As I child, I was a typical tomboy; fiddle-footed, messy hair, scraped knees and bent glasses. With the energy of Dennis-the-Menace and the curiosity of Nancy Drew, I enjoyed exploring the farthest parts of the boundaries my parents set. Armed with an imagination and yearning for excitement, I often dove into activities all-in, full tilt, with not one ounce of caution. The kind of kid, who on the swing set would go as high as possible and jump, just to feel the thrill of soaring through the air, not thinking of the landing. Sometimes, the outcome of my actions would be what I had hoped for, and other times the result would be a bump, a bruise, or even a hit to the ego.
I was always armed with a barrage of questions. And now, as an adult, I can imagine how exhausting it must have been for my parents and understand their responses. Be it limiting the number of questions I can ask, to shushing me with a ‘we can talk about this later’, to being told to find my own answers. Thankfully, we had encyclopedias and other reference materials at home.
Even as a young child, I had an interest in history. In watching shows like Bonanza, it had me wondering what the wild, wild west was like. Next thing you know, I’m watching spaghetti westerns and reading about gunfighters and outlaws, from Billy the Kid to Butch Cassidy. Imagine my surprise when I found out the old west wasn’t THAT long ago as settlers were homesteading western USA and Canada from the mid-1800s into the early 1930s in some parts. At some point I found out that my grandparents were actual homesteaders, coming from another country to untamed land. Imagine my surprise and excitement!
Both my paternal grandfathers passed away before I was born and my paternal grandmother when I was three. I have only a handful of memories, like flashes of moments, lasting only mere seconds, but with color and sound, some with taste and smell. I was blessed to have eight years with my maternal grandmother, Josie. To this day, I can close my eyes and savor those memories, Mom and Grandma sitting at her kitchen table, my brother and I playing in the living room, fighting over who gets to sit in the blue chair. I remember standing on furniture to get a better look at the black and white photos hanging on the walls in the living room and her bedroom. Over her bed was a black and white photo of a beautiful young woman, with a touch of color to her cheeks and lips - my late Aunt Stella, who passed away at the age of 27.
In the living room, on the wall near Grandma’s bedroom hung a rectangular photo of three men in uniform. I asked questions about them each time I examined the photo – two uncles and my grandpa. To me Grandpa only existed in photos, mostly black and white. Very few color photos that I can recall. This image, the patriarch of my mother’s family, his name carried on through such a large family – 14 children, a slew of grandchildren, and so on. I could recognize features of Grandpa in my mother, aunts, uncles and even cousins. My mom had his brown eyes; as do I, my son and grandson. All I knew about Grandpa is what I overheard the adults shared while sitting around the kitchen table.
The kitchen table, always the place where the adults sat around, regardless of whose house it was we visited. My mom, my aunties’, they’d sit there with a cigarette in hand and a cup of Sanka coffee in front of them and in between them a pack of cigarettes, a butane lighter, large glass ashtray and at times, a deck of cards. Cigarettes and Sanka, a popular combination of the 1970s. Over time, I’d see my older cousins join the aunties’, like a rite of passage into adulthood. We “the children” would gradually creep into the kitchen, sometimes making it far enough to be under the table. When noticed, we’d be shooed out to play in the yard or the living room. I’m not sure what all they talked about but figured it must have been important adult stuff.
As the years went on, the tomboy in me started to settle down and a young woman emerged. My interests started to change. Music, movies, the typical 80s pop culture things. No longer needing glasses and allowed to choose my own hair style and clothes which met my parents’ approval. I entered the phase where I felt like a misfit, restless, lost, misunderstood. I think most kids approaching adulthood experience much the same in varying degrees. For me, I’d compare myself to my family and couldn’t see any similarities; feeling frustration of not knowing where I fit in. Although I had family and friends, and some close friends, I questioned the strength of my relationships, worrying that those bonds could easily break. I craved commonality and connection but felt like an outsider, an imposter. Such huge changes, thoughts and emotions, with little to no knowledge in understanding nor how to articulate what I was experiencing. Little girl lost to a frustrated teen. I listened to the noise around me, and in my head. Insecurities clouded my judgement and affected my decisions.
