The musings of Sean Paul Murphy: Editor, Producer, Screenwriter, Author. Or, Hollywood -- and beyond -- as seen from an odd little corner of northeast Baltimore, Maryland.
I will be temporarily posting a few chapters of my next book Chapel Street.over the next couple of weeks. I hope you enjoy them.
“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against
the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers
over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of
evil in the heavenly places.”
-->
Ephesians 6:12
Prologue
My Mother
My name is Rick Bakos, and my story
began on September 27, 2011.
I arrived home at St. Helens Street
at midnight. The drafty five-bedroom Victorian house was nearly a hundred years
old. Sheltered by oak trees, it sat on the second highest hill in northeast
Baltimore. You could see everything from the skyscrapers in the Inner Harbor to
the smokestacks of the steel mills at distant Sparrows Point from the upstairs
windows. We moved into the house when I was three years old, which was a
considerable upgrade from my maternal grandparents’ basement. To me, it was a
veritable castle with plenty of nooks and crannies to explore. Now, however,
its size seemed to mock the diminished state of our family.
Lights still illuminated my
mother’s front bedroom as I pulled into the driveway. No voice greeted me when
I stepped inside, but I heard her television playing. I called to her, but she didn’t
answer. I went to the door and gently knocked. Once again, no response.
I announced myself before quietly
opening the door. I didn’t want to wake her up if she was already asleep. In
that case, I would just turn off her lights and television as I frequently did.
Her doctors proscribed a dizzying array of drugs since her battle with lymphoma
began a couple of months earlier. Her nighttime dosage often sent her on a
peaceful night’s sleep, provided her television didn’t wake her back up.
As expected, I saw my mother, Alice
Bakos, lying in bed. Her head was cocked toward her nightstand. Her eyes were
open. I assumed she was awake.
“Hi,” I said.
No response. Nothing. She didn’t
even turn to me. Now I was worried.
I crept forward. A thick comforter
and more blankets than the mild fall night demanded covered her. Her head and
shoulders were exposed. She wore red, plaid flannel pajamas. One of her arms hung
stiffly off the side of the bed. It was motionless. In fact, there was no
motion anywhere. The blankets were not rising and falling with her breath.
Nothing was.
I turned to her brown eyes as I
walked forward. They were wide open, and they appeared dry. Sticky, even. They
didn’t blink. Not once. A little pinpoint somewhere deep in my mind registered
the truth: she was dead. The rest of me couldn’t accept it. My mother was
fighting a losing battle against lymphoma with chemo. I knew that much, but the
doctors assured me she still had months to live. She couldn’t be dead. Not now.
Her mouth was wide open, too.
Crookedly. There was a dry, white substance around her lips. It wasn’t vomit. It
was like she had been foaming at her mouth in her last moments.
Now I was close enough to touch
her. Her neck was exposed. I reached out to check for a pulse, but I couldn’t
bring myself to touch her white skin. I had a sudden, overpowering thought that
it would be deathly cold and that the cold would never leave my fingers. I
hated myself as I pulled back my hand.
What if she was still alive? What
if she was just unconscious?
What could I do anyway? I wasn’t a
doctor.
I had to call nine-one-one.
I took out my cellphone. As I
dialed, my eyes went to the nightstand. All of her yellow pill bottles were on
their sides. My first thought was that she knocked them over while she was
dying, but where were the pills? They should have spilled all over the place,
but I didn’t see a single one. Some the bottles should have been full. I refilled
two of the prescriptions on my way home from work that very evening.
The truth flooded into my brain: she
killed herself.
I dropped my phone as I staggered
backwards out of her bedroom. I couldn’t believe she actually did it. My older
brother Lenny killed himself a year earlier by jumping off a sixth floor
balcony at a hotel in the resort town of Ocean City, Maryland. His death wasn’t
a surprise. He suffered from bipolar disorder and schizophrenia for nearly his
entire adult life. Still, his suicide crushed our family emotionally. My mother
most of all. She was never the same afterwards.
And now she decided to inflict the
same pain on us again herself.
How could she?
