News for Smallest Leaf: a new website and a new book!

This week I celebrate my eighth anniversary of blogging here at 100 Years in America, Small-leaved Shamrock and A Light that Shines Again. It has been slow-going at times, but I've stuck with it and look forward to many writing years ahead.

I am thrilled today to announce my brand new website and blog at smallestleaf.com. I have decided to pair my interest in genealogy with my other favorite hobby - poetry! - and use my website to share both.

Many of you have known me as a genealogy blogger for many years, but you may not have known of my love for poetry. Tales from my family tree are a regular source of subject matter for my poems, along with world history, nature, faith and the writing life.

I have just announced the upcoming publication of my first collection of poetry: winner of the Eakin Book Award given by the Poetry Society of Texas. You’ll find the title familiar. I feel a bit like the Irish mother who gives her firstborn a name that has been in the family for generations. My poetry collection is entitled (surprise!): Smallest Leaf. You can read more about my new book on the Poetry page at my website.

Thanks to all of you readers who have followed me over the years! I hope you'll stick around for what's to come. Happy reading!

"Crossing": A poetic remembrance, 1909

Crossing
A poetic remembrance, 1909 
by Lisa

A young, new mother and her little son.
A village farm. A loving family.
A husband in a distant unknown land.
Her task: to leave and cross the massive sea.

Sad looks and words and tears from family.
Her mother’s broken heart in deepest prayer.
A bag or two, her child, and they must go.
A world to cross before arrival there.

Across the continent by train to shore,
the port looms large and daunting, and right then
a thought suddenly shakes her halting heart:
she’ll never see her home country again.

With husband waiting on the other side,
she and her young son step off of the land
and onto this new vessel of the sea –
but their place is below, so they descend.

In steerage – tossing, shifting, dark and damp –
below the deck they wait and count the days.
In such close quarters her young son takes ill.
She nurses him and counts the hours and prays.

The days pass slowly, painfully – eighteen –

of engine noise and air too stale to breathe.

And fever! Purgatory on the sea!

Her hope is for the day that they may leave.

Amidst her pain and suffering she finds

more travelers in similar despair.

Some countrymen whose ways and words she knows,

but many foreign tongues are from elsewhere.

She finds herself within a strange new world

and wonders where this voyage will yet lead.

Her strength and faith are rising, falling, while

the ship is tossed and pitched out on the sea.

How glorious – the day she hears the news

that land is near; departure eminent.

But joy is short-lived as this mother learns

the place where her ill baby will be sent.

In pain with measles, he must be confined.

Son and his mother forced to separate.

Her salty tears form oceans near her feet.

All she can do is pray and hope and wait.

Then finally the flood of trials departs

when mother, son – and father! – meet once more.

The sea of separation which they faced

is now behind them as they step ashore.

A young, new mother and her little son.

Her husband by her side in a new land.

This family steps into a new life

holding each other tightly by the hand.

© Lisa / Smallest Leaf Press

Written in memory of the transatlantic journey of twenty-four-year-old Ilona (Bence) Ujlaki and her two-year-old son Ferencz. They traveled by train from Legrad, Hungary to the port of Fiume, Hungary (now Rijeka, Croatia). Their third class (steerage) voyage on the S.S. Carmania to New York harbor lasted for eighteen days: from February 13 to March 2, 1909. While on board the ship, little Ferencz became ill with measles.  After the ship docked at Ellis Island, he was separated from his mother and hospitalized. After being reunited, Ilona and her son were able to meet their husband and father, the elder Ferencz, and begin their new life in New York City. Ilona, later to be known as Helen Ulaky, was my great-grandmother.

This poem has been submitted to the 89th edition of Jasia's Carnival of Genealogy whose topic is Ode to My Family's History featuring family history-focused poems. (Thanks to footnoteMaven for this edition's poster shown here).

Want to read more of my poetry?  Check out my parody of Katharine Lee Bates' America, The Beautiful: 100 Years in America the Beautiful, my limericks honoring my Irish immigrant ancestor entitled A poem for Patrick, or the little ditty I wrote to describe myself as an Irish family history blogger: A limerick for the love of Ireland.

"The waves' rippling song": South Beach, Staten Island

This article originally appeared here at 100 Years in America on June 1, 2008. I've reposted it here in honor of Geography Awareness Week. It is also one of my favorite contributions to the Carnival of Genealogy, whose participants (including myself) have been reminiscing this week.

