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 so he could research his dead relatives. When you're lost in the details, they say you can't see the forest for the trees. It's like my dad was the opposite; he wanted to see the trees, but the damn forest kept getting 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!

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.

Fast, Cheap, & Out of Control: A Russian Orthodox Baptism in 1976

To honor Organized Religion Day, I thought I'd post this fast, cheap, and out-of-control collection of vintage baptism snapshots. They were taken at the Holy Trinity Cathedral, the Russian Orthodox Church on Green & Van Ness in San Francisco, and they can only be described as Instagrams from the Darkside.

These dinky little prints really are holy terrors. I wish I knew who took these lemons so I could properly shame them. A baptism is a big deal. They could've at least spent over $10 on a camera, or called Sears Portrait Studio, or something.

These were my Godparents, Seoul Sister Tatiana "Tanya" Sarsfield née Vasilev (left), and Alexander Sven Zabelin (right). Godparents present a child at baptism, respond on its behalf, and promise to take responsibility for the child's religious education. But Tanya was an atheist, and Alex left a week later for Italy to spend a few years playing gangsters in poliziotteschi flicks, so my subsequent religious education didn't end up being very comprehensive.

Once again, I just have to mention—these pictures really are bad. But there's something kinda cool about them, like my baptism into the Russian Orthodox Church was an Andy Milligan movie. I don't remember who this priest was, but he may as well be Guru the Mad Monk.

I can hear you right now: "You spoiled little child! Who cares that they used an inexpensive, semi-disposable Kodak 110 nightmare camera to commemorate your unholy baptism and make it look like lost stills from a horror film directed by a crazy gay man? You should be grateful that someone cared! Nobody took pictures of my baptism! They drunkenly sketched it with charcoal, then buried the drawings in the backyard to be dug up by raccoons and pissed on!"

In that case, I guess I should be a little more thankful. It is Thanksgiving season after all. What would the Great Pumpkin say?

Afternoon Delight: a 1970's Baby Shower

If one thing drives blog traffic, it's baby showers. Baby showers and cats. And apparently some broads named Lisa and Lena. We get a hundred hits a day from folks Googling Lisa and Lena. Who the hell are they?

Anyway, in late celebration of Labor Day, here's a cool little collection of 1970's baby shower pics. These snapshots were taken in the Spring of 1976 at 5 Coronado Avenue in Daly City, California. People ask why I'm so specific about locations. It's because—okay, if I Googled my address, and found a bunch of old snapshots taken in my house with, like, old Russian ladies, or foxy 70's chicks hanging out on Harvest Gold couches, I'd totally be psyched.

This is Lena, the youngest of the Seoul Sisters. She was expecting a little bundle of joy in what appears to be three-to-four months. I feel like it'd suck to be pregnant in the 1970's; no sonograms, no epidurals. And then after you have the baby, there are no baby monitors—so you'd actually have to stay close and listen for your own baby. What a hassle.

Here's an authentic baby shower cake from 1976. That means, the baby just celebrated his 40th birthday. You know who else had a birthday around the same time?

That's right; the evil monster babies from It Lives Again (1978). I'm not saying there's a connection, I'm just saying it's interesting.

Women love small things. I forget who, but some comedian used to joke about women going nuts over miniatures, and baby booties, and crap like that. They say it's instinctive, like using a Crockpot, or knowing how to stretch your husband's hard-earned dollars at the grocery store.

Far-left is a bored time traveller from 2016, obviously checking Snapchat. The others—being authentic citizens of the 1970's—are paying attention. And smoking. And drinking. Old Timers lament about when we stopped talking and started texting, but what I wanna know is: When did we replace smoking and drinking with texting? That's the real tragedy, there.

If you ate this picture, it'd taste like Shalimar, Woolite, and Virginia Slims.

That's my late cousin, Rory Sarsfield (b. 1965 - d. 2000), stage left, brandishing a stuffed bear. Does anyone remember the episode of Charlie's Angels with, like, a bomb hidden in a Teddy bear? Or was that CHIPs?

And this is the last picture in the collection. Maybe because the party ended soon thereafter—but most likely because the Teddy bear blew up, and this roll was found among the wreckage.

The Moora, the Merrier: a Tribute to Mary Sheveloff

In early celebration of Cousin's Day, I'd like to pay homage to my Great-Aunt Moora. Technically not a cousin, but close enough. Plus, I don't think anyone's paid homage to Moora before. I'm trailblazin' here.

Mariya Alexandrovna Vasilyeva aka Mary Sheveloff aka Moora (left)
Christmas 1979
19 Ramona Avenue, Piedmont, California

Mariya Alexandrovna Vasilyeva (Валькова мария Александровна), aka Moora, was born on January 23, 1913, in Harbin, China. Her parents were Alexander Vasilyev, a Comptroller for the Chinese Eastern Railway, and his wife Vera Vasilyeva née Doroshenko. You can read more about them here. According to Moora, her mother was a direct descendants of Petro Doroshenko.

