Mortgage Rates

Suburban Chicago, about 1957. Here are the rates the builder proposed for the subdivision in which my childhood home stood.

Thanks to my friend Mary for making this document available to us.

"Luxury Features Galore"

Suburban Chicago, about 1957. The developer of the subdivision in which I grew up lists the modern features of the split-level homes. That Roper wall oven (and those birch cabinets) served our family for 34 years.

Thanks to my friend Mary for making this document available to us.

A Closer Look (Part 75)

Alytus, Lithuania, 1922. This is Mary, the sister of my maternal Grandfather, Jake.

Here's the original post.

Fellow Travelers

Sacred Heart School, Melrose Park, Illinois, Spring 1967. I photograph some more classmates before our trip to the zoo.

Floor Plan

Suburban Chicago, about 1957. Here's the floor plan of my childhood home. I noted earlier that these homes usually housed families consisting of five or six members.

Thanks to my friend Mary for making this document available to me.

The Ashley

My Best Friend grew up in the "Ashley" model of homes in our subdivision.

My Best Friend and I once had a sale in that garage.

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"[G]rease proof asphalt tile." The tile in our kitchen—and in my Best Friend's kitchen—was pink.

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Hmm. I thought the upstairs bath had a double sink.

Thanks to my friend Mary for sending this document to me.

"Luxury living at its best"

My Parents bought their home in a new development. They had hoped to settle in nearby Elmhurst, but they couldn't afford houses in that suburb. Mom and Dad chose the middle of the three models offered for sale, the "Beverly." The house measured about 1,725 square feet. Most "Beverly" homes housed five- to six-person families.

Here are some images from the promotional brochure created for the development:

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I think the definition of "walk-in closets" was a bit different in the 1950s.

Thanks to my friend Mary for sending this document to me. I'll post more from the piece later.

Kumbaya

River Forest, Illinois, September 1975. A cherished high-school friend visit me this week. She took a day off and drove up from the Chicago area. I had seen her twice in the last thirty-eight years. We picked up as though no time had passed. She brought a photo album filled with some touching snapshots. Among them was this one she took at the "Big Sister/Little Sister" picnic the high school hosted at the beginning of our senior year. We attended a mandatory, outdoor Mass during the picnic. My friend correctly remembered that I disliked going to Mass, and she recalled I was annoyed by the 1970s-ish "cool" Mass trappings. I'm (wearing a bandana and) apparently singing compliantly in this image, but my friend spotted a look of discomfort and skepticism in my brow.

Thanks to my friend Mary for making this photo available to us.

Josephine, a Mystery

My Mom's maternal Aunt Dora—whom you may remember as an intriguing figure—sent many family photos to my Mom. Dora stayed in Lithuania after the second Soviet occupation, and she lived in the house my maternal Grandparents had built. In that house, Dora found many snapshots my Mom and her Dad, Jake, had left behind when they fled Lithuania in 1944. Beginning in the late 1950s—after Stalin died—Dora started mailing those photos to my Mom. By now, I've posted most of the images on this blog.

Dora was very good about providing written descriptions on the back of photos, especially when she sent an image from a family plot. So this photo, of a headstone and its family bench, is a mystery because Dora wrote nothing on its back. The inscription tells me that the decedent was Josephine, and Josephine was related to the family of my maternal Grandfather, Jake.

Josephine was 32 years old when she died on November 19, 1927. Was she a sister of Jake and his other siblings, Mary, Cody Jr., Zigmas, and the younger brother who died in a shooting accident? My Mom doesn't recall a Josephine or whether a Josephine was a sibling of Jake's or a cousin. Mom does have a foggy memory—from her childhood—of a relative who delivered a still-born baby and then died after she contracted sepsis.

"Rest in peace, our beloved Josephinette, while you wait for us."

UPDATE: Last year, I wondered, "Whose portrait hangs on that wall?" I now see that it's a portrait of Josephine, and I think it's the same portrait that's on her headstone. The placement of Josephine's portrait in a public part of the house—the dining room—tells me that Josephine probably was the deceased daughter of my Mom's paternal Grandparents, Cody Sr. and Wanda. Josphine was a sister of my paternal Grandfather, Jake.

