up to be a strapping Aussie outdoorsman. I found another photo of him brandishing what appears to be a slaughtered platypus, but I won't post it out of solidarity with Platypodes.

(left to right) Wayne, Joy, Francis, and Dorothy Hodgins
Victoria, Australia
(circa 1970's)

Francis married Coral "Joy" Mead and had two kids named Dorothy and Wayne. Dorothy and Wayne are my second cousins because we share Patrick and Johanna Kearney as one set of great-grandparents. Remind me to look up Dorothy and Wayne someday.

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This was John and Francis's baby sister, Beatrice Patricia Hodgins (1919-1991).

Beatrice (left) has my dad's smile. I don't know much about her except she married a man named Charles Maslen. Is this an after-church photo? It looks like an after-church photo.

Here's a cute snapshot of her later in life. Go Collingwood Magpies!

Here she is (circa 1980's) with her cat. A love of cats runs on both sides of my family, it would seem.

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Late in life, my dad randomly developed an interest in his family. But instead of reconnecting with his son, he paid a genealogist to make his family tree. When you're lost in the details, they say you can't see the forest for the trees. My dad was the opposite; he wanted to see the forest, but thought the trees were in the way.

Or maybe he figured long-dead ancestors were easier to get along with your kids. But I digress. Happy Crown Roast of Pork Day to you and yours!

An Ancient Discovery from Harbin

According to my trusty calendar, today is National Mom and Pop Business Owners Day. Since my great-great grandparents were Ukrainian Jews-cum-Russian-Orthodox merchants who operated stores in Siberia and Manchuria, I thought I'd celebrate by posting this amazing set of vintage snapshots taken in Harbin—and furnished by my cousin, Jorge Poulson.

Circa 1930's
Harbin, China

What makes this collection so special is that my branch of the family lost practically everything on the eve of the Korean War. Only two treasured portraits could be saved before everyone was hastily herded onto Jeeps in the middle of the night and driven to a ship bound for Japan. All photos of our life in Harbin were lost. Until now, that is! Thanks, Jorge!

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These first two pictures were taken at the funeral of my great-great grandmother, Kharitiniya Afanasyevna Kozyreva (Козырева Харитиния Афанасьевна) on 11 January 1941. You can read more about her here. Kharitiniya was Ukrainian, born in 1862 in Starokostiantyniv. Married at 14, she and her husband spent the next two years migrating 4,530 miles east to Ust-Karsk, a one-horse town in the Transbaikal region of Russia. Kharitiniya then spent the subsequent quarter-century in a perpetual state of pregnancy and child-rearing, ultimately birthing a dozen kids. They say she was a Shaman, and her children spoke of her with respect and fear. According to family legend, Kharitiniya could heal small animals. She also used onions to cure skin infections, and she was a Psychic who had premonitions that her kids would be murdered by the Bolsheviks. Tragically, by the time she and her family fled the Russian Revolution for Harbin, only four of her children survived. Kharitiniya did, however, successfully use her psychic powers late in life to help her remaining family "escape the Chinese police at least twice." Not sure why the Chinese police were after them, but good lookin' out, Kharitiniya.

Obituary for Kharitinya Afansievna Kozyreva
11 January, 1941
Harbin, China

"The grief-stricken son, daughter-in-law, grandsons, and granddaughters notify friends and acquaintances of the death of their beloved mother and grandmother Kharitina Afanasyevna Kozyreva. The body will be carried from the home at No 23, 7th Street, Zelenyi Bazaar (Green Bazaar), to the Uspenskaya Cemetery Church (Church of the Assumption) today at 12:00 noon. The funeral service will be held at the Uspenskaya Church at 2:00 p.m."

Kharitiniya's last two decades played out in yet another strange land, growing older and more senile while her remaining gaggle of shell-and-culture-shocked Monarchist kids fought amongst themselves, and turned their spoiled, Harbin-born offspring against each other. All while crammed into a tiny shop in a crappy part of town. And with the Chinese police after them. God speed, Kharitiniya! It couldn't have been easy.

