Archives)
The last Fonda family reunion, in Denver. Dad is fourth from left in the front row next to Shirlee, then Aunt Harriet and her daughter Prudence. Back row, left to right: Peter, Amy, Becky, Bridget, and a cousin, Lisa Walker Duke.
In the seventies, I visited the town of Fonda with my children and my cousin Tina, daughter of Douw Fonda, direct descendant of the original Jellis Douw. We spent most of our time in the town’s graveyard, where, on lichen-covered gravestones, some almost toppled over, we could read the old Italian name Fonda, preceded by Dutch names such as Pieter, Ten Eyck, and Douw. But there, among them, was a Henry and a Jayne—our long-dead namesakes.
Mother’s ancestors were Tories, loyal to the British. The Fondas were staunch Whigs who actively supported the colonial cause. After the Civil War, Ten Eyck Fonda, my great-grandfather from Fonda, New York, brought the Fondas to Omaha, Nebraska, where my father was raised. Ten Eyck went there as a telegrapher with the railroad, a skill he’d gained in the army. Omaha at that time was a hub of the new railway network.
I never knew my father’s parents, who died before I was born. William Brace Fonda, my grandfather, ran a printing plant in Omaha, and my grandmother Herberta, whom I apparently favor, was a housewife who raised three children—my dad and his sisters, Harriet and Jayne. Dad’s parents and many of their relatives were Christian Scientists, Readers, and Practitioners. If one can judge from the photos, they were a close, happy, smiling family.
I have often pored over shoeboxes full of family memorabilia looking for clues to my father’s dark moods. I am not alone in this quest. Several years ago, when it became clear that Dad’s remaining sister, Aunt Harriet, hadn’t long to live, I went to visit her at her home outside of Phoenix to ask my questions.
“Was Dad close to his mother? Were there problems in the family?”
“No, absolutely not!” she answered. “And I just don’t understand all you girls coming down here to look at the pictures and ask me questions about our family!”
This took me by surprise. “What do you mean, Aunt Harriet? Who else has come?”
Aunt Harriet named various cousins and their daughters. Ah-ha, thought I. Perhaps the Fonda malaise has crept into other corners of the family. Now, it seemed, some of the younger generation were seeking answers, too.
M y visit with Aunt Harriet served to remind me how little the people of my father’s generation were accustomed to introspection. Her memory held no nuances, no shades of gray. As far as she was concerned, theirs had been an idyllic life, and perhaps it had been.
I knew that my father had great admiration for his father, William Brace Fonda—like him, a man of few words. There are two stories my father told, and they are revealing.
One evening after dinner, William Brace drove his son down to the printing plant. From a second-story window, he had Dad look down onto the courthouse square below, where a crowd of shouting men brandished burning torches, clubs, and guns. Inside the courthouse, in a temporary jail, a young black man was being held for alleged rape. There had been no trial, not even any charges filed. The mayor and sheriff were there on horseback trying to quiet the mob. Eventually the man was brought out into the square and, in the presence of the mayor and sheriff, hanged from a lamppost. Then the mob riddled his body with bullets.
Fourteen years old, Dad watched all this in shock and terror. His father never said a word—not then, not on the drive home, not ever. Silence. The experience would forever be a part of my father’s psyche. It played itself out in his
12 Angry Men,
in
The Ox-Bow Incident, Young Mr. Lincoln,
and
Clarence Darrow,
and in unspoken words that I heard plainly throughout my life: Racism and injustice are evil and must not be tolerated.
The second story has to do with his father’s
The last Fonda family reunion, in Denver. Dad is fourth from left in the front row next to Shirlee, then Aunt Harriet and her daughter Prudence. Back row, left to right: Peter, Amy, Becky, Bridget, and a cousin, Lisa Walker Duke.
In the seventies, I visited the town of Fonda with my children and my cousin Tina, daughter of Douw Fonda, direct descendant of the original Jellis Douw. We spent most of our time in the town’s graveyard, where, on lichen-covered gravestones, some almost toppled over, we could read the old Italian name Fonda, preceded by Dutch names such as Pieter, Ten Eyck, and Douw. But there, among them, was a Henry and a Jayne—our long-dead namesakes.
Mother’s ancestors were Tories, loyal to the British. The Fondas were staunch Whigs who actively supported the colonial cause. After the Civil War, Ten Eyck Fonda, my great-grandfather from Fonda, New York, brought the Fondas to Omaha, Nebraska, where my father was raised. Ten Eyck went there as a telegrapher with the railroad, a skill he’d gained in the army. Omaha at that time was a hub of the new railway network.
I never knew my father’s parents, who died before I was born. William Brace Fonda, my grandfather, ran a printing plant in Omaha, and my grandmother Herberta, whom I apparently favor, was a housewife who raised three children—my dad and his sisters, Harriet and Jayne. Dad’s parents and many of their relatives were Christian Scientists, Readers, and Practitioners. If one can judge from the photos, they were a close, happy, smiling family.
I have often pored over shoeboxes full of family memorabilia looking for clues to my father’s dark moods. I am not alone in this quest. Several years ago, when it became clear that Dad’s remaining sister, Aunt Harriet, hadn’t long to live, I went to visit her at her home outside of Phoenix to ask my questions.
“Was Dad close to his mother? Were there problems in the family?”
“No, absolutely not!” she answered. “And I just don’t understand all you girls coming down here to look at the pictures and ask me questions about our family!”
This took me by surprise. “What do you mean, Aunt Harriet? Who else has come?”
Aunt Harriet named various cousins and their daughters. Ah-ha, thought I. Perhaps the Fonda malaise has crept into other corners of the family. Now, it seemed, some of the younger generation were seeking answers, too.
M y visit with Aunt Harriet served to remind me how little the people of my father’s generation were accustomed to introspection. Her memory held no nuances, no shades of gray. As far as she was concerned, theirs had been an idyllic life, and perhaps it had been.
I knew that my father had great admiration for his father, William Brace Fonda—like him, a man of few words. There are two stories my father told, and they are revealing.
One evening after dinner, William Brace drove his son down to the printing plant. From a second-story window, he had Dad look down onto the courthouse square below, where a crowd of shouting men brandished burning torches, clubs, and guns. Inside the courthouse, in a temporary jail, a young black man was being held for alleged rape. There had been no trial, not even any charges filed. The mayor and sheriff were there on horseback trying to quiet the mob. Eventually the man was brought out into the square and, in the presence of the mayor and sheriff, hanged from a lamppost. Then the mob riddled his body with bullets.
Fourteen years old, Dad watched all this in shock and terror. His father never said a word—not then, not on the drive home, not ever. Silence. The experience would forever be a part of my father’s psyche. It played itself out in his
12 Angry Men,
in
The Ox-Bow Incident, Young Mr. Lincoln,
and
Clarence Darrow,
and in unspoken words that I heard plainly throughout my life: Racism and injustice are evil and must not be tolerated.
The second story has to do with his father’s
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