. . . and a lost great-great-grandfather.
This is the story of how I came to the United States of America, and how I'll never forget my first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.

My parents were born in Germany, and my father had always dreamed of coming to America. He craved the wide open spaces, the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains, and the employment opportunities. He had heard a lot of enthusiastic reports about Alberta, Canada, so my parents hopped on an ocean liner, followed by a long train ride, and they settled in the wide open spaces of Alberta.
That's where I was born. The first person in my family to be born outside of Germany.
How exotic!
My father's adventurous spirit led my parents to move around Canada quite a bit the first few years of my life.
Soon, however, homesickness and a strong hunger for the familiar faces and foods of their earlier years led my parents back to Germany. After a few years in Germany, my father again heard North America calling him. This time to the United States, where opportunity awaited.
Back on an ocean liner we went, and we were on our way again.
This was the third ocean liner trip for me, and luckily this time I was old enough to remember it. It was the 1960s, and the end of an era for this kind of travel.
I remember the spray of the ocean, seeing whales and dolphins, and the rocking and rolling of the ship.

I remember my mother getting terribly sea sick, while my father and I were totally unaffected by the constant movement back and forth, back and forth, of the ship. My very young mind decided that, since my mother was Catholic, and my father and I were Protestant, it must be only Catholics who get sea sick.
I don't think this theory of mine comforted my mother very much. She often sent me to the ship's one theater with my new friend, Norbert, where we watched Peter Sellers in "A Shot in the Dark" - - eight times.
I remember the very quiet Chinese man who sat at our table with us at every meal in the dining room.

I remember my father promising me that the first thing we would have when we landed in New York was a hamburger and Canada Dry ginger ale. While my parents had missed the food of Germany, I had missed the foods of Canada.

If I'm not mistaken, the hamburgers I remembered had pickle relish, not pickle slices. They were simple and absolutely delicious.
And nothing quenched my thirst better than the sweet bubbles of Canada Dry ginger ale.
After many, many days, we spotted the New York skyline, and many people streamed onto the ship's deck to see.

Suddenly, there she was, and we were slowly gliding past her. The Statue of Liberty. It's something I will never forget.

After what seemed like hours, we were off the ship, through customs, and had enjoyed our first hamburger and ginger ale, just as my father had promised. Delicious! And the pickle slices were very tasty, indeed!
After many more days of travel, this time by motor coach, we were finally in Wisconsin, a place with many German immigrants just a few hours north of Chicago. It was November, and a new home, new school (English again!), and new friends and experiences awaited.
A lifetime awaited.
But the adventure of how I came to the USA will be with me forever. And I still always get a tingle down my spine and a tear in my eye when I think about how the Statue of Liberty looked from the ocean liner when I was just a little girl.
So here I am, the first person in my family to marry a foreigner. An American of German-Polish-Slovak-Swiss-and possibly Native American heritage.
How exotic!
Oh, the lost great-great-grandfather? My great-great-grandfather actually came to the US in the 1870s, after his wife died in childbirth. He left my great-grandmother, a baby at the time, behind in Germany, to seek his fortune in the US as a gunsmith. After a few years of letters, he was never heard from again.
I've searched the records of immigrants, both here and in ports of departure in Germany, and he is nowhere to be found. I've searched every possible variation of his name. Nothing. He and his time here will remain a mystery.
But like my father, and so many immigrants to any new home, he had hopes and dreams of a better life. I hope he found it.
The beginning of July is important to two of my three homes - Canada and the US - both lands of immigrants. Immigrants with hopes for a better future, and dreams of opportunities for a better life for themselves and their children.
Today, July 1, is Canada Day, so Happy Canada Day to my Canadian friends!
And Happy Fourth of July to everybody here in the US!
Stay safe, everybody.
Hugs,
Angela