The move to Staten Island's South Beach in 1921 must have felt a little bit like going home to Frank and Helen Ujlaky. Emigrating from Hungary more than twelve years earlier, they had settled in the Hungarian district of Manhattan, a bustling, busy, crowded part of the city. It was a far cry from their rural home village of Legrad, where the Drava and Mura Rivers flowed past family farms and vineyards.

In 1921, Frank resettled his family across the bay to Staten Island's South Beach. (On the 1941 map below, you can find South Beach just under the easternmost point of Staten Island.)

Frank built his family's new home on Nugent Avenue, putting up the frame and doing much of the work himself.

The house still stands today.

At the time of their move to South Beach in 1921, the children of the Ujlaky family included five siblings. The youngest, a baby brother, would be born into the family later that year. Kas was the first of Helen's children to be born in a hospital. (Helen told her grown daughters years later that she much prefered birthing her babies at home.)

After the family's move to South Beach, Frank's work continued in Manhattan. For many years his long work days included ferry rides across the bay and then an additional part of the commute to Upper Manhattan. According to one of his daughters he once fell asleep on his way home after a long day's work and missed his opportunity to get off the ferry!

Life on Staten Island was good for the Ujlaky family in the decade prior to the Great Depression. They had a new home, Frank had steady work, and the children were growing up. Before the move from Manhattan, Frank had received his Certificate of Naturalization. He (and his wife by default) were officially United States citizens.

In the 1920s, South Beach was still a fairly rural area, although Staten Island had been incorporated into New York City in 1898 along with the other three outlying boroughs of the Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn. (Staten Island was officially the Borough of Richmond until its name was changed to the Borough of Staten Island in 1975.)

The Ujlaky family owned a horse at one point and enjoyed recreation at the nearby beach for many years, including fun at the amusement rides that dotted the island.

Here are a few photos of family and friends enjoying time at the beach a decade later in 1936.

Ethel Ujlaky, Mary Kis and Helene Ujlaky

(I'm not sure of the identity of the young woman at the left)

Ethel Ujlaky with Mary Kis

Staten Island is no longer the rural arm of New York City that it was in the early 20th-century. Much of the world that the Ujlaky children enjoyed has changed.

Construction on the famous Verrazano-Narrows Bridge began in 1959 and was completed in 1964, providing easy access to Manhattan. (Until 1981, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world.) The amusement rides that the Ujlaky children knew no longer flourish at South Beach. There is, however, a current drive to bring them back and restore South Beach to its former self as a center of family fun.

Visitors today may have difficulty visualizing Staten Island the way that Frank and Helen Ujlaky saw it when they first brought their family to live in South Beach back in 1921, or when thirty years earlier, a Staten Island native named William T. Davis wrote a poetic tribute to the island:

In Memory of Staten Island

~ William Thompson Davis, 1892

How pleasant were the green woods
and the fields where we did stray,

Where grey the thorny cactus
and the sunflower spread its ray;

Where we sat beneath the tree
and watched the quiet blue Kill

And the haze softly settling
o'er the distant Jersey hill;

We saw the diamonds sparkle
on the little rippling waves,

Purely did they sparkle
and brightly shone their rays.

I see then now they glitter
though the warm sunshine is gone,

And I hear the gentle murmur -
'tis the waves' rippling song.

On the wall the ivy climbed,
so dark and so green,

And with the bending goldenrod
twined the purple bean.

We saw a chipmunk running
o'er the dead and rustling leaves,

And we heard a constant buzzing -
'twas the buzzing of the bees.

Sang a bunting low and sadly
in the old orchard tree,

He sang so faint and sadly
and his song was sweet to me.

I hear him now a-singing,
though warm sunshine is gone,

And I hear that gentle murmur -
'tis the waves' rippling song.

For more on Staten Island, see The New York Public Library's Staten Island Bibliography 1821-2004.

You might also enjoy viewing the New York Public Library's Digital Image Gallery collection of South Beach, Staten Island postcard images. Included are some great images of local landmarks and fashionable "bathing costumes" of days gone by.