I was searching that "Customs" post just now for some information I had written last year about Kūčios, and there she was, staring at me from the wall, about an hour after this post published.

Last-Time-Together Reunion

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. My uniformed, maternal Grandfather, Jake, and his brothers, Cody Jr. (left) and the Zigmas (center), stood for this snapshot on what turned out to be the last day the three would be together.

The family knew the visit was significant because folks took a series of photos on that same day.

Death and Funerals

I am not a cultural historian. I have, however, spent most of my life straddling two—and sometimes three—cultures. I've naturally made all sorts of observations. One of the ways in which Lithuanian culture differs from American culture is in its approach to death.

Although funerals are somber occasions in Lithuania, Lithuanians don't find funerals "creepy." They are occasions—passages—deserving documentation. For example, I grew up surrounded by people who took photographs at funerals. There are open-casket, wake snapshots of most of my Grandparents. When my Mom's maternal Aunt, Dora, died in 1992, Mom received a stack of color photos of Dora resting in her coffin, dressed in baby-blue satin and graced with an opulent jabot.

Lithuanians still visit graves and take snapshots of themselves standing next to family headstones.

I've mentioned this pattern of photographing the dead (and buried) to several friends. Some compare the custom to the early creation of death masks. Others speculate that people photographed the dead because of economics: photographs were expensive, and a burial photo might be the only snapshot that would commemorate a person's life. Still others assumed that a death photo was reasonable in an era when photographic technology was primitive: it was difficult for subjects to sit still through a photograph, and a corpse wouldn't even twinge during that prolonged process.

I was sifting these thoughts when I debated whether to publish the photograph of the funeral of my Mom's paternal Grandfather, Cody Sr. I decided to write this post after discussing the subject with my Toronto Cousin. She thought the photo underscores the different ways we approach death.

Consider that a reliable resource for Lithuanian Customs and Traditions lists funerals in the category of "Family Celebrations." It's customary in Lithuania, for instance, to bring children to a funeral. Whereas we "celebrate" Halloween in the States, the Festival of All Saints—November 1—is the real holiday in Europe. My Mom recalls how families gathered in the cemeteries on that day, covering the graves of loved ones with chrysanthemums. People lit candles, and by the end of the day, the cemetery would look like a rock concert awaiting an encore. When I lived in Venice, families traveled to the cemetery island of San Michele to remember the dead. In Venice, the holiday of All Saints consumed nearly a week.

The cemetery in Lithuania is a comfortable place. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, once fell asleep behind the locked gates of one. Upon her exit the next morning, she reported that she felt very comfortable, as though "in her own skin," while there. My Mom and my maternal Grandfather, Jake, spent a number of nights in a mausoleum when they were refugees.

There are two versions of how Cody Sr. died. My Mom's account explains that Cody left his Tauragė home and hid from the advancing Soviet forces in a country location. Because he was a prominent, middle-class government worker , Cody rightly feared that if stayed in Tauragė, he would be deported to Siberia. When the appendicitis struck, Cody's remote, primitive hideaway made it difficult for him to get medical help.

The other account maintains that Cody Sr. did not leave Tauragė. Instead, a competent doctor came to treat Cody. The doctor, a family friend, saw Cody's condition and decided he'd be better off dead than see his country unravel under Communist rule.

The twists between the two narratives make little difference to me. In both versions, Cody Sr. died because of untreated appendicitis, and in both accounts, he failed to receive life-saving surgery because the Soviets had just occupied Lithuania.

And so here is Cody Sr., surrounded by his family, his friends and colleagues, his servants, and the people of Tauragė. His wife, Wanda, clutches her hands in disbelief. She would be dead sixteen weeks later.

Tauragė, Lithuania, October 1940. Churchgoers ready to follow Cody Sr.'s casket to its burial place. My maternal Grandfather, Jake, stands to the left of the grieving Wanda.  Cody's daughter, Mary, is to the right of Wanda, and next to her is her brother, Zigmas. My Mom stands directly behind Mary, partially concealed by Mary's hat.

