Wislocki, Wisloski, Weleski

For years, I have researched and gathered information on the “Polish" branch of our paternal line, anchored by our great-grandfather, Lukas Wisloski. We know he left a port in Galicia in the 1890s, arrived in Philadelphia, and ultimately built a life for our family in the neighborhoods of Roxborough and Manayunk. But in the never-ending quest to understand who we are and where we come from, a recent breakthrough has taken us back an entire generation further—uncovering a vivid, unexpected chapter in our family story.

Through newly discovered and translated documents, we have caught our first real glimpse into the lives of Lukas’s parents, our 2x great-grandparents: Nicolaus Wislocki and Barbara Sztekia.

They lived in Hańczowa, a small village nestled deep within the Carpathian Mountains. While Hańczowa is located in modern-day Poland, during their lifetime it was under the harsh rule of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The records reveal that Nicolaus—the son of Joannes Wislocki and Anna Dybyk—married Barbara, the daughter of Michael Sztekia and Maria Pirog.

While the documents officially label them as "Ruthenian peasant farmers," the most fascinating piece of this genealogical puzzle is their true cultural identity: our ancestors were Lemko.

The Lemkos are a distinct East Slavic ethnic subgroup. Because of their unique heritage and geographic location, Nicolaus and Barbara walked between two worlds, speaking both Polish and an East Slavic variant of the language. Faith was central to their community; they belonged to the Greek Catholic Church of the Protection of Our Most Holy Lady, a historic wooden sanctuary that remarkably still stands in Hańczowa today.

Life in the Carpathians was a test of sheer survival. Nicolaus and Barbara lived in a traditional chyża—a long log cabin designed to keep both the family and their livestock under a single roof. Space was scarce and the winters were unforgivingly bitter. Nicolaus and Barbara slept in the cabin's only bed, while the older children slept on wooden benches lined against the perimeter of the room. To keep from freezing, the youngest children slept huddled together on the floor directly in front of the clay stove.

By the 1890s, extreme and systemic poverty gripped Hańczowa, triggering a historic mass migration to the United States. Driven by the hope of a better future, great-grandfather Lukas and his brothers joined this wave, leaving their mountain village behind for the shores of America.

While I look forward to sharing more details about Lukas and his youngest daughter, Julia, at a later date, today we honor Nicolaus and Barbara. Their resilience in the face of poverty and brutal winters paved the very path that brings us here.

As a post note; Lukas’s wife (great grandmother) Eva Dolhanczyk’s family lived in Biala Woda which is two hours west of Hanczowa in the same mountainous area and of Lemko/Ruthenian Heritage. 

St Bridget’s (East Falls)

There is something truly majestic about St. Bridget’s; the deep connection between the church and the school only adds to its enchantment. Located in the East Falls section of Philadelphia, St. Bridget’s celebrated its first mass in 1855. Decades later, in 1888, the original school building opened its doors to the Catholic students of the parish. By 1949, a new school building was opened to accommodate the post-WWII baby boomers.

This parish holds a deep family connection for me. My mother and her siblings attended St. Bridget’s, and I was fortunate enough to locate a fifth-grade class picture from my mother’s class in 1949.

Years later, I entered first grade at St. Bridget’s in 1966. At the time of my enrollment, the first, second, and third grades were still held in the original school building, while the fourth through eighth grades were housed in the new building.

I received the sacraments of Baptism, Holy Communion, and Confirmation at St. Bridget’s. To this day, I still cherish some of my fondest memories of both the church and the school.

Celebrating Lukas.

​

​Happy 3rd birthday to our sweet grandson, Lukas. We love you💙

No Secrets. No Lies. Just Love.

 Grief does not work like a ledger where one joy cancels out a specific pain. It is completely normal to feel two conflicting emotions at the exact same time: deep love and joy for your younger granddaughter, Aubree, alongside a heavy, aching sorrow for Ava.

Each grandchild holds a distinct, irreplaceable space in a grandparent's heart. My grief for Ava is a reflection of the close, beautiful bond we actually shared before she was taken from my life. The mind and heart remember that connection, and a new granddaughter - while wonderful—does not fill the specific void left by a child you already knew, loved, and watched grow for a  time. 

I know feeling this lingering sadness does not mean I love my younger granddaughter any less; it simply means my love for Ava is still alive, and the wound from how she was removed remains deep.

For my older two grandsons, Shaun and Nikolas, Ava was a cherished part of a childhood that was abruptly cut short. I used to call them “my three musketeers” because they were always together.

I do talk to Aubree about her older cousin and show her pictures of a cousin she never met. I hope by talking to Aubree about Ava, it ensures Ava’s place in the family is preserved. I want to ensure Ava isn’t treated like a secret or an erased piece of our family’s history. She is a piece of my heart.

For my younger granddaughter, hearing about Ava does something very important:

• It lets Aubree know she has an older cousin, creating a sense of a larger family identity, even if they haven't met yet.
• It shows her that family members are cherished and remembered, no matter how far away they might be or how long the road has been.