I couldn’t go back into her bedroom
and retrieve my cellphone. I went downstairs and called nine-one-one on the ground
line in the kitchen. Afraid they wouldn’t consider it an emergency if I reported
her dead, I told them I thought she was in a coma. Then I called my kid sister
Janet and gave her the news. I dreaded that call. Janet and I were not close. I
resented her decision to escape to college in California, leaving my mother and
me to deal with Lenny. Still, there was no one else left to call her. It was my
responsibility. When I got her, I told Janet that Mom was dead, but I didn’t
mention suicide. I didn’t want to freak her out completely. She was always the
emotional one in the family, and I couldn’t handle that now. Not alone.
Next, I called my girlfriend, Gina
Holt. She rushed over from her comfy downtown apartment, where I had spent the
evening. She arrived after the ambulance, but thankfully before my sister. Gina
was perfect. She stayed glued to my side the entire time, always keeping a supportive
hand on my shoulder, back, or arm. Gina seemed genuinely upset about my
mother’s death, despite the fact that my mom had tried every trick in her
considerable playbook to ruin our relationship.
My sister arrived right before the
paramedics came downstairs to give us the bad news. They also noticed the
bottles. Apparently, when a person dies of natural causes, the paramedics have
you call the funeral home to remove the body. However, since they now suspected
suicide, they were taking my mother to the hospital for an autopsy. Just as I feared,
Janet became hysterical, alternating almost equally between mournful moaning and
angry rants. After they removed my mother’s body, the three of us sat up all
night and drank every ounce of alcohol in the house. Janet left at dawn. I
left, too. I couldn’t stay at the house. I went back with Gina to her
apartment.
I took the week off from work to
take care of the funeral arrangements. Gina took off the week, too. For the
next month, I rarely returned to the family home. For the first time in our nearly
five-year relationship, Gina and I actually lived together. I assumed it was a
preamble to the marriage both Gina and I wanted, but from the beginning, our
life together was marred by vivid nightmares. Each night, I imagined waking up
to find Gina dead beside me. Sometimes, it was present day. Sometimes, it was
in the distant future. It didn’t matter when. The truth was undeniable. If Gina
and I stayed together, the day would come when one of us would awaken to find
the other one dead.
I couldn’t face that prospect. Claiming
I needed space to mourn, I moved out of her apartment and got my own place in a
high-rise in Towson. The dreams stopped, but with them the relationship fizzled
out too. I was heartbroken, but I let it happen anyway. Call me a coward, but I
knew if I stayed alone, I could limit my future pain.
Gina deserved better.
Ironically, my mother won. The
sight of her dead in bed ultimately shattered the relationship she had long
desired to destroy.
Open My Eyes, a film I wrote with Tim Ratajczak for director Gabriel Alfonzo, is now available on Amazon Prime. This is a good thing. The film was initially released by CMD Distribution Inc, a company headed by Byron Jones, one of the original founders of PureFlix. Sadly, having your film released by CMD proved to be the cinematic equivalent of having a bear going into hibernation. Now, our little film has been freed to crawl out of its cave into the sun. If you are so inclined, please check it out. If you like it, please give it a good rating or a kind word.
As a screenwriter, you will be asked to sign many contracts and agreements. I've signed most of them myself. Here's my take on them, but keep in mind, I'm not a lawyer so take my advice with that proverbial grain of salt.
Before we even start I want to remind you to copyright your script with the US Copyright Office and register it with the Writers Guild of America, west. Both of them. Immediately. Before you send it out to anyone. Also, remember, you cannot copyright an idea, only an execution.
The first agreement you'll be asked to sign is usually a production company release. Most credible production companies will ask you to sign a release before they read your script. If you take the time to read the release, and please do, it will seem like you have given up all legal recourse against the company in case they steal your script. Fear not. You haven't. On the bright side, you can always sue, regardless of whether or not you signed the agreement, if they steal your intellectual property. In fact, the signed release will be important evidence that they actually communicated with you about the script. On the negative side, copyright infringement cases are notoriously difficult to win. Bottom line: Sign the agreement. If you are not willing to take that chance, you're in the wrong business.