Sources of images:

• Staten Island map, circa 1941, from Rootsweb's A Brief History of Richmond County, Staten Island
• Photos of Nugent Avenue home and Ujlaky family and friends in possession of the author

Other sources:

• "In Memory of Staten Island" from Days Afield on Staten Island by William Thompson Davis, 1892, 3rd printing 1937, reprinted 1994 by Staten Island Institute of Arts & Sciences

"The waves' rippling song": South Beach, Staten Island

The move to Staten Island's South Beach in 1921 must have felt a little bit like going home to Frank and Helen Ujlaky. Emigrating from Hungary more than twelve years earlier, they had settled in the Hungarian district of Manhattan, a bustling, busy, crowded part of the city. It was a far cry from their rural home village of Legrad, where the Drava and Mura Rivers flowed past family farms and vineyards.

In 1921, Frank resettled his family across the bay to Staten Island's South Beach. (On the 1941 map below, you can find South Beach just under the easternmost point of Staten Island.)

Frank built his family's new home on Nugent Avenue, putting up the frame and doing much of the work himself.

The house still stands today.

At the time of their move to South Beach in 1921, the children of the Ujlaky family included five siblings. The youngest, a baby brother, would be born into the family later that year. Kas was the first of Helen's children to be born in a hospital. (Helen told her grown daughters years later that she much prefered birthing her babies at home.)

After the family's move to South Beach, Frank's work continued in Manhattan. For many years his long work days included ferry rides across the bay and then an additional part of the commute to Upper Manhattan. According to one of his daughters he once fell asleep on his way home after a long day's work and missed his opportunity to get off the ferry!

Life on Staten Island was good for the Ujlaky family in the decade prior to the Great Depression. They had a new home, Frank had steady work, and the children were growing up. Before the move from Manhattan, Frank had received his Certificate of Naturalization. He (and his wife by default) were officially United States citizens.

In the 1920s, South Beach was still a fairly rural area, although Staten Island had been incorporated into New York City in 1898 along with the other three outlying boroughs of the Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn. (Staten Island was officially the Borough of Richmond until its name was changed to the Borough of Staten Island in 1975.)

The Ujlaky family owned a horse at one point and enjoyed recreation at the nearby beach for many years, including fun at the amusement rides that dotted the island.

Here are a few photos of family and friends enjoying time at the beach a decade later in 1936.

Ethel Ujlaky, Mary Kis and Helene Ujlaky

(I'm not sure of the identity of the young woman at the left)

Ethel Ujlaky with Mary Kis

Staten Island is no longer the rural arm of New York City that it was in the early 20th-century. Much of the world that the Ujlaky children enjoyed has changed.

Construction on the famous Verrazano-Narrows Bridge began in 1959 and was completed in 1964, providing easy access to Manhattan. (Until 1981, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world.) The amusement rides that the Ujlaky children knew no longer flourish at South Beach. There is, however, a current drive to bring them back and restore South Beach to its former self as a center of family fun.

Visitors today may have difficulty visualizing Staten Island the way that Frank and Helen Ujlaky saw it when they first brought their family to live in South Beach back in 1921, or when thirty years earlier, a Staten Island native named William T. Davis wrote a poetic tribute to the island:

In Memory of Staten Island

~ William Thompson Davis, 1892

How pleasant were the green woods
and the fields where we did stray,

Where grey the thorny cactus
and the sunflower spread its ray;

Where we sat beneath the tree
and watched the quiet blue Kill

And the haze softly settling
o'er the distant Jersey hill;

We saw the diamonds sparkle
on the little rippling waves,

Purely did they sparkle
and brightly shone their rays.

I see then now they glitter
though the warm sunshine is gone,

And I hear the gentle murmur -
'tis the waves' rippling song.

On the wall the ivy climbed,
so dark and so green,

And with the bending goldenrod
twined the purple bean.

We saw a chipmunk running
o'er the dead and rustling leaves,

And we heard a constant buzzing -
'twas the buzzing of the bees.

Sang a bunting low and sadly
in the old orchard tree,

He sang so faint and sadly
and his song was sweet to me.

I hear him now a-singing,
though warm sunshine is gone,

And I hear that gentle murmur -
'tis the waves' rippling song.

For more on Staten Island, see The New York Public Library's Staten Island Bibliography 1821-2004.

You might also enjoy viewing the New York Public Library's Digital Image Gallery collection of South Beach, Staten Island postcard images. Included are some great images of local landmarks and fashionable "bathing costumes" of days gone by.

Sources of images:

• Staten Island map, circa 1941, from Rootsweb's A Brief History of Richmond County, Staten Island
• Photos of Nugent Avenue home and Ujlaky family and friends in possession of the author

Other sources:

• "In Memory of Staten Island" from Days Afield on Staten Island by William Thompson Davis, 1892, 3rd printing 1937, reprinted 1994 by Staten Island Institute of Arts & Sciences

"Thou art thy mother's glass..."

