Spades Are What You’d Use to Dig a Grave

 “Whether he likes it or not, a man’s character is stripped at the poker table; if the other players read him better than he does, he has only himself to blame.  Unless he is both able and prepared to see himself as others do, flaws and all, he will be a loser in cards, as in life.” – Anthony Holden

While researching my family history, I can’t help but imagine a sort of inter-family competition between the four main contributors to my ancestry (represented by my four grandparents).  The winner is, as of yet, unclear, but at the moment, I can tell you who the “loser” is: my father’s father’s family – ironically, the family whose name I carry.  It’s not that there’s anything wrong with this family.  In fact, the mystery that makes them so challenging could potentially make them the most interesting in the long run.  Assuming, of course, that I can solve the mystery.

                In the beginning of my project, when I first talked to my grandpa about my goals, he suggested that I contact his brother, Dave.  Apparently, Dave had already done some genealogy work in the past, and so could give me a head start on that part of the family.  Optimistic, I asked him if I could look at his research, and he graciously lent me his notebook of family trees, photocopied documents, and notes.

                Not only were the lists of birth dates, death dates, and spouses extremely helpful in filling in my own family tree, but some of Dave’s notes were both interesting and excellent interview start-off points when I later talked to my grandparents.  For example, my grandpa’s father, who, by all accounts was very strict and more than a little intimidating, moonlighted as a competitive marathon dancer in the 1930s. 

                The real mystery, however, the reason why my work on this particular family line has sort of sputtered to a stop, is my grandpa’s grandpa, Michael Reichert.  Or, at least, I think his name is Michael Reichert.  Sometimes he lists it as Michael Rajchert (the Polish spelling of the name), or Micholy Reichert.  Or Nicholy Reichert.  Or Nicholas Reichert.  He was born in Poland. Or Germany, or Austria, depending on the document.  He even switched around the birth order of his children with some regularity.  All of this has made it extremely difficult to follow his historical paper trail. 

I had thought this nothing more than an unfortunate frustration, until I noticed this note written in Dave’s notebook that I didn’t really understand – something about fleeing Ohio and moving the family to Pennsylvania.  When I mentioned it to my dad, he told me about the old Reichert family rumor – that Great-great grandfather Michael (Micholy, Nicholas, whatever) murdered a man in Youngstown, Ohio over a poker game, and ran from the law, causing the family to move to Washington, Pennsylvania.

Intrigued, I wanted to learn more, but that seems to be as far as the legend goes.  On a long shot, I decided to google unsolved murders in Youngstown, Ohio, thinking there couldn’t be that many.  Unfortunately, it seems that Youngstown has a bit of a Mafia problem, and has (as a sort of cruel irony from my point of view) been nicknamed “Murdertown USA”.

How will I ever solve this mystery???

(P.S., learning about my family’s less-that-excellent history made the fact that my grandpa taught my sister and I to play poker at an early age a little less funny, and a little more concerning.)

How Did that Alligator Get into the Sewer?

“Alligators serenely paddling around in his sewers. The beam of his own flashlight had spotlighted alligators whose length, on the average, was about two feet. Some may have been longer. The colony appeared to have settled contentedly under the very streets of the busiest city in the world.” – Robert Daley, “The World Beneath the City”

                My grandma grew up in New York City, so I guess it was inevitable that at some point the classic sewer alligator legend would come up in stories of her childhood.  However, I wasn’t expecting her alligator story to be quite so… unique.  And almost completely unrelated to the New York sewer system.

                My grandma’s father (Francis Xavier Reilly, from here on out referred to as FXR Sr.)’s sister Marion, called Mickey, married a man named Eugene Clancy, who owned an alligator refining factory.  When I asked what the heck an alligator refining factory did, I was told that it handled the charming procedure of turning an alligator into a handbag.  This is important because, being so involved with alligators, Eugene often became frustrated with New Yorkers who bought baby alligators from Florida (in the 30’s, this was a fairly common occurrence).  Not only did alligators not make very good pets – particularly when you lived in a cramped NYC apartment – but when the family realized this, they had a tendency to flush the alligators down the toilet (this is according to the old urban legend, but I think it’s more likely that they tossed them down the storm drain… I just can’t imagine that an alligator, baby or not, could fit down a toilet). 

                As the legend goes, these alligators survived the trip to the sewer, and continued to grow, having adapted to life living off rats and trash.  Where does my grandma fit into this, you might ask?  Well, to find my grandma’s alligator story, you’d have to leave the big city and travel to my grandma’s family’s summer vacation cabin in Vermont.

                One summer, my grandma’s dad, FXR Sr., managed to procure a baby alligator for his two children (my grandma and her brother, FXR Jr.).  My grandma doesn’t remember whether he traveled to Florida himself, or if a colleague did and brought the alligator back for him.  Anyway, my grandma and her brother named the small reptile “Swishy”, and kept him in a nice box next to the fireplace, where he’d remain warm. 

                Naturally curious about the alligator, my grandma and FXR Jr. spend a good deal of time inspecting and watching Swishy.  Wanting to commemorate the occasion, they decided to take a picture of their new pet.  In those days, they were still using the camera where the flash bulb would burst after each picture.  So, when they leaned in close to snap a picture of Swishy, the flash was quite startling for the baby reptile.  In a panic, he jumped into the air, and landed back in his box, dead.  Literally scared to death.

               R.I.P. , dear Swishy.

(A note about my grandma’s Uncle Eugene.  Apart from being the father of one of my grandma’s favorite cousins, my grandma has many fond memories of Eugene, and therefore decided to honor him with one of her son’s middle names.)