If you write on assignment, you might be asked to signed a non-disclosure agreement which will prohibit you from discussing the details of the project with outsiders. I can go either way on these agreements. Usually I will quiz the producer about the project to see if I believe the non-disclosure agreement is warranted. If it is, I'll sign it -- depending on the terms. Once my then partner Tim Ratajczak and I were approached about a project. We were familiar with the filmmaker and we would have been happy to work with him. However, he wanted us to sign a particularly onerous non-disclosure agreement. It was ridiculous. Tim and I could be held liable for hundreds of thousands of dollars of damages if we mentioned any detail of the project to anyone even if there was no proven damage. And it was so vaguely-worded that I would be guilty even if I talked in my sleep. Nope. We didn't sign. The project went away.
I have been represented by agents. I never had a signed agreement with any of them. For example, I was represented by the late Stu Robinson at both Weinstein Robinson & Gross and Paradigm. I never had a signed contract with him. When he agreed to represent a script, he would simply send me a letter stating that fact. No terms were specified or defined. The relationship between writers and agents is defined by an agreement between the Writers Guild of America, west, and affiliated agents. The agreement determines the nature of the work and the compensation. There is no real need for any further agreements.
Agency agreement for my script Mr. Inside
I never had a manager, but the relationship between managers and artists is less defined and more freewheeling. They can charge more than agents, or, I suppose, even less (don't count on that.) You will definitely need a contract. Make sure you have an escape clause.
Another document a producer might ask you to sign is an option agreement. These agreements tend to be short and sweet -- lacking the boilerplate legalese you will find in a purchase or employment contract. The agreement will specify the amount paid for the option and the term of the option. The price for the eventual script is usually not included. It is usually noted that the price will be determined in "good faith" at a later date. My advice: Never agree to an option without money. Remember, if you don't put any value on the script neither will the producer. Also, I won't sign an open-ended option which allows the producer to keep automatically renewing the option. I usually give an option for one year for the agreed upon amount, and an additional year for the same amount. Anything after that has to be re-negotiated from scratch.
Do I send these agreements to a lawyer before I sign them? Historically, no, because the real negotiating comes later. However, I have changed my mind for reasons I will explain later.
The final contracts are mostly legal boilerplate with the specific amounts, payment schedule, credits, residuals, rights regarding sequels and ancillary materials and arbitration options plugged in. This is where you need a lawyer. When I worked with Tim Ratajczak, a lawyer friend from his day job would go through the contracts. And, yes, you should get a lawyer as well before you sign a contract. For me, the main problem was never the contract, but what to do after a production company refused to honor the contract.
Here's a little Hollywood horror story for you. I was commissioned to write a script for a producer who shall remain nameless.* He called me and asked if I wanted two gross points, after distribution fee (in this case 10%), instead of my usual five net points. Being no idiot, I said yes. (I have to admit I discussed it with some folks first. It seemed too good to be true.) I wrote the script, they produced the film and it received wide retail release. Walmart, Target, Red Box, Christian book stores, you name it. So far so good, right? Well, keep reading.
Near the end of the first quarter after the release of the film I get a call from the company accountant about something else. Afterwards, I say, hey, I should be getting a check on the recent film soon. The accountant says no, it hadn't broken even yet. I said I had gross points. He said no, I had net points. I said check the contract. He repeated that I had net points. So I sent an email to the partners to report what the accountant had said. I immediately got a call back from the producer. He acknowledged I had gross points, but he wanted to change the terms. He wanted to change the contract from two points after the distribution fee alone to two points after the distribution fee and the freaking P&A! That, my fellow screenwriters, is a rather substantial change. By adding the P&A costs into the equation, I would essentially be reduced to two net points! Not knowing what to say, I told him I would think about it. The truth is I didn't know how to respond. I was speechless. I was already growing cynical, but even I couldn't believe they would do that!
The next day I get another email from the accountant reminding me that I had net points. That was it. I wrote back, copying the partners, saying I wanted my two gross points. Everyone got an email back from the producer saying that, yes, I had indeed been given gross points, but we were negotiating a change. (Glad I kept that email! It will come in handy one day.)
Then the producer called me and said, "Sean, I don't care what I said to you personally or what's written in that contract. We will never pay you those points, and if you keep it up, you're going to have to talk to someone else." By someone else, he meant a lawyer.