Keeping Ava’s memory alive in the light—rather than leaving it in the dark corners of the family history—is important to me. It honors the bond I had with her and keeps a door open in my heart, and in the family's narrative, for whatever the future may bring. I hope to keep her memory alive and move forward with grace. My only regret is that both my parents died without reconnecting with a great- granddaughter they loved and cherished but knowing they were connected with their grown great-grandsons and their younger great-granddaughter. 

The Face of Alzheimer’s Disease

​The picture of Dad and me at the cemetery 10 months after her death and on her birthday. 

My mother died a little after midnight on July 23, 2024, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease. If you have ever had a front-row seat to someone’s suffering, you know how devastating this illness is. It not only slowly robs a person of their memory, but it eventually takes away their ability to walk, talk, swallow, and regulate both emotions and pain.

We first became aware that something was wrong when our very active and independent mother started forgetting where she parked her car while out shopping. Soon, she began getting lost while driving, ending up in places from which she could not navigate home. A cognitive test at her primary doctor’s office led to an MRI of her brain, a neurologist visit, and the ultimate loss of her driver’s license. She was absolutely devastated when the state revoked her license as a result of that test. Having her wings clipped only increased the anger within an already shrinking brain, and she began to experience severe mood swings.

As the disease progressed, Mom started having difficulty walking, shifting into a heavy side-to-side shuffle. She experienced vivid hallucinations in the middle of the night and would often pace the floors until dawn. One night, she even locked herself in the neighbor’s garage. Dad was losing sleep and becoming profoundly exhausted. My siblings and I took turns helping out during the day, and we hired an agency to provide home care, but it simply did not work out. When our dad became ill himself, we knew we had to do something to keep Mom safe and Dad well. We looked into assisted living facilities that offered memory care, eventually settling on a beautiful place called Crescent Fields in Huntingdon Valley. Once we set up their apartment, Mom and Dad moved into Crescent together in April of 2024.

Fast forward to July 6th—the day I found Mom in her bed and could not wake her up. I summoned the staff, who called the doctor, and an ambulance was dispatched. Mom was taken to Holy Redeemer Hospital, where she remained asleep for the next three days. When she finally woke up, she could no longer walk or swallow. After working closely with a speech therapist, she was able to regain some ability to swallow, but despite physical therapy, she never walked again. She was confused, deeply fearful, and asked me over and over again if she was going to be alright. My mom knew something terrible was happening to her, but she did not know what it was.

Anytime she was touched, she screamed in pain. When the nursing staff came to change her, I sat by her side and attempted to soothe her. Many times, tears just ran down my face as I stood by her bed, because her screams came from a place deeply within her gut. It was heart-wrenching. When the scans came back indicating hydrocephalus, we knew we were in the final stage of the disease. Her care team discussed inserting a shunt, but the surgery was too dangerous for an 86-year-old, and a shunt would not reverse the progression of her Alzheimer’s.

Mom was deteriorating quickly, so hospice was called in to make her final days as comfortable as possible. On Friday, July 19th, Mom was moved over to St. Joseph’s Manor, which was connected to Holy Redeemer Hospital, and her hospice care began. That Saturday, all of her children and grandchildren came to visit. Mom was awake, alert, and truly enjoyed their company. Dad was a constant, loving presence by her side. By Sunday, she lost consciousness, and my siblings and I remained vigilantly at her bedside.

By Monday, we knew she was dying. Dad was utterly exhausted, so we took him home to rest. Michael left later in the evening, leaving Frankie, Marianne, and me to sit through the night. It was a little after midnight when my mom took her last breath. Frankie sat on one side of the bed, and I sat on the other with one hand on the railing and my other hand resting across her chest. Marianne had fallen asleep at the foot of the bed. I felt Mom take her final breath and raised my head from the railing to look at her. Frankie and I looked at each other, and then my mom’s heart stopped beneath my hand, followed by a loud exhale of air from her lungs. Our mother was gone.

We sat in the silence. A quiet peace filled the room. We called the nurse. Sometime later, Frankie went home, while Marianne and I remained with our mom until the funeral home arrived to take her. When we finally left the building in the early morning hours, it was raining. The drive home felt entirely surreal.

My mother had made her wishes well known to us long before she ever became sick. She had a very detailed plan laid out, right down to her funeral mass. She wanted her oldest grandsons—Shaun, Josh, Joe, Justin, Frankie, Danny, Artie, and Greg—to carry her, while the rest of her grandsons and great-grandsons walked directly behind the casket. Together, my parents had 10 grandsons and 7 great-grandsons. The granddaughters handled the readings, while Marianne and I delivered the Words of Remembrance. Mom had even picked out her own music and clothes. The service was beautiful, and Mom was laid to rest peacefully in the family plot, right next to my brother Artie and across from Uncle Gene,