Stumbling into the Past

Part 1

Historical Serendipity at the Library

My research journey into my Haban roots started in the mid 1980s in a library near Rochester, New York. I was a young mom with a toddler and an infant and, in looking for an indoor diversion for the afternoon, stopped at the Henrietta Public Library after running errands in the area. As we entered the children's section play area, my infant son fell asleep in the stroller and my daughter headed for the puzzles and book cubbies. I sat nearby, trying to decide what I wanted to read with what seemed to me at that season of my life to be a large chunk of free time. I looked at the reference section shelf in back of where I was sitting and saw a set of encyclopedias. Its exact title I no longer remember, but it was some sort of encyclopedia of world religions. Sitting in the library, the word “Haban” now popped into my mind. I had had adult conversations with Grandma and Grandpa and Mom about our relatives in “Europe” over the years, but I still didn't know too much more than I did as a child about their history. My mom was then in the process of writing a book about her mother and father, but the Haban connection only gets a brief mention. Thinking I could find some information about them in the encyclopedia, I grabbed the H volume, looking for the entry for that word. I don't remember finding much information, just a reference to “Anabaptists”, which I then looked up in the corresponding volume. Only two bits of information from that entry impressed me enough to remain in my memory now. One was that Anabaptists was an umbrella term for all those post-Reformation Christians who didn't believe in baptizing infants. The second bit of information was that the Amish and Mennonites were present day descendants of the early Anabaptists.

With toddler still happily occupied in library-land, and infant still asleep in stroller, I ran over to the regular non-fiction section and grabbed a book entitled The Story of the Mennonites and settled into a comfy chair in the children's section. I skimmed through the chapters, looking for some reference to Habans or Czechoslovakia, finally coming upon a chapter about a religious group called the Hutterites who settled in Moravia, a “land” presently absorbed into the eastern half of the Czech Republic, lying on the western border with Slovakia. Grandpa, my mother's father, had come from a town near Moravia, so I started to read about the Hutterites. They were a sect of Anabaptists originally from Austria, but because of religious persecution, found themselves in a constant pattern of fleeing and resettling in towns in various places in eastern Europe. The book described a people who took God seriously, living good and holy lives in community. They were skilled craftsmen and artists, skilled farmers, and were a century ahead of their time in nursing practices, showing advanced ideas in the areas of hygiene and healthy living. Interesting, I thought. I could see many of these same Hutterite characteristics in Grandma and Grandpa...

At this point in my reading, infant son wakes up, toddler is getting bored, so I quickly shelve the book and head out to the car. Once outside the library doors, I have one of those moments I can only describe as a God-thing. I have a thought in my head that I don't expect and, frankly, I don't really want to have. “Go back and check out the book. There is much more in there you need to read.” This library is on the other side of the city from where we live, and taking this book out required (in those days) another trip across town to return it, not to mention the immediate problem of having to go back into the building with an infant and a toddler dangerously close to outstaying their welcome. Besides, I say to the thought in my head, I've read all the important interesting stuff. Still, the compulsion to check out the book is too strong, and so, with kids in tow, I head back inside to retrieve the book and head to the circulation desk.

In all of us there is a hunger, marrow-deep, to know our heritage- to know who we are and where we have come from. - Alex Haley

Tomorrow...

Stumbling into the Past

Part 2

Pullman and Cederle in Print

That Word...

Haban... I was a young child when I first heard the word. My mother, whose parents grew up in the country presently known as Slovakia, was showing me a Slovak folk costume she owned. I was awed by the bright colors and intricate stitching of the articles of clothing. The skirt had tiny, tight pleats, the blouse's long puffed sleeves were embroidered with coils of gold thread. There was a colorful apron over the skirt and an embroidered vest to wear over the blouse. The outfit was topped off by two head pieces – an ornate bonnet and a collection of wide ribbons with more embroidery. My mother explained the bonnet was for a married woman to wear, the ribbons for young single girls. I knew we had a large extended family in what was then Czechoslovakia, and in my little girl mind, I tried to imagine my female relatives doing their daily chores wearing ornate costumes. I asked my mom if the people in Czechoslovakia wore clothes like this all the time. No, she told me, the people in that country wear modern clothing like we do. So, I wanted to know, when did our relatives wear these beautiful outfits? My mom told me that though many people in Czechoslovakia would wear such clothing for historical celebrations, our relatives would be unlikely to do so. A little disappointed, I asked why. "Because they are Haban."

Grandma's mother in Haban garb, circa 1930s

Haban... My mother told me the word meant "God's chosen people". Our relatives, she said, were descended from people who originally came from Germany, were very religious, choosing dark, plain clothing, the women wearing somber dresses and head scarves instead of the embroidered blouses, aprons, bonnets and ribbons. Most of our present day extended family now wore modern clothing, but, my mom said, relatives she visited in Czechoslovakia just before the second world war were still wearing the plain clothing and simple head scarves because, well, they were still Haban. I filed the word away in my child brain, putting it in some Catholic folder in my mind. We – my mom, my brother and I, my grandmother and grandfather – were Catholic, and being Catholic was the only thing I knew, so I naturally assumed that being Haban was being Catholic in some different, special way.

In the fifty plus years since I first heard that word, I've read about and researched extensively the people who were called Haban, my distant and not-so-distant ancestors. And, yes, they were/are Catholic in some different, special way. The focus of this blog will be to tell the story of the Haban, those people who came before me and how they have shaped who I am culturally and spiritually. Some of the entries will be historical, many spiritual and there will be anecdotes about Grandma and Grandpa, my maternal grandparents, both of whom identified as being Haben, each having at least one parent who identified as such. I hope to strive for some degree of historical accuracy in telling this story, but I also hope to make this history interesting and readable.

As in many hereditary-related endeavors, I found bits and pieces of who I am today in who my ancestors were in the past. For those of you reading this who are also descendants of Grandma and Grandpa, I hope you find bits and pieces of yourself as well. After all...Haban R Us...

The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance. - Psalm 16:6 ESV