I was baptized in the Catholic Church but am non-observant. Still, I spent enough time in the Church that the phrase "light a candle" can only, to me, mean the Catholic practice of lighting of a small candle to symbolize the intention of one's prayer.
My father was Catholic, hence my baptism. His parents were very Catholic. As it turns out, his paternal grandfather, Alfred Feltz, was not Catholic and his paternal grandmother, Minnie, was Catholic only because she had been adopted by a devoutly Catholic couple. It's not a happy story. But my father's mother, Helen, was the product of MUCH Catholicism, so my focus this week is on her parents; although they were from very different backgrounds, they were brought together by the Catholic Church.
My father's family is from Monroe, Michigan, a small town on Lake Erie, about halfway between Detroit and Toledo. Before Monroe, however, there was Frenchtown, which still exists as an unincorporated township with an amazingly rich history. No flies on you, I'm sure you've already guessed it was settled by the French, coming by way of Canada. I find it odd that, while we still know the names of Columbus' ships, history is unclear on just how many voyages Samuel de Champlain made between France and North America -- something between 2 and 3 dozen -- founding Quebec in the midst of his travel.
His settlement efforts also introduced the Catholic Church to what was then, rather unoriginally, called New France, but after the region was conquered by the British and everyone was, er, encouraged to convert to the Protestant Church of England, Catholics moved south toward the United States and what they hoped would finally be religious freedom (apparently, the jury is still out on that one). French missionaries had already visited the area south of Detroit, naming the waterway that runs through Monroe "River Aux Raisin" because of the many native grapes, something French colonists loved to see. The French-Canadians actually bothered to obtain permission from the Potawatomi Indians to settle along what is now called the River Raisin. In 1788, the Catholic parish of St. Antoine in Frenchtown became the second church in the area that would become the state of Michigan.
My grandmother Helen's mother was Myrtle Marguerite St. Peter. Her ancestors had come to Quebec from France around 1640. They were fur trappers and traders, experts at navigating inland waterways, and called the 'Muskrat French' after the prolific rodents they ate and wore. When I lived in Monroe, muskrat dinners were still a staple during Lent because, after the War of 1812 and the disastrous (for the US) battle of Frenchtown, starving residents had successfully petitioned the church to include muskrat as a permitted meat on Fridays. The Archbishop of Detroit finally revoked this permission in 1987 (buzzkill!) I inherited a muskrat coat and never encountered a temperature cold enough to faze it, although, at 30+ pounds, it was the bane of coat check hangers throughout eastern Iowa.
The French-Canadians were often illiterate but the presence of Champlain's Catholic priests meant births, marriages and deaths were faithfully recorded, an amazing trove that has survived to modern times. As a result, we know the branches on Myrtle's family tree include names like Drouillard, Campeau, Peletier, Brunelle and Dumas. Myrtle's family spoke fluent French -- or at least the distinctive regional patois version -- as well as English. Her twelve brothers and sisters had names like "Laurentius," "Lucia," and "Franciscus." Myrtle was a very petite girl, but passionate; strong emotion was part of life in the St. Peter household.
St. Antoine's was re-named, now dedicated to Saint Mary of the Immaculate Conception. By the time Myrtle's birth was recorded there in 1881, both the church and the St. Peter homestead had been absorbed into the village of Monroe, the new county seat that sprawled across much of what had been Frenchtown. By June of 1900, Myrtle had completed two years at St. Mary's Academy, a remarkable institution founded by the Sister Servants of the Order based on the outrageous notion that young women should be educated, and was "at home" with her family in a big house on the west side of the River Raisin, not far from St. Mary's Church.
Immigrants from Germany, fleeing revolution and hardship, began arriving in southeast Michigan in the 1840s. Most were Lutherans, but some were Catholic, and many of those gravitated toward the thriving Catholic parish in Monroe. A German-speaking priest offered Mass out of St. Mary's until 1852 when the German-speaking congregation dedicated a new church to St. Michael the Archangel. George Paul Sturn's father and maternal grandparents had all been born in Germany. Born in 1878, George was the fourth of the thirteen Sturn children baptized at St. Michael's. Both German and English were spoken at home, and his family tree included surnames like Weber, Göpfrich, Bechtold and Obertshauser. A cerebral and measured approach to life were emphasized in the Sturn household. His father and maternal grandfather were both well-established in the retail and grocery trades in Monroe, and George finished school at St. Michael's and graduated from college before going to work as a bookkeeper for one of his father's many business interests. In 1900, he lived with his parents in a big house on the east side of the River Raisin, not far from St. Michael's Church.
I wish I knew how the analytical German boy and the mercurial French-Canadian girl became a couple, but I don't. Perhaps it was St. Mary's that brought them together. Two of George's sisters, Loretta and Mary, took vows with the Order, and his father, Bernard, donated an almost life-sized marble sculpture of Mary cradling her crucified Son to the school. George was 24 and Myrtle was 21 when they married on October 21, 1902 at St. Mary's. By 1910, Myrtle's parents had moved to a more rural Frenchtown neighborhood, and George and Myrtle had purchased their former house on West Noble Avenue. That's where their daughter Helen (my grandmother) was born in 1904, and their son, Jamie, in 1910. I expect they wished for more children; I expect the long gap between the two involved much heartache for them. Like her mother, Helen was a tiny baby, a tiny girl, a petite young woman. Jamie was a bouncing baby, a mischievous boy, a strapping young man.
From the photographs passed down to me, the house on West Noble frequently hosted both Sturn and St. Peter siblings. My father was George and Myrtle's only grandchild, and it looks like his birthdays were celebrated with large parties at the Sturn house.
Myrtle was 61 when she died. I have a portion of a letter her sister wrote to my grandmother following the funeral; while you might expect it to carry comfort and support, the letter is, instead, distraught and raw, but I think that's just the St. Peter way. George died five years later, having made all the funeral and burial arrangements, himself.
I never met any of the St. Peter family, but visited the three youngest Sturns -- Mary and Loretta, who became Sisters Bernarda and Georgetta, and Herb -- with my grandmother Helen and they were all very kind and generous people.
There are four Catholic parishes in Monroe, now, but all of them share one Catholic Cemetery, St. Joseph, and that's where Myrtle and George, their children and their parents are buried. St. Mary and St. Michael are both active with vital congregations, and both churches are absolutely stunning. I hope that I have a chance to visit them again some day, and light a candle with prayers for Myrtle and George.
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