The W’s of Walthamstow

Two professors from Bowling Green University taught me an important lesson: don’t crowd two topics into one message. But here I am thinking about freewill vs. determinism, heritage, secrets, and judgement.

Now, my DNA analysis shows the majority of my paternal heritage is concentrated in Southern England with an admixture of Danish, Swedish and French. That’s no surprise, since Southern England was overrun by Vikings and Normans at various times.

It seems that my family may have come from Walthamstow, a section of Essex (although since 1960, a borough of London). However, I know little about these folks… and what I do know gives me pause.

Waltheof, the Anglo Saxon Earl who owned the manor at Walthamstow, joined the Danes in rebellion against William the Conqueror shortly after 1066. His wife Judith, betrayed his intentions to King William I (her uncle) and he was eventually beheaded in 1072. Reportedly, Judith did not care for Waltheof very much.

Walthamstow remained a sleepy agricultural and sheep farming community until the railway was built through the marshes to the village in the mid 1800’s. It then became an industrial hub, known for a variety of manufacturing enterprises, from minting coins to building omnibuses and Swedish electric motors. The first “all-British aeroplane” (the Avro1 ‘Yellow Terror’) was launched from Walthamstow Marsh. Alumni of Walthamstow include William Morris, David Beckham, Alfred Hitchcock – and apparently, my forebears.  

I’m looking at a picture of a smallish balding man and his more substantial wife. Given the shape of his face and nose, I place him as an ancestor: likely, Edwin Wilson, my great grandfather. Folklore says he owned a bicycle manufacturing business in Walthamstow in the late 19^th century. That would be about right: the modern bicycle was developed in Walthamstow, resulting in a craze for the new contraptions beginning about 1885 and culminated in the “bicycle bubble” which collapsed around 1901.

Walthamstow

Edwin had five offspring, including my grandmother Winifred. Winifred is recorded in 1901 at sixteen years of age as marrying a boarder in the Wilson house, George Fields. George – also an employee of Edwin Wilson — signed up for the Royal Navy 8 months later and disappeared for 25 years. In the 1908 census, Winifred marked her status as “spinster”.

That same year, she married Walter Alfred James Cook, a railway porter. For reasons unknown, Edwin did not support the couple’s intent to marry and essentially disowned my grandmother. Was it because she was still married to Fields? Was it something about Walter? This is interesting folklore, as Edwin died three years before Winifred’s marriage to Walter. Walter variously listed his occupations as railway porter, electrical engineer, costing clerk, and packing case carpenter. He joined the Royal Navy in 1917 and was transferred to the Royal Airforce in 1919. I’m guessing that he had a hands-on technical bent. I’m told he could play the piano and apparently was very social. I don’t know, because I never met him. Walter and Winifred had five children and emigrated to America in 1922. He listed his occupation as ‘manager’. The story goes that he secured a job with a company based on his experience making ivory billiard balls. As far as I know, he had no such background.

They named their first-born son Alfred (known as “Boy”); their second son Walter Charles (“Charles” after Charles Smith, grandpa’s half-brother). They also named their oldest daughter, ‘Winifred Jr’, so naming traditions were important. In fact, one of the strongest disagreements I had with my father, was when he insisted that I name our first-born Walter Charles (WC the III and Walter the IV), saying that it was convention to name a son after the grandfather — but too many ‘W’s!

Well, my Nana may have had a roving eye, because, as a consequence, Walter Alfred left her, took Boy, and by 1927 was ‘whereabouts unknown’. Soon after, Boy stole a car and not being a US citizen, was deported and conscripted into the Australian Airforce; he died during WWII.

That left Winifred raising four kids during the depression. Life was difficult and the whole family worked at odd jobs. Nana went out to bars with her second oldest daughter Mary. She made Mary say she was her older sister. Mary drank a lot but was a sweet and warm soul. (I always wondered why Aunt Mary always stocked ginger ale in the fridge; never considering that it was for mixing drinks).  In the late 1940’s Winifred moved in with my father and mother – but it did not last: she tried to beat my pregnant mother with a broomstick and that proved to be the last straw. Dad got her an apartment and I saw her sparingly. I’m told she loved my brother and I – and that seemed genuine. But all I really remember is her love of watching boxing and wrestling on TV on the rare occasions that she babysat.

Now, why have I shared this unflattering narrative? I’ve always viewed myself as the latest issue of a long-running magazine, owing my story to those who came before. Yet these stories make me cringe and I have judged these folks harshly.

I linked up briefly with a long-lost cousin Jorge, who filled me in on his branch of the Wilson family: yet more tales of questionable merit. It seems that Winifred’s older brother (Jorge’s grandfather) emigrated from London to South Africa early in the 20^th century as a railway engineer. He apparently was responsible for a major accident and escaped to South America to avoid possible consequences.

I mean, Come on! As Kate Atkinson would say: When will there be good news? It makes me wonder if I’m cut from the same cloth. My father used say “Scratch an Englishman and you will find a pirate”.

I say, ‘Arrgh, Matey’, who am I to judge!

Freewill or determinism – what do you believe?