As I left my teens, and entered into my 20s, I had fallen in love and found myself living provinces away from home. This was the opportunity to live the life I had dreamed about. Together we could build a strong foundation to raise a family. This was where I would find my happiness. Or so I thought. But reality was we were from two different worlds, had two separate sets of values and visions of what life would be like. In time, complacency turned into conflict. Angst lingered in the air. Resentment replaced rationale.
I needed to ignore the noise around me and in my head; dig deep inside. I then found the clarity to focus. My two young sons. They were my world, my purpose, and what grounded me. They deserved a house filled with security and support. They deserved a home filled with calmness, not tension. I made the decision to end the relationship and became a single mother at 24. To do this, I moved back home.
Home is where the heart is. To some, it’s just a phrase; to others, it’s true. We were welcomed with open arms and offered any support needed. Returning to the home where I grew up felt familiar, calming, and safe. As I navigated next steps, my parents were there to listen and support my choices. As an adult, I didn’t need the guidance I once did. They had done their part in instilling the values, the morals and traits I needed to build a life for my children and myself. My parents had provided a foundation built with security, stability, support and unconditional love; and that was exactly what I wanted for my boys. I was able to further my education, start my career without worrying about childcare or financial strain. And my parents enjoyed having them around. The boys filled their once-empty-nest house with activity and filled their hearts with joy.
It was around this time when I realized that I was looking at life through a different lens. One of maturity and experience. Watching my parents with my kids, I could reminisce about my childhood and see the similarities. I would notice how my actions, my parenting was much like theirs. Often my responses to the boys were what my parents had said to me. I also noticed how my relationship with my parents had changed; finding so much more in common than I once thought. It’s rather funny how the journey to figure out who I am and where I belong brought me back to the beginning, home.
Now home and here as an adult, I found that I’d earned my right of passage to join the adults at the kitchen table. I looked around the table at those familiar faces and admired their beauty, their charisma, their fortitude. I could see their cheeks, their smile, their eyes in my reflection of the mirror. As I aged, the more obvious it became.
I loved listening to the stories my mother, my aunts and cousins would share. I found that they too had challenges in their earlier years, some were even similar to mine. Their struggles gave them the strength I had always admired. Drive built from necessity. Empathy derived from experience. Our similarities were more than skin deep. I found a sense of comfort in that.
I didn’t take long to realize that I was no longer lost. I was home. Grounded and surrounded by unconditional love and support. The connection I longed for was always there; little girl lost just couldn’t see it. With a heart filled with gratitude and strong disposition I faced each challenge, built a career, bought our own home and created a good life for us.
I read a quote by Jason Versey which rings oh, so true. “Father time is a giver and a thief and the architect of hope and grief. As grey hair started to appear, peaking through my chestnut locks, and my laugh lines started to deepen, I looked around the table. Until then, I didn’t notice how the once strong, invincible women once sipping Sanka, were now delicate, elderly ladies sharing stories about their ailments and appointments. My time with these marvelous people was limited, with only Father time knowing how long.
With such varied lives and experiences, I wanted to know more about them. What was their story. Where did they get their traits. What did they know about those before them. I wanted to learn about our family history. The faces I see in old photos, the names I read or heard, they were people. Once living, breathing people, each one with their own story. They were my family. A part of me. And this is how my passion for genealogy began.
The desire to learn more about our family highlighted how much I longed for the opportunity to have known my dad’s parents; my maternal grandfather and to have had more time with my Grandma Josie. I remember asking her questions about her past, where she came from and what it was like for her as a child. But as these questions came from a young child, her responses were short, generic, providing little-to no-information. Sometimes when thinking back I wondered if it was that she didn’t want to remember the past. Grandma passed away when I was eight years old, so further opportunity to talk with her was lost. I was, however, fortunate to have other people who may have answers to my never-ending questions - my parents, my aunts, uncles and cousins. What I discovered was it wasn’t always as easy as I hoped. Some responses were questioning why on earth would I want to know about those difficult days; or told the past is the past, leave it there. I even heard differing stories about the same subject. Some didn’t know anything as they moved away; they were too young to remember; or just never thought to ask. But most were willing to help where they could.