You see, when someone refuses to honor a contract, it doesn't matter if Clarence Darrow or Alan Dershowitz or Cato the Elder negotiated the document for you. It all comes down to whether you are willing to sue to enforce it. I have lawyer friends and lawyer relatives, but they all live here on the East Coast. I did not have a West Coast lawyer. Plus, I had to weigh the costs. A lawsuit would be very expensive. I would have to pay the lawyers by the hour. Since I had no idea how much income the film had generated, I had no idea whether the lawsuit would cost me more than I would get back in return. Additionally, even if the film was profitable, I had to assume that a company who would treat me in such an unethical matter would not have honest books. The cards were all stacked against me. I decided not to sue. So I renegotiated the contract. I took my traditional five net points and some upfront cash.
Taking that deal is my second biggest regret in the film business. (The biggest was not signing with CAA back in the 90s, but that's another story.) Now I have an entertainment lawyer I trust. A lawyer who would have been happy to tear into them. He probably would have done it on a contingency, too. Plus, I suspect that company would have settled after the first letter from the lawyer. If not out of sheer shame, than out of fear that they would lose their reputation if stories started appearing in the Hollywood Reporter about how they refused to honor their contracts. Oh, well. What can I say? I made a bad choice, and I have to live with it.
Another reason I regret not taking action is that my acquiescence probably encouraged the company to use similar tactics on other individuals. Somehow I don't think I am the only victim. It's like the whole Harvey Weinstein thing. If people had spoken up earlier, there would have been fewer ruined lives and careers.
Ironically, the film is now in the black. I am being paid on my net points. However, with every quarterly statement, it only takes some simple math to figure out how much I lost due to these underhanded dealings.
So how do you avoid getting into such a mess? First, join the union. Producers are less likely to take advantage of screenwriters in The Writers Guild of America, west. I have always worked non-union, but my goal now is to join the union. I have two scripts under option. I have agreements on both that, if they go into production, they will sign with the union and I will get to join the WGA,w.
Secondly, get a lawyer. And not just your uncle who does wills and divorces. You need a real entertainment lawyer.
A fellow screenwriter, who is about to get offered an option, asked if I really thought she needed a lawyer. I said yes. She asked how much that would cost. I said it could potentially cost her millions if she didn't.
That's my thoughts on contracts, but don't take my advice on anything.
*Don't ask me for the name or even speculate about it. If I wanted to mention it now, I would have done so! It will all come out in my intended tell-all "Christploitation: Confessions of a Movie Missionary" after some ongoing events play out.
Preview my horrifying new novel Chapel Street on Amazon:
I may be a day late and dollar short for mother's day, but I do want to take the time now to celebrate my mother, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, etc. Here are the ones of whom I have pictures.
Here is a picture of my maternal grandmother Rita. She turns 98-years-old this month. We are blessed to still have her! (She subsequently died on 19 October 2018.)
Here's a home movie of her wedding to her second husband Robert Burns Pollock.
MARGARET ANGIE ROBERTSON MURPHY
Here is a high school picture of my paternal grandmother Margaret Angie Robertson Murphy, wife of Paul James Murphy, Sr. Late in life I learned the secret to really getting on her good side. On the day of a family event, you waited until after you knew one of her children had already picked her up and then you called and left a message asking if she needed a ride. You'd get same credit for leaving the message as you did for actually giving her a ride. She lived to be 92-years-old.
Obituary from the Sunpapers, Originally published October 5, 2006:
Margaret R. Murphy, 92, homemaker
Margaret R. Murphy, a homemaker and longtime member of Hamilton Presbyterian Church, died Saturday at the Brightwood nursing home in Lutherville of complications from Alzheimer's disease. She was 92.
She was born Margaret Angie Robertson and raised in Dunmore, Pa. In 1938, she married Paul James Murphy.
The couple moved to Royston Avenue in 1952.
Mr. Murphy, a district manager for the Baltimore Insurance Co., died in 1979.
Mrs. Murphy taught Sunday school at Hamilton Presbyterian Church, where she had been president of the women's association.
"Her major hobby was trying to get us to read the Bible," said a son, Brian R. Murphy of Hamilton.
Mrs. Murphy was a member of Opti-Mrs., the women's auxiliary of the Optimist Club. She also was an avid Scrabble player, family members said.
For the past two years, she was a resident of Quail Run, a Carney assisted-living facility, and had moved to Brightwood several weeks ago.
Services will be held at 11 a.m. today at Leonard J. Ruck Funeral Home, 5305 Harford Road.