Zina and Aleksey Arkhipov, and Orthodox Priests
Circa 1930's
Harbin, China

Second from the left is Kharitiniya's second-youngest daughter, Zinaida Yakovlevna Arkhipova née Kozyreva (aka "Zina"). (Архипова Зинаида Яковлевна). The Charlie Chaplin-looking dude third-from-left is her husband, Aleksey Sergeevich Arkhipov (Алексей Сергеевич Аркипов). Zina was my grandmother's aunt. I never met her; she emigrated to Brazil in the 1950's, and died in 1981. However, having seen her in a few photos, I feel like I know her. You know how you can just tell from pictures? In every snapshot of Zina, I see a similarity in facial expression and body language to closer members of my immediate family. According to Zina's grandson, Jorge, she was a gourmet cook who loved to whip up mouth-watering, Asian-influenced dishes. She even managed a restaurant in São Paulo for a while. I love Zina.

Circa 1932
Harbin, China

I already have tons of snapshots of Zina's sister—my great-grandmother, Stepanida Yakovlevna Mitrofanenko née Kozyreva—taken in the 1950's in Japan and San Francisco. You can read more about her here. So this was a great find. It's Stepanida and Zina—in Harbin, circa 1932—hanging out with three kids. The girl on the far right is Zina's daughter, Vera Alekseyevna Arkhipova. I theorize that the girl in the middle is my grandmother's cousin, Nonna Mikhailovna Kozyreva (Козырева Нонна Михайловна). She later married a man named Georgiy Nikolaevich Sun-Nekrasov (Сун-Некрасов Георгий Николаевич) and moved to Kazakhstan (Сун-Некрасова Нонна Михайловна). The chick on the far left is way too cute to be a member of our family. Must be a neighbor.

Circa 1932
Harbin, China

I think I may know that broad on the far right. I'd recognize that bitchy, Film noir smirk anywhere. It's my grandmother, Natalia Feodosievna Mitrofanenko aka Natalie F. Vasilev. You can read more about her here. She was, by all accounts, Harbin's own first-generation Lauren Bacall by way of Joan Crawford. Later on, Natalie would cement the Crawford reputation by having daughters of her own, and being very Mommie Dearest-like toward them. But I digress.

I presume this photo must also be from around 1932, because Natalie married my grandfather in 1933 and moved to Korea soon thereafter. I heard they only came back to China a few times after that "to buy shoes." Never once was harvesting branches mentioned. What are they carrying? Looks like those plants Finnish people beat themselves with inside saunas. If anyone has the 4-1-1 on what branches the Russian women of Harbin were known to harvest along the railroad tracks, drop us a line. We'd love to hear from you!

Circa 1937
Harbin, China

Featured top-center in this ancient photograph is my Great-Aunt—fabled children's author and scout master, Yelena Aleksandrovna Vasilyeva (Васильева Елена Александровна) aka "Helen Orloff." You can read more about her here. It's rumored that Yelena had a crush on my Great-Grand Uncle Aleksey Arhkipov—and here she is, dramatically throwing her arms around him in this snapshot as if to say, "Yes, it's true! It's all true!" I bet Zina hated her.

Circa 1937
Harbin, China

Here's another photo taken on the same day, and again Yelena is—quite literally—diving between Zina and Aleksey. Sin Vergüenza! I love the look on Zina's face. According to my mom, "I think most women hated my Aunt Helen. In fact, I think I was the only one in our immediate family that liked her. Kids loved her, and men liked her, too."

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Who doesn't love a Russian wedding? Well, I'm not crazy about weddings—Russian, or otherwise—but this is a great collection. The groom isn't Ray Wise; I think Aleksey Arkhipov's brother, Porfiry (Архипов Порфирий Сергеевич) was getting married. Question: After folks got married in a Russian Orthodox church, did they get to keep the crowns?

Russian Orthodox Church
Circa 1930's
Harbin, China

Thank you, Jorge, for these wonderful pictures! I can't wait to see more.

Love to Love Mew, Baby: Cool Kitties in the 1970's Vol. 2

I hate to visit a blog, only to see that the first sentence is, "I've neglected this blog for a while." But, having said that, I've neglected this blog for a while. I think it's because when you deal in family photos, your audience is a little limited. You're, like, "This Ukrainian did this in 1910, and then another random Lithuanian happened in 1920." As Allie, my Millennial friend put it, "Ugh, family pictures? That's boring. Let's eat chicken wings!" 