This is Moora (right) seated alongside her brother, Konstantin Alexandrovich Vasilyev in Harbin in 1913. Not pictured is their sister, my other Great-Aunt, Elena Aleksandrovna Vasilyeva (Валькова Елена Александровна). Elena later hit it big in Harbin when she published a popular Russian children's magazine called Lastochka. We'll get into her more at a later date.

Oleg Voldemar Sheveloff
(b. March 02, 1908 — d. June 13, 1991)
Shanghai, China

On September 15, 1935, Moora married Oleg Voldemar Shevelev (Шевелев Олега Вольдемар)—also known as Baby Russ (Беби Рус)—a Russian light-heavyweight boxing champion from Shanghai, China. Oleg was born on March 02, 1908 in Vladivostok, Primorsky Krai (Primorye), Russia. According to his memoirs—published 20 years after his death—his family stayed in Russia until 1924.

Mikhail Grigoryevich Shevelev

Oleg was the grandson of noted industrialist, activist, and shipping tycoon Mikhail Grigoryevich Shevelev (Шевелев Михаил Григорьевич). Señor Shevelev was born on August 25 1844 in Verkhneudinsk (Верхнеудинске)—now Ulan-Ude (Улан-Удэ), Buryatia, Russia. He went on to start the first Russian shipping company—Shevelev and Co. (Шевелев и Ко)—in the Russian Far East, and you can read his gripping rags-to-riches-to-rags tale here (more boat crashes than a day-long Titanic marathon). They even named a street named after him in Vladevostok, but of course it's some random dirt road with a bunch of crappy houses on it.

Vladimir, his mother Alexandra, and sister Margarita Sheveleva
1890
Vladivostok, Russia

Mikhail married Alexandra Dmitrievna Sinitsyna—the grand-daughter of Kyakhtinsky merchant Povich Sabashnikova (Сабашниковы)—and the couple had three children; Vladimir (1879-1941), Margarita (1884-1936), and Angelina (1893-1980). Vladimir was Oleg's father. Oleg is the guy who married Moora. Sorry, I got off-track. But on January 22, 1922, Angelina married Feodor I. Kichigan (b. September 17, 1896 in Ural, Russia) in Vladevostok. I'm not sure when he died, but Angelina was a widow when she moved to the United States.

I'm interested by the fact that Angelina (not pictured) lived until 1980. I wonder what the Aunt of the Husband of my Great-Aunt (my Great-Great Aunt in-Law?) was doing up through the 1970's.

Anyway, back to Moora. She and Oleg had one son; Sviatoslav Olegovich Shevelev aka "Svetic" aka Steve Oleg Sheveloff (b. 1936). They lived in Shanghai, and then in the Russian settlement in the Philippines, before eventually settling in San Francisco in the early 1950's. The happy couple split shortly thereafter.

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Steve Oleg Sheveloff (far left) and Moora (second from left)
Mid 1950's
San Francisco, California

When the Shevelev family immigrated to the United States, their last name was changed to Sheveloff. And Moora's name was changed to Mary. So she was known legally, I guess, as Mary Sheveloff, but we always called her Moora. And she had a thing for marshmallows.

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Mary Sheveloff aka Moora (left), Lana K. Thomson, and Lena Vasilev
July 1979
19 Ramona Avenue, Piedmont, California

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At some point in my early childhood, Moora decided I loved marshmallows. I didn't not love marshmallows, but they weren't my favorite thing. I was probably more into Bubblicious and

Nestlé Crunch. But—God bless her—whenever I met up with Moora at a Christmas, Easter, or a Namesday Celebration, she presented me a big ol' bag of multi-colored marshmallows. When I was a kid, I always thought Russians lived in the 1800's. Here I was, lusting after McDonald's Happy Meals, and obsessing over Garfield the Cat and Fraggle Rock—and my Russian relatives were always trying to get me excited about, you know, marshmallows, and anthropomorphic rabbits and foxes in lace dresses.

Mary Sheveloff aka Moora (far left), Natalie Vasilev, and Lil Kearney
August 1980
19 Ramona Avenue, Piedmont, California

Here I am (far right) at my 4th Birthday Celebration, and that's Moora, blurry behind her sister-in-law Natalie Vasilev. She'd probably just given me a smashed bag of marshmallows—and that face I'm making indicates I would've been happier with a tin of Strawberry Nesquik and an MCA betamax tape of Jaws 2.

Mary Sheveloff aka Moora
June 1979
19 Ramona Avenue, Piedmont, California

Moora finished her life at the age of 93 on March 25, 2006 in Green Valley, Arizona, surrounded by her son Steve and other loved ones. I miss her marshmallows, and I miss her affinity for antiquated picture books featuring porcupines and hedgehogs drinking tea.

Old Russians could be kinda cute sometimes.