 Sitting In Its Lap – Brian Rihlmann from allpoetry.com

let it go
is the standard advice

(from others
with their clenched fists
concealed in pockets)

but outside
my own fingers

wrap thicker ones
scaly and rough

like a father’s hands
they enfold mine
vice-like on the wheel

as i sit in its lap
driving an abandoned backstreet

while feet below
out of sight
work the gas
the brake

No Cowboys and Indians for Me!

Even as a young kid, I was aware of my heritage. By that I mean I knew the nationalities of my parents and figured early on that I was a mutt.  Both my parents were born in America, and all my grandparents emigrated to America in the late 1890’s or early 1900”s.  I knew that my dad was Italian, and my mom was Welsh.  Two significantly different cultural traditions that at times were hard to co-mingle. The Italian side of the family was centered in NYC and the Welsh delegation was centered in coal country in Pennsylvania.  On holidays when the two traditions intermingled it was quite apparent that the two cultures were diametrically opposed to one another.  The incredibly stoic, low key and unemotional Welsh contingent could not understand the loud emotionality of the Italians.  At our dinner table everyone talked over everyone else and in loud voices in order to be heard.  My Welsh grandfather could not understand why everyone was yelling at each other.  They weren’t angry or anything, but it is how they communicate.  The other conflict between the two cultures was how the Italians pushed food on everybody.  “Mangia,” was heard above all else as my father was filling someone’s plate for the third time.  That being said I thrived in all the confusion and was actually comforted by it all.  As an aside, when I got married in 1969, my parents had everyone over their house after the reception for yet another meal.  My dad passed 6 years later in 1975 and while the family was preparing the house for sale and selling off the furniture, there was a ledge that went around the circumference of the table upon which we found compacted Hors d’oeuvres resting peacefully on the ledge and hard as a rock that were served at the dinner after my wedding.  I can just picture my Aunt Fay, unable to politely refuse my father, inconspicuously hiding her
second or third portion on the ledge of the table.  We got a good laugh out of that.

I guess what I mean to express in that long paragraph is that even as a kid I was proud of my two diverse heritages and still am today.  Back in 2006, I had the opportunity to go to both of my grandfathers’ villages. I was more closely associated with the Italian side because we lived amongst the rest of the family in New York City.  During the summers we were off to Pennsylvania.  My Welsh grandfather came from a small little village just north of the English border.  We drove there after having high tea in Bath near the Welsh border.  To my disappointment we arrived in the village and to where my grandfather’s house was to find a Ford Dealership.  The village name was Pwf.  My aunt told me it’ s pronounced sort of like a sneeze.  That was disappointing but we stayed for dinner at a restaurant and attended an Evensong at the local church.  Every night the men’s choir sang, and it was quite a beautiful tradition throughout Wales.  We toured Wales which is quite beautiful especially Northern Wales before heading to Italy.  Our adventure there began in Naples where we rented a car and began exploring.  My Aunt Eleanor told us about her only visit to Italy that occurred when she was 5 and my dad was not quite a year old.  My grandmother always sent money to an orphanage in Naples every year and my aunt told me about her memory of going to the orphanage and getting a tour by the manager of the orphanage. She remembered holding his hand as they toured the building.  When we got there, we found that that man was going through the process of beatification.  He was soon recognized as a saint and known in southern Italy as Papa Longo. My aunt was beside herself when she realized she had held the hand of an actual saint.  From there it was on to Pietrapertosa, the little mountain town in the Dolomites in Basilicata where my family came from.  The trip became very emotional as we drove into the village and found our hotel.  Walking out on the cobble stone streets that my grandfather probably played on brought tears to my eyes.  As soon as they heard my name, we were escorted all over the town to meet the few remaining relatives and of course we had to go to the mausoleum to see the DeFina family Mausoleum.  The land is too rocky to bury people, so they are all interred in Mausoleums. It was an incredible experience!   As in Wales, there was an after-dinner ritual in Italy called the passegiata.  The entire town goes for a stroll, men arm and arm, women chatting with their friends and the children running up behind- a really beautiful tradition cementing the community together. But what does all this have to do with tracing my roots?  I joined Ancestry.com figuring they would find that I was 50% Italian and 50% Welsh.  Not so fast White man!

When a said I knew I was a mutt I had no idea… So, I am 38.8% Italian, 37.6% British/Irish, 4.5% Greek/Balkan, 1.5% Spanish/Portuguese and then a smattering of Broadly Northwestern Europe (whatever that means!) 2.4% Western Asian & North African and….and… .2% Western Asian and Native American.  So, I must have one or two ancestors who crossed the land bridge between Russia and Alaska.  I never expected that, but it might explain why I never liked to play Cowboys and Indians when I was a kid.

Wally and Henry ask the question:  How has that influenced my life or contributed to who I became and how I behave? I suspect that my immediate and grandparent generations had the most impact on who I am and what I became.  I did discover in my grandfather’s village in Italy that all of my relatives there were teachers.  Not only that but a cousin, 14 times removed (my great grandfather, Rocco DeFina and her great, great grandfather were brothers) who took us around the area was a teacher and then opened an agriturismo (Bed and Breakfast) right in the village.  Coincidence?  Perhaps or perhaps preordained!  My mom’s sister was a high school English teacher, and my grandfather was the president of the Mahanoy City, PA school board……more coincidences?