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.

~William Shakespeare, from Sonnet 3

On this Mother's Day, my thoughts dwell on all the generations of mothers in my family. Some I've known in my lifetime. Yet, there are some whose names I've only recently had the privilege of learning. The inspiration of all of "my mothers" has given me strength and meaning in my own role as a mother.

On this Mother's Day, my eyes fall upon the beautiful children who are the focus of my own motherhood. My prayer is that through the gift of so many loving mothers before them, they would grow into adulthood blooming with the fragrant life that God intended them to have.

Happy Mother's Day!

Remembering Mother Magdalena: 1860-1957

The Bridge
~ Dorothy Hilliard Moffatt

The way I walk I see my mother walking,
The feet secure and firm upon the ground.
The way I talk I hear my daughter talking
And hear my mother's echo in the sound.
The way she thought I find myself now thinking,
The generations linking
In a firm continuum of mind.
The bridge of immortality I'm walking,
The voice before me echoing behind.

When I first saw my great-great-grandmother Magdalena's portrait I felt as if I was looking at a face that was strangely familiar. I had known her name and felt a connection to her as I had wondered about her life and how she had raised her children in the late 19th-century in Legrad (then Hungary). Her daughter Ilona had been very close to her own daughters throughout their adulthood, yet as a tender-aged 24-year-old new mother she had left her home country and Magdalena behind. I often wondered about Magdalena's feelings about her daughter's emigration. Had she ever expected to see her again?

Though Magdalena lived to the age of 97, she never once was able to see Ilona again. Her American grandchildren never had the chance to meet her although they and even their children were well into adulthood by the time of her death.

I remember being told that at one point Ilona (now Helen in America) got impatient with her husband Frank's devotion to card-playing and threatened to "go home to her mother" if he didn't give it up. I wonder how many years had passed until Ilona had realized that she would never see her mother again. At least they were able to keep in touch through letters and pictures sent across the Atlantic.

Magdalena's other children, two daughters and a son, remained in Legrad and lived out their lives there. Her daughter Katarina married Juro Simon, her daughter Louisa married Stjepan (Istvan) Vidaković, and her son Adam married a woman named Katarina. By the beginning of the 21st-century, Magdalena and her husband Stjepan (both born in the mid-19th-century) had more than 150 descendants in Croatia and America.

Magdalena passed away in 1957 in Legrad (then Yugoslavia) at the age of 97. I treasure the photos that I have of her funeral and the family that surrounded her as they said their last goodbyes to their beloved mother, Magdalena.


I can see clear family resemblances to many of the people in this photo, but I have not yet been able to identify all of them for certain. If you recognize anyone in the picture, please leave a comment or send an email.

For more poetry by Dorothy Hilliard Moffatt, see Time for Remembrance: Poems and Too Many Apples.

For more photographs that embody a mother's love, visit footnoteMaven's 1st edition of I Smile for the Camera.

Here's to a little Haiku

Before we leave National Poetry Month behind (not poetry itself, mind you) I thought I would share an interesting bit of trivia that I learned recently.

You are probably familiar with the famous Haiku of Japanese origin. Did you know that the countries ranking in order of the "most prolific in Haiku" are:

1. Japan (no surprise here)
2. United States
3. Croatia!

Not only have the Croatian people taken to the appreciation of this type of poetry, but they have produced some wonderful Croatian Haiku.

Take the following award-winner of the prestigious Ehime Prefecture first prize in 1990's National Cultural Festival of Japan, written by Croatian poet Darko Plažanin:

nakon oluje
dječak briše nebo
sa stolova

after the storm
a boy wiping the sky
from the tables

I can't resist good poetry in any form (Haiku or other) and I couldn't help sharing this bit of trivia (and taste of poetry) with you.

For more information about Haiku in Croatia and how it got its start, see Haiku Poetry in Croatia by Darko Žubrinić.

Poetically inspired and wishing to try your own hand at the fun? Visit David McMurray's The Process of Composing Your Own Haiku.

Even better: how about touching on your family's heritage within the form of a Haiku?

That just might be a great way to guard against wordy family histories...

"Keepers of the absent": the homes of our ancestors

Several photographs in my collection that I treasure show my great-aunt Helen (born Ilona Tóth) standing in front of our family's ancestral home in Hungary.

