Wordless Wednesday - Paula and Ibolyka Schwartz

This is a Wordless Wednesday because alas, I knew far too little about my great-aunt Paula Schwartz and her daughter, Ibolyka (Violet), shown in a photo they sent  to my maternal grandfather Theodore (Teddy) Schwartz (original name "Tivador," as in the inscription) in 1930.

Paula and her sister, Etel Schwartz, never came to the US even though their older brothers (Teddy and Samuel) arrived in the early 1900s and subsequently pooled their money to bring their baby sister Marushka (Mary) Schwartz to New York, as well.

Paula and Etel died in the Holocaust in World War II, along with other siblings. Their father, Herman Schwartz, died some time before the war.

2022 update: I've learned a lot about the family by searching Yad Vashem's testimony and connecting with Ibolyka's daughter, who is my 2d cousin on the Schwartz side.

52 Weeks - You Are What You Eat? Junk Soup and Blintzes!

What my mother (Daisy Schwartz Burk, below) cooked wouldn't have made Auguste Escoffier happy...but she had a few notable dishes.

One was junk soup, so-called because anything she found in the fridge was fair game. She started with chuck steak, cut it up into chunks, browned it with a bit of onion, and then into the giant stock pot it went, along with potatoes, celery, carrots, and whatever was available. My sister remembers cans of mixed vegetables were usually part of the recipe because Mom knew we'd eat those (mostly--NOT lima beans for me). Hours later, with the addition of alphabet pasta to give her three girls a smile, junk soup was ready (and in such quantities that it made welcome encore appearances later in the week).

Another of Mom's specialties was cheese blintzes. Her filling recipe called for a mixture of pot cheese and farmers' cheese, two cheeses that weren't watery, plus an egg, a little sugar, and a pinch of cinnamon. The crepe "leaves" were made from eggs, milk, flour, sugar/salt. After making the leaves one by one, and covering the stack with a dish towel to keep them from drying out, she'd assemble the blintzes with a tablespoon or so of cheese mixture in the center, roll up each blintz, and lightly saute it in butter. Certainly Mom learned to make these from her mother, Hermina Farkas Schwartz, whose apple strudel and home-made chicken soup (with home-made egg noodles, made and cut and dried at home) were legendary in the family.

And then there's chopped liver, another of Mom's specialties. She hand-chopped the chicken livers to the right consistency, after they were sauted with onion and mixed with hard-boiled eggs, plus (I assume, in the early days) schmaltz. Add a little salt and pepper and you're on your way to cholesterol city, but a happy journey it is.

She wasn't a happy baker. In fact, she never baked until her daughters begged her to make us cookies (and let us help in the prep). Then she confessed that the oven didn't work right and getting the landlord to make repairs was a long process. Eventually she succeeded and surprised us when we came home from school one day with some kind of fruit bar she baked from a mix. We loved them! At least I did until I unfortunately glanced at the box and saw I was eating fig bars. Ugh! Never touched them again, but now we were on our way to brownies and other easy-to-bake goodies.

My father, Harold Burk, rarely cooked but in his 60s, he became interested in baking apple pies and every fall, he'd experiment with crust and filling to get the highest pie (sky-high pie, he would say) with the flakiest pastry. If his pie fell in after baking, he'd say something like "next year." I'd enjoy eating Dad's apple pie no matter what it looked like.

52 Weeks of Personal Genealogy & History by Amy Coffin is a series of weekly blogging prompts in 2011 to encourage us to record memories and insights.

52 Weeks of Personal Genealogy - Home is where the elevator is

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My parents Daisy Schwartz Burk and Harold Burk lived their entire lives in New York City apartments and I was brought up here, one of twin apartment buildings just a block from a huge park in the Bronx. Getting into an elevator every day (many times a day) was part of the experience. 


In the summer, when we were playing in front of the building and the Bungalow Bar ice cream truck came around, we'd yell up to my mother to ask for money. She'd tie two dimes in a handkerchief and float it out the living room window to the street below, where we picked up the bundle and bought choco-covered pops. (Mister Softee trucks came later.)


