A Return to the Soil, Part 2

My trip west began with a brief stop in Indianapolis. I stayed the night at the home of friends of a friend who graciously opened their doors to me even though we had never met and I was only there to crash on their couch.  They were in the middle of hosting a casual diner party, celebrating somebody’s birthday, yet they gave me a dinner plate, a glass of wine, and a seat at the table. Many of my journeys throughout Europe were managed this way, depending upon the kindness of strangers, but I had never before tried that approach here in the U.S. Then again, I didn’t have any connections on which to rely east of the Sierras and west of the Smokies. After this, I had no plan of how far I’d drive each day or where I’d stay at night.

I got an early start the next morning, figuring I had better take advantage of my enthusiastic energy before the body aches derived from the endless driving had a chance to set in. A stop at the gas station, and I was off. Next point of interest was St. Louis- “Gateway To The West!” Little did I know about the mind-numbing, vast, open prairie that awaited me beyond the gates of Missouri. I don’t recall having a road map. The directions were quite simple- take I70 until Denver, then north on I25, then west again on I80. That would carry me over the Sierras and back onto familiar terrain.

I had contemplated taking the southern route, but there was something significantly nostalgic about the north. It was my first cross-country trip and as I was no stranger to traveling alone, the solitary nature would give me a chance to experience this grand crossing in a manner akin to my ancestors who first set their gaze to the west. Would I experience even a fraction of the awe presented by the great frontier? Had modern America grown so much that the great sense of expanse was lost, replaced by urban sprawl and encroaching town homes? Would I encounter the kind of inspiration that gave the promise of a better tomorrow?

As I plodded along in my little white Jeep Cherokee, pass the mesmerizing cornfields, through vacant plateaus, along stretches of highway as lonesome as an empty heart- I was reminded not so much of the men who made this passage, with their virile strength and determination, but rather the women. I thought about their endurance, their ability to fight the quiet fight within. They weren’t just mothers and wives, but ranchers, homemakers, teachers, spiritual leaders. They were the cornerstones to whom all turned for strength, and the guiding hand that gently turned our cheeks outward, toward an independent vision for ourselves. Nor was it the Irish bloodline that came to mind, but rather the Swiss and Slavic. Together, they created the tenacious fighter that had propped up the recognizable Gleason name for generations.  

There was my great-grandmother, Katarina Mukavec, who made her way here from a tiny remote village situated on the Slovenian hillside near the Kolpa River, the southern border to Croatia. As the story goes, Katarina left her little village when she was in her early twenties, motivated by sheer boredom. Not being the first-born girl endowed with a handsome dowry by which to attract a decent husband, my great-grandmother decided to take her chances and make her way to America. She was joined by a girl friend from the same village and a gentlemen escort whose sole charge was to ensure that the young women found their way to their departing port without getting caught in the snares of the white slave trafficking trade to North Africa. He delivered them safely to La Havre, France, where they boarded the ship, La Provence. Not able to afford a first or even second-class ticket, the girls set sail across the great Atlantic in the crowded and dismal conditions of third class “steerage,” bound for Ellis Island.         

Not long after sailing into New York’s harbor, Katarina met and married a Croatian draft-dodger who escaped fighting against his fellow countrymen on behalf of the Austian-Hungarian army. His name was John Prebilich. The couple moved to Calumet, Michigan, where John became both a copper miner and a member of the miner’s union. After nine months of union strikes and escaping the great 1913 Christmas Eve Massacre at Italian Hall, claiming the lives of fourteen union miners and fifty-nine of their children, John and Katarina packed up their children and continue westward. They finally made it to Sonoma County and settled in a small community on the outskirts of Sebastopol, just south on Route 116, still vaguely remembered as “Cunningham.” Old-timers refer to it as “ichy-ville” because of all the Slavic families who had migrated and settled there together, who’s sons famed the Analy High School football team: Madronich, Barich….Prebilich.

Then there was my great-great grandmother, Francis Fenk of Sarnen, Switzerland, who passed through this same “Gateway To The West.” Her husband, Melchorir Kiser had left her and their children in 1883 to follow his brothers to a small town in California called Petaluma. The brothers relied upon the trade with which they were all well versed and promptly entered the dairy business. Once established, Melchorir sent for his family, asking my great-grandmother to board ship and brave the frontier alone with their four children in toe. Francis landed in New York with Grace (my great-grandmother), Caroline, and a set of boy/girl twins. No one remembers the names of the twins for they were rarely ever spoken of. It was in Winnemucca, Nevada, after weeks of crossing the Great Plains in a covered wagon that Francis met the continental divide with two of her children struck by influenza. By the time she finally reached her long-awaited husband in Petaluma, she brought with her the news of having buried their twins along the way. 

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For me, this journey home is more than a return to a familiar place, more than a rediscovery of how beautiful Sonoma County is, more than a choice. It is not an avocation stemmed from some enlightenment gained from reading a book, nor a conscientious desire to occupy my time in a re-designed lifestyle, a kind of penance after having exhausted my time in some other soul-sucking enterprise, a grand hobby backed by the windfall profits of a successful IPO. My story is one of heritage, like the original breed bloodlines we now seek to preserve. It’s a modern day Grapes of Wrath. There is duty and obligation, discovery and revelation; there are villains and saints, fraud and good fortune… there are stakes that are not so much high as they are deeply penetrating, a desperate urgency for self-preservation. My story is one greater than me. It extends over a century before me, and bares the burden of a century to come. It is told alongside families like mine whose ancestors first set foot upon these coastal hills, the original sustainable organic ranchers and farmers whose names fill the pages of Honoria R. P. Tuomey’s encyclopedic History of Sonoma County. Some days I don’t think we’ll make it- some days I’m reminded of the hope of tomorrow. This is why my story is not one to be told, but rather, one to be followed. My story is one in the making…