I am considering doing the Ancestry process again just to see if it comes back the same.  I am proud of who I am but also curious.  Is that pride just a natural feeling or were all of my ancestors proud.  They were certainly adventurous to make such huge life decisions to emigrate.  I do not share that adventurous spirit!  But the entire search is fascinating. When I started this search, I discovered that my Italian grandfather was one of 7 children. My dad only knew of five.  Come to find out Rocco DeFina had seven children, Guiseppi, Maria, Antonio (my grandfather), Sebastiani, Vincenzo, Guiseppi and Maria.  It was not uncommon in Italy back in the mid 1800’s for parents to name later children with the same names as earlier children who died at young ages. I also discovered that Rocco DeFina was a symphonic Violinist and toured the US with an Italian Orchestra sometime in the mid 1850’s, did not like the United States and returned home.  Then every single one of his children emigrated to America to follow their dreams.  I guess the story isn’t over yet!

Considering the Role of Ancestors in My Life

Wal’s description of his family ancestry and detailed family folklore generated an interesting conversation at our last Zoom meeting.  During that time and in Wal’s subsequent follow up email, several questions evolved related to the purpose of his post, what – if anything – do I owe my forebears? – are we truly able to exercise free will or are we governed by determinism? and – who are we to judge those who came before us, or should we judge them at all?

Inspired by George and Wal’s treasure of DNA data, I recently spit in a bottle and sent if off for analysis.  As of this moment, it won’t arrive for another 2-4 weeks so I must choose another approach regarding my genetic background and family history.  Soon I’ll have more information to contribute to this ongoing conversation.  However, a void I can no longer fill, are the stories handed down from past and surviving relatives answering the who, what, where, and why that Wal and George seem to have in relative abundance.  My family was small, disconnected, and prone to taking stories and secrets to the grave.  For my part, I didn’t ask many questions when I had the chance as the busyness of the present moment always seemed more important than seeking out stories of the past.  Today, when I have the time and interest, it’s too late.  And, for my children and grandchildren who are furiously (and successfully!) dealing with the demands of the present, I’m hopeful that somewhere woven into the now over 100 posts we’ve written, there will be answers to the questions they may have when the tugs of the present give way to the questions of the past.

I wish my mom were here with me now as I sit on the patio, listening to the birds, feeling a gentle breeze, my bare feet resting against Duke’s warm fur as he sits under the table as I type this rejoinder.  This time, not to ask all those questions I’ve garnered over the years, but to just sit beside me and to enjoy all these things that make me happy.  Because, you see, these are the things that made her happiest.

Regarding any allegiance to those who came before us, we at least owe them a thank you for our being here.  At most, we can choose to carry forward their beliefs, teachings, and behaviors that helped mold us into the parts of who we are that we admire.  Despite family folklore, we don’t really know what they were thinking or what motivated them to do what they did.  What we can do is take the apparent knowledge we have and use it to both understand what possibly influences us as well as what we seek to do differently because we don’t necessarily like the story outcome.  I honor my mother’s parents as they came from Austria and Romania, worked hard, and led respectful, caring lives.  I honor my father’s parents (although I never met them) for giving me a father.  My father escaped with his brother from Mussolini’s Italy in the late 1930’s to America.  Before my father’s parents died in an internment camp, they were apparently wealthy as they owned a large shoe factory together and his mother made her living as a doctor (called a woman healer at the time).  Whether they were honest and hard working or not, I don’t know.  My father, after he came to the US held a number of high-end jobs often ending in issues with the companies and often with the law.  Eventually, there was an arrest warrant for him in the state of NY so he fled to Texas and never returned.  He abandoned his family and made only excuses for it when I tracked him down and met with him – 6 months before he died.  He was smart, charming, elusive, controlling, and self-absorbed.  And while I inherited some of those traits, some I accepted without self-question and others I chose to change.  Perhaps I am a better person today because of him, perhaps not.

And in answer to the question of free will vs determinism, I say both are acting on us, often simultaneously.  I’m aware that I have similar traits and perhaps ambitions to those of my ancestors that influence my actions and yet I am able to amend or diminish or augment those that I deem unacceptable as they currently exist.  Of course, the bump in this opinion is, what if I’m not aware of those traits that I’ve inherited and thus, unknowing they exist, offers me no opportunity to use free will to change them?  Hmmm…

Finally, what is the purpose or role of judging our ancestors?  What if we compare them to ourselves and, if we believe in free will, find ourselves to be better?  Or, if we seem to pale in comparison to our past relatives, are we any less, based on the challenges we face today vs yesteryear?  If we can find motivation to better ourselves because of our ancestors, all the better.  After all, isn’t any motivation used for betterment, of value?  Otherwise, why allow judgement to confuse us by adding yet another layer of information (true, false, or in-between) to cloud our already exhausted minds as we seek to be content with our lives.

There is no king who has not had a slave among his ancestors, and no slave who has not had a king among his.

Helen Keller