When my mother tried her hand at writing children's stories, she wrote about children going to visit their grandparents and vying to push the elevator button for the right floor . . . exactly how we visited our maternal grandparents (Teddy and Minnie Farkas Schwartz) every other Sunday for dinner. They lived in an apartment building near Tremont Avenue in the Bronx.


My paternal grandmother Henrietta Burk lived just a few apartments away on the same floor where we lived here on Carpenter Avenue in the Bronx. In fact, as I've noted elsewhere in this blog, most of my father's family lived in this apartment building: His older sister Millie Lang lived on the top floor with her husband and my cousin Elliot, his brother Sidney Burk lived with their mother Henrietta on our floor. (Grandfather Isaac Burk had died 7 years before my birth, so I never knew him, but my cousin Ira is named after him.) Only my father's younger sister lived elsewhere, in Queens.


When I was growing up, this part of the northeast Bronx was a "suburban" area, where one-family homes dotted the side streets and apartment buildings dominated many of the corners and avenues. Because the elevated subway line was just a few blocks away, it was an especially convenient location for commuters (like my father) going to work an hour away in Manhattan. 

Sorting Saturday - McClure Shade Shop Card Is Genealogist's Dream

It's sorting Saturday, and I'm looking through the odds and ends in the STEINER file (one of my resolutions is to do more tracing on this branch of my husband's family tree). In the file was this business card. Why would a card for B.L. McClure's Shade Shop be in the Steiner file?

The back of the card holds the key: Brice Larimer McClure (my husband's maternal grandfather) was married to Floyda Mabel Steiner. Here, someone has listed Floyda and her siblings, in birth order, by first name. A dream find for a family genealogist!

The front probably tells me when these notations were made, because someone has thoughtfully listed the current age of each of the siblings. "O.-79" refers to Orville, born 1856. "F.-57" is Floyda, born 1878. My reasoning is that the notes were written in 1935. Since Orville died in 1936, I'm almost positive about the date of the notes being 1935.

Another scrap of paper in the file lists Jacob S. Steiner and Elizabeth, his wife, age 62 years when the note was written. The back of the scrap shows "Joseph Rinehart, 81 years" but I'm not sure who he was, and Margaret Rinehart. Another scrap shows "Edward G. Steiner," born 28 May 1830, died Mar 13, 1880" and this was Floyda's father, definitely, meaning he's my husband's great-grandfather. More investigation is needed to determine the relationship of all the rest of these relatives to each other and to my husband.

As an aside, Brice (known as "The Old Gentleman" in his later years, within the family) ran this shade shop out of his home, which I know because he and Floyda and their daughter, Marian Jane McClure, were living there at the time of the 1930 Census. The house, he told the Census taker, was worth $9,000 and he owned it. Also he had a radio! His occupation was "machinist" in a shop. The shade shop must have been a sideline. During the 1930s, I imagine everyone had a sideline to pick up extra cash.

2022 update: That listing of Steiner siblings, which I posted on my Ancestry tree, has been saved to other people's trees many dozens of times. It's the kind of original information that really helps support other documentation! 

Those Places Thursday: When the NYC Skyline Went Dark in 1965

Browsing through a book on New York Deco, I saw photos of the Chanin Building, located at 122 E. 42nd Street in New York City, opposite Grand Central Station.

Instantly it brought back vivid memories of the Great Northeastern Blackout of November 9-10, 1965--the one that left most of the Northeastern US and Canada in complete darkness overnight and into the next day. As a young teen, I was already home from school on that Tuesday, when the blackout hit during evening rush hour. Electricity was out and there was no way of knowing when it would return. We had battery-powered transistor radios and soon found out what had happened.

My mother was just finishing her work day on the 22nd floor of the Chanin Building when the power went out. Unless she walked down all the way to the street level and then hitched a ride from the middle of Manhattan to the northeast tip of the Bronx, she wasn't going to be able to get home that night. She didn't know then how lucky she was: If she had left 15 minutes earlier and gotten on a subway train for the hour-long ride home, she would have spent the night in a darkened subway tunnel awaiting the return of electricity.

For two teen twins and our younger sister, it was the start of a one-of-a-kind tame adventure. We were home, safe, in our apartment overlooking the Dyre Avenue subway line in the Bronx. In fact, because the outage happened when dusk was fast arriving, we could easily see that there were NO lights on the New York City skyline. This was a most unusual and memorable sight, to say the least.