Also surviving are three other sons, Paul J. Murphy Jr. of Hampton Roads, Va., Richard T. Murphy of Wilson Point and Kevin E. Murphy of Gardenville; two daughters, Carolyn L. Dabirsiaghi of Glen Arm and Sharon M. Sartor of Willingboro, N.J.; 17 grandchildren; 16 great-grandchildren; and two great-great-grandchildren. Another son, Douglas E. Murphy, died in 2003.
LORETTA G. MCLANE MURPHY
Here is my great-grandmother Loretta G. McLane Murphy, wife of Frank J. Murphy. She was an interesting woman I will probably write an individual blog about. She was the first woman in my family to graduate from college. She was a teacher and also a bit of a poetess. She also married for love against the advice of her domineering older sisters. She died of a sudden heart attack at the age of fifty-one. She was eating lunch and simply feel forward into her tomato soup. Interestingly, her husband died exactly the same way a few years later, falling face forward into a bowl of tomato soup at lunch.
MRS. LORETTA MURPHY DIES OF HEART ATTACK
-----
Wife Of Fire Chief Frank Murphy, Of Dunmore
Fire Department -- Was Former Loretta McLane
Mrs. Loretta McLane Murphy, wife of Fire Chief Frank J. Murphy, died of a heart attack this morning at her home, 802 North Irving avenue, Dunmore. Prior to her marriage, Mrs. Murphy was a teacher in the Lincoln (No. 4) School of Dunmore, and at the time of her death was a member of the Parent-Teacher Association of that school. She was a communicant of St. Mary's Church, Dunmore, and was a member of the Third Order of St. Francis and was active in other parish organizations. She was vice president of the Lackawanna County Ladies' Auxiliary of the Six-County Firemen's Association and took active part in the various activities of this organization for many years.
Besides her husband she leaves the following children: Francis, Paul and Eileen Murphy, also the following sisters and brothers, Maria, Anna, and Mrs. P.J. McLaughlin, of this city; Mrs. Lynn Morrison, Rochester, N.Y.; Mr. Michael McLane, retired Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Railroad conductor, Dunmore; Ambrose McLane, of New York city.
CAROLINA CHRISTINA STARK ROBERTSON
This is my great-grandmother Carolina Christina Stark Robertson. She had a hard childhood. She never went to school. She had to stay home and help her mother raise the younger children. She learned to read with the help of two people, her paperboy and my other great-grandmother Loretta McLane Murphy. Despite the educational assistance, Carolina, a staunch Protestant, certainly did not approve of her daughter dating and later marrying Loretta's Catholic son Paul. Caroline died of a heart attack walking home after tending the grave of her husband Arch Robertson in Dunmore Cemetery in Scranton.
Story from The Scranton Times, October 6, 1948:
DROPS DEAD AFTER VISIT TO SPOUSE'S GRAVESIDE
Mrs. Caroline Robertson's Death Attributed
To Heart Attack By Deputy Coroner
Mrs. Caroline Stark Robertson, 62, who resided with her daughter, Mrs. Paul Murphy, 18 Arnold Avenue, was stricken fatally by a heart attack yesterday afternoon in the 100 block of West Warren Street, Dunmore, immediately after leaving the Dunmore Cemetery where she had visited the grave of her husband.
Dr. Nicholas DeLeo, Dunmore, deputy coroner, attributed death to a heart attack. Lieut. James Samela and Detective Thomas McDonald, Dunmore police, investigated.
Mrs. Robertson was the widow of Arch Robertson who died three years ago. The daughter of the late Jacob and Sophia Farber Stark, she was a member of the Petersburg Presbyterian Church and its Ladies' Aid Society.
Survivors, in addition to her daughter, are a son, Ernest, Stroudsburg; a brother, Jacob Stark, Scranton; a sister, Mrs. Frank Ellis, West Scranton, and five grandchildren.
The funeral will be held Friday morning at 11 o'clock from the Miller Funeral Home, 436 Cedar Avenue. Interment, Dunmore Cemetery.
MARIA ANNA KOSTOHRYZ ROSENBERGER
This is my great-grandmother Maria Anna Kostohryz Rosenberger, the wife of John George Rosenberger. Her most famous quote was the frequently repeated line: "Go sh*t in your hat, George, and wear it." Born and raised in Baltimore of immigrant Bohemian stock, she died of a heart attack in her living room while watching television with the family. No one remembers what show they were watching. Probably Gunsmoke. She liked westerns. Sadly, I have no memory of her. She died a few months after I was born.