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Thanks to my Toronto Cousin, and, of course, to my "New" Cousin, for providing the reflections and narratives that made this post possible.

The Things Around You

When we look at old photos, the first things we usually notice are the fashions. We check out the clothing people wore, we recognize hairstyles, and we pay attention to furniture.

Consider the fashion of photography itself. Today it's trendy to do a photoshoot on train tracks. It's cool to "trash the dress." It's adorable to dress dogs as though they were babies.

We know that at the turn of the century, photographers had velvet chairs and tassled props in their studios. Photos taken in those environments have appeared here.

But looking back through our old photos, I see a trend in the family snapshots. People took photographs on front steps, back steps, porches, landings, entry areas, and in doorways.

Was this scene creation a contrived memorialization designed to show that the subjects were homeowners who had arrived at their place in the world? Or was it less conscious, instead illustrating the subjects' attachments to their homes and surroundings?

Tauragė, Lithuania, about 1938. My maternal Grandfather, Jake (in uniform), stands next to his sister, Mary (in the white-fringed shawl), and his Parents, Cody Sr. and Wanda. Mary's Husband and son lean against the railing.

Thanks to my "New" Cousin for making this photo available to me in digital format.

We have a serious side, and we have a comic side (part two).

I wrote here about the joy my Mom's family experienced when Cody Jr. visited from Poland.

That afternoon resulted in a lot of picture taking. Everyone was in top form:

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. The family poses on a swingset. Seated are my maternal Grandmother, Jadzė, and my maternal Grandfather, Jake. Standing, left to right, are Zigmas—without his eye glasses, Mary, and Cody Jr.

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This next photo shatters my belief that Jadzė did not like my Mom's dog, Džekis:

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. The family shows its funny side. Seated are Jake's sister, Mary, and my maternal Grandmother, Jadzė, who craddles Džekis's head. Standing, left to right, are Zigmas—blessing Mary's head, my Mom—giving Jadzė some "rabbit ears," and Cody Jr.—looking as dapper as always.

We have a serious side, and we have a comic side.

One of my Mom's paternal uncles, Cody Jr., was a dapper, worldly man. He studied in Paris. After Cody Jr. finished his university education, he got a job as an engineer in Warsaw. He became an expert in railroad development.

During the early part of World War II, the Soviet Union had occupied part of Poland. The Soviets then swallowed up Lithuania. It was during the Soviet occupation of both Poland and Lithuania that the Soviets returned the old capital, Vilnius, to Lithuanian "control."

Lithuanians had an expression for this: "Vilnius mūsų, o mes Rūsų" ("Vilnius belongs to us, and we belong to the Russians").

With these political shifts, the borders between Lithuania and Poland became easier to cross. In the past, relations between Poland and Lithuania had been tangled and strained, and people could not travel between the two countries.

When the travel restrictions eased, Cody Jr. drove his car to visit the family in Lithuania. Everyone was impressed that Cody Jr. had a vehicle and drove it himself all the way from far, far away, Poland.

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. The family rejoices on the weighty occasion of a visit from Cody Jr. From left, my Mom, her paternal aunt, Mary, and my maternal Grandmother, Jadzė—holding a branch—stand in the front row. In the back stand my Mom's paternal uncles, Zigmas—without his eye glasses!!—and Cody Jr.

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. The family rejoices on the lighthearted occasion of a visit from Cody Jr.

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This was the last time the family saw Cody Jr. Mom later heard from her maternal aunt, Dora, that Cody Jr. died in Poland in the early 1950s, and that there had been a prominent obituary in the Warsaw newspaper because he was a famous engineer.

Cody Jr. never married, and he never had children.

Three Brothers

Kaunas, Lithuania, Summer 1940. My maternal Grandfather, Jake (on the right, in uniform), sits in the yard with his two brothers, Cody Jr. (center) and Zigmas (left).