I remember that summer vividly…the matching patriotic swimsuits my brother and I wore, the paper and felt American flags we made at my birthday party, afternoons boating on Lake George with my aunt, uncle, and “Grandma Frisk”, and even the Christmas card my mom designed to commemorate the Bicentennial year.

As America celebrates the 250th anniversary of the United States Declaration of Independence today, I can’t help but reflect on my own family’s journey and the sacrifices my ancestors made so that we could call this country home.

My family is relatively new to America. My father arrived in 1950 at the age of 12. My maternal grandmother, Lydia, arrived in 1922, followed by my grandfather, Vladimir, in 1923. Other family members came in the years that followed, each seeking the same thing: the opportunity to build a new life.

Looking at these photographs from 1976, I’m reminded that while we celebrated 200 years of our nation’s history, my family’s American story was only just beginning. These snapshots preserve more than a childhood birthday; they capture the early chapters of our family’s life in the country that gave them a new beginning

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She was always composed and impeccably put together. She would gently reprimand you if you held your fork incorrectly, misspelled a word in a thank-you note, or let your penmanship become too sloppy.

She wore dresses she had sewn herself, and once you got past the formalities, she had a wonderful sense of humor. Every New Year’s Eve, our family gathered around her large dining room table, with the baby grand piano standing nearby.

As much as I loved her, I never felt we had much in common. Yet one of my favorite memories was sitting across from her at an old rickety card table in her family room, playing a spirited game of Scrabble. She loved words, and she loved crossword puzzles even more!

Before she was “Grandma Frisk,” she was Lydia.

I didn’t truly meet Lydia until I opened her diaries, which she had diligently written as a young girl. Page after page, she recorded not only her remarkable journey from Russia to America, but also the ordinary moments that revealed who she was. Her friendships, fears, hopes, humor, and resilience.

Those diaries introduced me to someone I thought I had known my entire life.

This is why I’m here, writing about family history. Although I’ve been researching my family for over 25 years, I only recently began sharing those discoveries through storytelling. In getting to know Lydia, I learned more about myself than I ever expected. Her story deepened my own understanding of identity, resilience, and the legacy we inherit from those who came before us. Without her courage and perseverance as a young girl, I would not be the woman I am today.

Over the next few posts, I’ll be sharing more of Lydia’s remarkable journey from Russia to America, along with stories hidden within her diaries.

Grandma Frisk (Lydia) with my brother and me circa 1976 or 1977. This photo reminds me of how far Lydia’s journey took her…from a young refugee fleeing the Russian Civil War to an American grandmother visiting the nation’s capital with her grandchildren.

In January, my father-in-law passed away at the age of 86. Then, in April, I lost my father, at age 87. Within just a few months, my kids lost both their grandfathers.

As Father’s Day approached, I found myself thinking not only about my own grief, but also about the loss their grandchildren are experiencing. Yet, alongside the grief, I feel a deep sense of gratitude for the stories they shared, the lives they lived, and the time I was fortunate to spend with them. They both “had a good run,” as my father-in-law would say.

As a genealogist, I feel at peace knowing I took the time to learn my father’s story. I feel as though I gathered nearly everything he remembered about his childhood in Poland (now part of western Ukraine), his five years in a displaced persons camp in Germany after World War II, and his early days as an immigrant building a new life in Chicago.

Recently, I wrote an article for Voices magazine about how genealogy made me a better caregiver. In many ways, it also helped me be a better daughter. Taking time to listen, ask questions, and preserve my dad’s memory has been the biggest gift I will carry forward.

You can read the full article here:

https://beingpatient.com/voices-genealogy-made-me-a-better-caregiver-for-my-father-with-dementia/

My mother and I at my father’s grave. Until the monument is ready, we have placed a temporary wooden cross at his gravesite. This cross was also used for his younger brother, who died exactly six years and one day before my father.