Death notice from the April 24th Baltimore News Post:
ROSENBERGER
On April 23, 1961, MARY A (nee Kostohryz) of 3204 Evergreen Avenue, beloved wife of J. George Rosenberger and dear mother Mrs. Rita Pollock, Mrs. Helen Ernst, Norbert and Anthony Rosenberger, and sister of Mrs. Cecilia Ritter. Also survived by five grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren.
Services on Thursday at 8:15 A.M. from CVACH FUNERAL HOME, 900 N. Chester Street, Requiem Mass at St. Wenceslaus Church at 9 A.M. Interment in Garden of Faith Cemetery. Visiting hours 2 to 10 P.M.
ASSUNTA MASTRACCI PROTANI
This is my great-grandmother Assunta Mastracci Protani, wife of Vincenzo Protani. She lived in small town of Arnara, Italy, until my great-grandfather kidnapped her and took her to America. Her, I remember. I was taken to see her when I was a small child. Sadly, the family became estranged and we lost track of her. Man, I wish I could have talked to her as an adult.... She lived until the age of ninety-four in 1983. Here's her homemade spaghetti sauce recipe. Click here.
Death notice from The Sunpapers:
PROTANI
On August 24, 1980, ASSUNTA (SADIE) beloved wife of the late Vincent Protani, devoted mother of Rose Taresco Flowers, Josephine Navarria, Carmella Rinaldi, Roy Protani, Mary McCubbin, Angela Protani and Vincent Protani and the late Frank, Nick and Clara Protani, dear sister of Rosario Mastracci. Also survived by 55 grandchildren, 32 great-grandchildren and nine great-great-grandchildren.
Friends may visit at the Dippel Funeral Home, 7110 Belair road, 3 to 5 and 7 to 9 P.M. Christian wake service Tuesday evening 7:30 P.M. Mass of Christian Burial will be offered Wednesday morning 9 A.M. at St. Anthony's Church. Interment Most Holy Redeemer Cemetery.
MARY JORDAN MCLANE
This is Loretta's mother, my 2nd great-grandmother Mary Jordan McLane, wife of James McLane. She was born in England of Irish descendant and came to America and settled in Scranton as a child. This photo was taken in 1888 after the death of her husband. She lived another forty-one years before dying at the age of eighty-six. When I finally saw a picture of her, I recognized her immediately. Her strong genes gave us the face I long associated with the Murphy family. And she wasn't even a Murphy!
Obituary for Mary Jordan from a Scranton newspaper:
HUNDREDS PAY TRIBUTE TO BELOVED RESIDENT
Body of Mrs. Mary McLane Laid to Rest in St. Mary's Cemetery
Requiem Mass in St. Mary's
The funeral of Mrs. Mary McLane, one of Dunmore's oldest and most beloved residents, was held this morning from the family home, 802 North Irving Avenue, at 8:15 o'clock, and was largely attended.
At 9:30 o'clock in St. Mary's Church, of which Mrs. McLane was a devout communicant, a high solemn mass of requiem was celebrated by Rev. M.E. Loftus; Rev. Charles Gallagher was deacon, and Rev. Charles Carroll was subdeacon. Margaret Haggerty sang the solos of the mass. As a processional she sang "Jesus, I Come To Thee," at the offertory "Panis Angelicus" and as a recessional "Ave Maria."
Interment was in the family plot in St. Mary's Cemetery. The casket bearers were, Andrew J. James and John O'Haro, Thomas Jordan, William F. Grady and P.J. Dempsey.
MARGARET HENNING ROBERTSON
NOT Margaret Henning Robertson...
I can't guarantee it, but, through the process of elimination, I believe this is a photo of my 2nd great-grandmother Margaret Henning Robertson. Although she was Scottish, Margaret was born in Ireland on 4 May 1840, but her family returned to Scotland. Her husband Adam Robertson decided to immigrate to the United States at the height of the Civil War. (So did her father and some of her siblings.) She didn't want to leave Scotland, but Adam said he was going with or without her. She decided to go. According to family lore, it was a long, miserable journey during which they only ate hardtack. She died in Dunmore, Pennsylvania on 30 Augusts 1908.