So with this blog entry, I'm going to try to ensnare viewers with cat photos and 1970's interior design. 

This was my cat, Keeton, sleeping on a Herculon couch next to an authentic Kliban cat pillow.

This is Keeton again, this time sleeping in a sink. Keeton did a lot of sleeping (as cats are wont to do).

This was Alexandra. She'd just gotten spayed, so she had to wear one of those cone things that cats wear after having surgery. I don't remember the orange cat's name. I think it may have been Moogypus.  

The orange cat on the floor was named Amber. You can read more about him here. I wish I still had that desk.

This was Olivier, sitting next to an original, 26 volume Life World Library set. I'd love to have that collection now, so I could read all about Rhodesia and Yugoslavia.

I don't remember who this cat was. It was either a girl cat we had named Madeline, or a boy cat named Napoleon. Either way, I can tell it was in the pre-cable years due to the lack of a box on top of the TV set.

This was Marmaduke. He was a heavy smoker.

I think this cat's name was Hecuba. Check out that wall unit. 

I've got about 700 other vintage cat photos stashed away in a box in the closet. So stay tuned if that's what you're into.

Bells on Cocktail Rings: A Broadmoor Christmas in 1977

I adore Halloween season. Dead leaves, pumpkins, horror films, and free candy are my jam. After that, it's all downhill. I don't care about turkey, and I stopped getting misty-eyed about Christmas when everyone expected me to actually purchase presents for them (as opposed to merely receiving them). These photos hearken back to a more innocent time—when family wasn't a dirty word, and when I was constantly drinking from a bottle that wasn't Jack Daniels.

Note: I'm not actually a drunk. I admit it would've been cool
to be an alcoholic. Maybe I would've been a better writer.

These Christmas snapshots were taken in 1977 at 1776 Sweetwood Drive in Broadmoor, California. They were also—according to the stamp on the back—developed fewer than six days later. That's some serious initiative. I call the stretch between Christmas and New Years "The Week of the Dead," and I'm lucky if I can even find the energy to do laundry, let alone develop prints.

This is a one-and-a-half year-old me, sitting in a chair, wearing some sort of starched, late-1970's toddler sailor suit. That thing must've been scratchy. I have only a few, vague memories of anything pre-Kindergarten—and most of them involve me wearing something that made me look like a Slavic ventriloquist's dummy. But I'm not bitter.

Ahh, the bottle. I continued to "nurse the bottle" throughout my 20's and 30's, make no mistake about it. But I uncharacteristically cut back in my 40's to about 10-15% of my previous boozing ability. Nowadays, a Friday afternoon Happy Hour is what I call a good time. There was no moral or ethical motivation—I just got sick of hangovers, and realized that if I stopped buying full-priced alcohol five days a week, I'd have more money for thrift-store shopping. Is that normal? Who cares.

Here I am, perched on my Aunt Lana's lap. Lana was one of the original Seoul Sisters. What's that draped across the arm of her chair? Lana was always invariably flanked by a herd of desperately loyal Lhasapoo/Pekapoo/Dixiepoo dogs. The key word here is poo. This brood was clearly some sort of Poodle crossbreed. 

Here I am, on the floor, playing with my Uncle David "Scotty" Thomson. He was a mean old Scotsman, and my Aunt Lana's ex-husband. They were long-divorced, but "Scotty" hung out throughout my entire childhood. Eventually he got re-married, settled in the East Bay, and disappeared from sight. Personally, I never really liked the guy. 

Here I am, getting drunk on the floor while my cousin and grandmother get cozy in the background. The girl on the left is my cousin, Rhea. I never knew if she wanted to kiss me or punch me. My grandmother, Natalie F. Vasilev, was more predictable—I could tell whether she wanted to kiss me or punch me based on how much pirozhki dough she'd kneaded that evening.

Svetlana, Tatiana, and Elena Vasilev
Circa 1957

To you and yours, may your Christmas season be bright and unforgiving. And may your memories be plagued by equal parts glorious nostalgia, and ill-advised fantasies of recrimination.