Still, the phones worked, the gas stove and oven worked, so we could (and did) cook and play games by candle light and using flashlights. But Mom was stuck in the Chanin Building for the duration of the blackout. As it turned out, the lights came on about 13 hours later.

Mom had to wait her turn to call us, since the law office where she worked had only 1 or 2 phone lines. She called as soon as she could, before dinner, to check on us, and reassure us that she was OK. She called again later in the evening and told us that the people in the office had pooled their money to order from a sandwich shop down on street level, paying about $10 each for a sandwich that would have cost $2 or $3 on any other night. Of course the delivery guy had to walk up 22 floors to reach his customers, and then down again, so I understand why the shop raised its prices on blackout night, even though Mom fumed at the price gouging. That night she slept (poorly) on chairs pulled together to make a kind of bed.

At least Mom knew we were responsible teens and she didn't have to worry much about our safety, since we were already home. We kids were in a great mood, calling all our friends to yak endlessly about the blackout and ask whose parents were stuck where. My memory is that we even invited a friend to come over, and at some point she arrived (probably the next morning after the subways started running). I don't think there was school on Wednesday, Nov. 10th, and the day after that was Veteran's Day, which may have helped get things back to normal. 

Reports say that this was a peaceful blackout, with New Yorkers treating each other civilly and offering assistance where possible. My mother was tired but happy to be home when the lights came on and she could ride home on the subway. And I still remember the night of no lights in the New York City skyline. Very spooky.

Camp Days in Cleveland Heights, 1951 - Amanuensis Monday

Just yesterday I came across this photo reminder of my husband Wally Wood's days as a junior counselor at the YMCA camp outside of Cleveland Heights, Ohio. Wally's third from right in front row, next to the guy who looks like a Marine drill sgt (the actual counselor). Wally remembers his parents dropping him off for the week of camp with a "car full of crap" (clothes, equipment, etc).

This is under the heading of "amanuensis" because the campers and the senior counselor signed the back of this photo! Below are all the names, transcribed, as best as I can make out. Looks like the campers were practicing their cursive handwriting skills.

Don MacMillan
Jim Palermo
Shepard Linsday
Ted Gaeblen [maybe?]
Bob Berd
Arthur Krueger
Fred Wilson
Michael Glaser
Marc Konrissen
Doa Leo
Toms Stevens

PS the envelope tells a lot about Stan's Studio Inc., which took the photo. What it says is:

Stan's Studio Inc.

Weddings - Baby Pictures - Portraits

See Our Kiddyland, Cleveland's Largest and Finest

3025 West 25th Street

Cleveland 13, Ohio

Tel. MAIN 1-7066

52 Weeks of Personal Genealogy & History - Bad Car Karma

This week's blog prompt is "cars." Actually, my first vehicle wasn't a car, it was a motorcycle (a Yamaha 50cc stepthrough, which I'm driving in the photo here). 

But that's a story for another day.

 My very first car was a used, powder blue 1969 Mercury Cougar "pony car," designed to compete with the fabulous Mustangs of the era. I didn't have a GT model, shown at top, but all other details were as you see them . The headlight covers rolled up when the lights were switched on, the center console was sporty and elegant, the seats were cushy and comfy, the engine purred. It was a real creampuff. So why don't I have a photo to put here, instead of a photo from "HowStuffWorks" site? 

Well, one night I was working late in my job as a retail store manager in suburban Boston, while a hurricane raged outside. After 9 pm, when I locked up to go home, I looked around the parking lot--my car was nowhere in sight! (It wasn't hard to figure this out, because there were NO cars in the lot at that point.)

I reported the theft, called hubby to get a ride home, and waited for the call that finally came two days later. The cops found my car! Only problem: They fished it out of a lake 200 miles away. (Now ask yourself: Who would steal a car in the middle of a hurricane and drive it into a lake?)