While going through the tweens, the teens and the twenties, I’d periodically hear about the “good ol’ days”. Sometimes, it was reminiscing about a particular family member or moment in time, and I’d savor each word. My never-ending genealogy quest began with jotting down information in notebooks or scraps of paper covered in scribbles from an impromptu conversation, and obituaries cut out from newspapers, all kept in a folder. Countless hours spent scouring resources– the Prairie History Room, Archives, Newspapers, Microfilm, Henderson Directories, Immigrant Ships’ Passengers Lists, local history books. Scribbling down notes, photocopying, printing and photos taken. Each item put aside until ‘one day’ when I have time.
In time, my genealogy information outgrew the folder and there was enough to start an actual family tree. To capture it all in a comprehensive format would be a challenge - until the world wide web. The 1990s when the internet was everywhere, information was at my fingertips. Genealogy websites popped up everywhere, Rootsweb, FamilySearch, Cyndi’s list, OurRoots, and of course, Ancestry. That’s where I decided to lay the groundwork and build the Brailean Family Tree.
As I started to enter the information I had gathered, and with the layout, I could clearly see the branches appear. From the time my grandparents came to Canada to the present day, it was obvious that the roots they planted here in Saskatchewan thrived. A family tree which grew so large and to this day continues to grow.
I knew my family immigrated in the early 1900’s to Canada from Bucovina, which was at that time a province in what was called the Austro-Hungarian Empire. I also knew that my grandparents were mostly Romanian and ‘a bit Ukrainian’, so I thought it wouldn’t be too difficult to find information on such unique names. What I found was that there were many variations of each name – first and last. I learned that errors were easily made due to language barriers, penmanship, spelling mistakes and illiteracy. Thankfully, Ancestry and other site searches will give hits on similar names. I can’t even begin to count how many variations there are of my last name, let alone my grandparents.
I remember the excitement when the little leaves started popping up on the tree. With the volume of hits across numerous branches, I found it difficult to focus. Eventually I realized to just focus on one part at a time, the leaves will be there for another day. With so many variations of our names, it would take some time to filter through each hint and verify if it was connected to the tree. Ancestry also was how I connected with some relatives I’ve never known who also were working on their tree. Such wonderful resources, such wonderful connections, such wonderful family.
While working on the tree, I started to look a little closer at the numerous ‘shirttail’ relatives we have. Familiar names which I’ve come across over the years and never realized there was a connection. But when looking at how the prairies were settled, it was done in bloc settlements and ethnic communities. So, of course people who were on ship manifests with my families would be in the same community. Their lives would be entwined through church, school, work and marriages. This discovery helped me feel more of a connection with the Romanian community.
When attempting to dig further into our history, from before immigrating to Canada, the roots of our tree, I hit several roadblocks. One, of course, is geography, coming from a different continent, and secondly, they came from a country which speaks a different language. Some documentation may be archived in national records, metrical records or even church records, but there are other issues like variations of names, multiple languages and locations. With Bucovina once being part of Austria/Hungary, but straddling both Romania and the Ukraine, before and after then, border changes, town and city name changes, etc., some information was lost through time.
This genealogical journey did help me connect with family in the old country, Romania, through social media. On Facebook we found relatives on both my father’s maternal and paternal sides. Enjoying chats and even a video chat had us planning a trip to meet them. This happened in 2015, where my eldest son, my father and I traveled to Romania, arriving in Bucharest, touring through Transylvania, the Carpathian Mountains to what was once called Bucovina. We met family who knew my paternal grandmother and her siblings; family who had photos and correspondence from our family here in Canada – one letter even announced my father’s birth. And another relative traveled from Spain to Romania to meet us. It was such an amazing experience and helped add more branches to our family tree.
The quest to dig into the roots of the family tree continues. The little leaves still pop up on the family tree. Each one represents a life; gives a peek of the past; creates a shadow of their image. Some of their shadows reflect a life well lived, and others, a hard life. Within some shadows lay pain, heartache, secrets. And others, sacrifices, adventures, success. As I add to the tree, I do it with respect and gratitude.
As I sit and watch my grandchildren grow, it has me thinking of those women who sat around the kitchen table. Many of those seats sit empty. Some moved away with their family, and others have gained their wings, reuniting with those who passed before them. My mother, my aunts, uncles, and even a few of my older cousins. With them, they carry their experiences, their knowledge. But the memory of them, their very essence is cherished in my mind and in my heart. As long as Father time allows me, I will sit at the table. I will tell their stories. With the roots established, the tree will continue to grow for the generations to come. May it bring them closer to finding themselves, as it did me.