Death notice from the Scranton Republican, Aug. 30, 1908: (They misspelled her last name.)
ROBINSON - In Scranton, Pa., Aug. 28, 1908, Margaret Robinson, aged 68 years, at 116 Church Street. Funeral Monday at 2 p.m. Burial in Dunmore Cemetery.
SOPHIA CHARLOTTE FARBER STARK
This is Caroline's mother, my 2nd great-grandmother Sophia Charlotte Farber Stark, wife of Jacob Stark. They called Jacob The Butcher of Petersburg -- probably because he was butcher in Petersburg. I never heard anything good about him, but I never heard anything bad about her! She was very active in the Petersburg German Presbyterian Church. She died of gall bladder problems at the age of sixty-two.
MRS. SOPHIA STARK.
Mrs. Sophia C. Stark, aged 62 years, a lifelong resident of East Scranton died yesterday morning at 5 o'clock at her home, 1039 Wheeler avenue, following a long illness. The news of her death comes as a shock to a wife circle of friends. She was a prominent member of the Petersburg German Presbyterian church and had always taken an active part in the affairs of that congregation. She was also a member of the Queen Esther circle and of the Ladies' Aid society. Surviving her are the following children: Frederick, Jacob and Ernest Stark, Mrs. A. Robinson, and Mrs. W.R. Willis; also one brother, Fred Farber, and one sister, Miss Louise Price, all of this city. The funeral will be held tomorrow afternoon with services at the house at 2:30 o'clock. Rev. O.H. Dietrich, pastor of the Petersburg German Presbyterian church, will officiate. Interment will be made in the Petersburg cemetery.
KRISTINA BEDNAR KOSTOHRYZ
This is Mary's mother, my 2nd great-grandmother Kristina Bednar Kostohryz (seated), the wife of Jan Nepom Kostohryz. I wrote a whole blog about her. Read it here: My Ancestors: Kristina Bednar Kostohryz. I am keeping my Bohemian roots alive in my new book "Chapel Street." (Mary Kostohryz Klima, the young girl in the picture, lived on Baltimore's Chapel Street.)
Death notice from The Sunpapers (January 3, 1933):
KOSTOHRYZ -- On January 2, 1933, CHRISTINA, beloved wife of the late John Kostohryz.
Funeral from her late residence, 2207 East Biddle street, on Thursday morning at 8:30. High Mass at St. Wenceslaus Church at 9 o'clock. Interment Holy Redeemer Cemetery.
MARIA KATERINA MASTRACCI
This is Assunta's mother, my 2nd great-grandmother Maria Katerina Fiori, wife of Michele Mastracci. She never took her husband's name. In Italy, women retain their own last names. She lived and died in the village of Arnara in Italy. I think it is pretty cool to have a picture of her!
SOPHIA ELIZABETH ENGEL FARBER
I wouldn't sake my life on it, but after conferring with some cousins, I believe this is Sophia's mother, my 3rd great-grandmother Sophia Elizabeth Engel Farber. She came to America from Germany circa 1852, probably as a result of the turmoil of the revolutions of 1848-1849. She died of the age of sixty-four in 1877 in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
JULIANA PHILIPPINE FUCHS ENGEL
I do know who this woman is. She is the mother of Sophia, my 4th great-grandmother Juliana Philippine Fuchs Engel. She was born in 1793 in Rhineland, Germany and died in 1866 in Scranton, Pennsylvania. I don't know about you, but I think it is amazing to be able to look upon the face of an ancestor born in the 1700s. I bet she's somewhere looking down now, happy to have a 4th grandson celebrating her.
Here's a little song I wrote, and sang with my wife Deborah, to honor our family that went before us:
That will have to be the end of line for now, but I want to thank all of those women for making me the man I am today! If you're interested in how the influences of these women, both visible and invisible, played out in my life, be sure to read my memoir published by TouchPoint Press:
Be sure to check out my novel Chapel Street. It tells the story of a young man straddling the line between sanity and madness while battling a demonic entity that has driven his family members to suicide for generations. It was inspired by an actual haunting my family experienced.
You can buy the Kindle and paperback at Amazon and the Nook, paperback and hardcover at Barnes & Noble.