The insurance company totaled it and with the pittance I received, I bought a 1968 1/2 Mustang, another blue pony car. This one was the opposite of a creampuff: There was so much underbody rust that if you picked up the floor mats, you could see the road beneath your feet. Seriously. But the car had 4 wheels and drove well enough, and the price was right ($150 in cash). I drove that car for less than a year when my bad car karma struck again.

One morning, when I was already late for work, I went to unlock the driver-side door and noticed something funny. Instead of wheels, the car was balanced on cement blocks. Overnight, thieves had stolen all the wheels! New wheels would have cost more than the old car, so I sold the car ($50 net) and carpooled with hubby for a while.

My next used car was a 1970-something Dodge Dart, nicknamed the "Green Battleaxe." That car had one of the best engines of all time. It just kept going and going, with more than 140,000 miles on it, no problems at all. The outside was, well, beat up, but that was OK, since I was parking the car on city streets and didn't want to attract attention. The engine would have lasted for another 100,000 miles, easy. That's why bad car karma had to strike.

Getting ready to drive to the shopping center one day, I couldn't find the Green Battleaxe where I'd parked it. I walked round and round the neighborhood, but no car. Finally I came to the reluctant conclusion that once again, my car had been stolen. The cops mentioned how many thieves target Darts for the parts (especially that strong, sturdy engine). Many months later, the Dart was found at the other end of the city, abandoned and (you guessed it) with lots of parts missing. By then the insurance company had long ago settled the claim and all that was left was the paperwork (ugh).

Bad car karma has left me, finally. From 1995 to 2009, my husband and I replaced 13 windshields in our various cars, because of road debris kicking up to crack the glass again and again and again and again. But not lately. Can that good luck last?? 

(UPDATE in 2022: No replaced windshields yet! Little cracks but that's it.)

Treasure Chest Thursday - Baby Book

My husband's baby book has more than just fun facts from his early years--it also has names of relatives! It also has a lock of his hair from his first haircut decades ago :) No photos, but all entries were handwritten by my mother-in-law, and the book is in excellent condition. She even left notes about his formula and pablum.

The entries are easier to read in reality than they look in this scan, and there are lots and lots of names scattered through the pages. This year I'm going to start tracing his Steiner and Traxler lines, and both names are here. So my treasure chest item for today is this baby book. Are there baby books in your treasure chest?

Wordless Wednesday - Seeking Isaac Burk's Family

One of my research priorities this year is to find out more about the family of Harold Burk's father, my paternal grandfather, Isaac Burk (1882?-1943). Above is Harold (my father), when he was in his 20s, looking impossibly young!

2022 update: I've learned a lot about Isaac since then. See his brother's ancestor landing page.

Shopping Saturday - Browsing in the Bronx and Downtown NYC

Living in the Bronx, our big shopping excursion would be to Fordham Road, where chain clothing and shoe stores lined the big street leading to the Grand Concourse and major emporiums like Alexander's (founded by the Farkas family, but not my Farkas family). After shopping, we might visit Krum's for a malted and then walk back to the bus (and transfer to a second bus or the subway for the trip home).

It was really a shopping crossroads and on a busy Saturday, you could always count on meeting someone you knew. (In those days, there were no Sunday shopping hours, so Saturday was THE big day for browsing and buying.) One day, as a teenager, I had emptied my wallet and pockets buying a new sweater and skirt for date night that evening. Although I usually had subway tokens in my penny loafers in case of emergency, there were none that day. I stood at the bus stop and waited for nearly an hour until someone I knew (some adult, but I don't remember who) came by and lent me the 20 cents needed to board and get home! Big borough but small world.

Back to the late, great New York City stores that filled the newspaper ads of my childhood. Our penny loafers came from Best & Co, and lasted for more than a decade. Alas, Best & Co is long gone. For years I would walk past B. Altman at Fifth Avenue and 34th Street, on my way to a job at 31st Street and Sixth Avenue (renamed "Avenue of the Americas" but no self-respecting New Yorker ever called it that, ever). Above is the B. Altman building, which is now a graduate school center of the City University of NY.

The list of once thriving and now defunct NYC stores that I remember seeing (occasionally shopping in) goes on and on: Peck & Peck, Simon's, A & S, Gimbel's, Arnold Constable, Bonwit Teller, May's, S. Klein, Korvette's.