Born in Hungary, but raised in America after emigrating with her family in 1907, Aunt Helen went as an adult in 1975 back to the village of Korlát, Hungary (now in Borsod-Abaúj-Zemplén County) where her mother's family, the Némeths, originated. The notes on the photos and information from another family member indicate that this land was in the Németh family for four generations (two-hundred years). I hope to visit someday soon and take my own photo in front of our family's ancestral home, if it is still standing.

Andriana Škunca, a contemporary Croatian poet, has written a moving poem about a deserted house left to its lonely self. Reading her poem entitled Keeper of the Absent, reminded me of Ivan Curkovic's description of his recent visit to his father's childhood home in the "old country". In Forgotten Photos & Memories Ivan described his first-hand impression of this once-busy household, aging floor boards now creaking and filled with cobwebs.

Here in honor of Poem in Your Pocket Day and with the hope that I may someday soon be able to visit the houses that hold the memories of my ancestors' days, is Andriana Škunca's poem (in both English and Hrvatski):

Keeper of the Absent
by Andriana Škunca
Translated by Mario Suško

The deserted house comes alive again, it opens and gives away everything it kept in solitude. The odour of mildew, the squeaking of a dilapidated floor. The cracks are familiar with everything that got sneaked in. Only from time to time the wall interior, ever crumblier, becomes visible.

The house, a keeper of the absent and their perpetual yearning. Although chipped at the edges, it collects the thought that has built it. The stars concur from air. Silent, they preserve its shape.

Čuvarica odsutnih
by Andriana Škunca
Napuštena kuća iznova oživljuje, otvara se i daruje sve što je čuvala u samoći. Zadah plijesni, škripa dotrajala poda. Napukline pokazuju prisnost sa svime što je uvučeno u njih. Samo se ponekad vidi sve istrošenija unutrašnjost zidova.

Kuća, čuvarica odsutnih i njihova neprestana čežnja. Premda načeta po bridovima, skuplja misao što ju je gradila. Zvijezde se suglašavaju izdaleka. Šutljive, čuvaju njezin oblik.

For more information about Andriana Škunca and her poetry see Croatia - Poetry International Web.

Source: Škunca, Andriana. Predivo sve užIh dana. Zagreb: Društvo hrvatskih knjižEvnika, 2002.

Fighting words

It was the poem that started the revolution - the words that kicked off the War of Independence. Hungarians were declaring their freedom from the Hapsburgs in March 1848, and Hungarian poet Sandor Petôfi provided the words of war - and they were fighting words.

In honor of National Poetry Month and Poem in Your Pocket Day, I thought I'd share with you this famous poem in Hungarian history. Here is an excerpt in both English and Hungarian:

National Song (Excerpt)
by Sandor Petôfi
Translated by Adam Makkai

Rise up, Magyar, the country calls!
It's 'now or never' what fate befalls...
Shall we live as slaves or free men?
That's the question - choose your 'Amen"!
God of Hungarians, we swear unto Thee,
We swear unto Thee - that slaves we shall no longer be!

...

Magyar's name will tell the story
Worthy of our erstwhile glory
we must wash off - fiercely cleansing
Centuries of shame and condensing.
God of Hungarians, we swear unto Thee,
We swear unto Thee - that slaves we shall no longer be!

Where our grave-mounds bulge and huddle
Our grandson will kneel and cuddle,
While in grateful prayer they mention
All our sainted names' ascension.
God of Hungarians, we swear unto Thee,
We swear unto Thee - that slaves we shall no longer be!


Nemzeti dal (Excerpt)
by Sandor Petôfi

Talpra magyar, hí a haza!
Itt az idő, most vagy soha!
Rabok legyünk, vagy szabadok?
Ez a kérdés, válasszatok!
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

...

A magyar név megint szép lesz,
Méltó régi nagy hiréhez;
Mit rákentek a századok,
Lemossuk a gyalázatot!
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk !

Hol sírjaink domborulnak,
Unokáink leborulnak,
És áldó imádság mellett
Mondják el szent neveinket.
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

For more on Hungarian poet Sandor Petôfi and his role in the revolution of 1848 see Comet of the Revolution: Petôfi from A History of Hungarian Literature: From the Earliest Times to the Mid-1970s by Lóránt Czigány or the website of The Museum of Literature Petőfi, Budapest.