I’m here again this morning, trying to understand the shape of a life that ended in 1918. I’m trying to talk to a man who probably spoke no English but who loved my grandmother and was the father of her first 9 children. Trying to understand what it must have been like to come to a land of plenty and to have so little.
You were in West Virginia in 1911, not long after your son Frank was born in Horni Lomna, my grandmother’s village in Moravia, in January 1911. Did you stay for his birth? Did you hold him by a fire of coal and black spruce and tell him he would cross water with his mother?
I know almost nothing about him.