This is the question that coalesced in my mind after musing a little on my father’s New York roots. So much of my writing about his time in Vietnam begins when he left New York to join the V-12 program (an early version of ROTC).
But he’d been born in New York. Just today, I ran across this small slip of paper from the day of his birth.
I made a reconnoitering visit to Brookside in August.
Event description from the Brookside events page: Kat Fitzpatrick, daughter of a CIA operative, will speak of her Vietnam experience, sharing why her family was invited into a critical war zone in 1974, insight into the super-secret propaganda radio station her father coordinated, and share personally documented glimpses into the slow, but steady decline of America’s footing in that beleaguered country.
While the subject of the slideshow presentation is very much about Vietnam, I also wanted to use the circumstance of speaking at a local historical society to dig a little deeper into my father’s New York roots.
I was delighted to find a few fun things—at least for those of us who get a kick out of history.
I ventured to St. Joseph’s Cemetary in Middletown (Orange County) N.Y. to see the resting place of my dad’s parents: George James Welch and Edna Phelps Welch.
I felt somewhat ashamed that I’ve lived within two hundred miles of them for over 20 years but have never given much thought to their lives—much of which took place in Middletown.
Here’s what I know about my grandfather from my father’s high school autobiography:
Cover page of my father’s 1941 autobiography (16 years old).
My father, a railroad freight clerk , has been employed by the New York Ontario and Western Railroad Company for thirty-five years. During the world war of 1917-18 he voluntarily served in the United States Army as an embarkation-debarkation officer at Governors Island, New York . At present, he is an active member of the Knights of Columbus and the American Legion.
He was born in Union City, New Jersey into a family of six other children. I have always considered it a curious fact that his brother and sisters, should live in New Jersey, two of them even living in the very site of his birth while, he, the only child born in New Jersey should live where the rest were born, Middletown.
He wrote of his mother:
My mother is employed by The Orange County Telephone Company in the Revenue Accounting Office. She is from a family of five children. Having been born in Middletown, N.Y., she was christened Edna Alice Phelps. It is interesting to note that Phelps, N.Y., a town near Herkimer is named in honor of her family, a great part of which inhabit that region.
My maternal line of decent is traced to England, my mothers family name being Phelps. It is estimated that I am of the eighth generation in America on my mothers side, although I have no actual knowledge to support the statement.
There was an “extra” headstone at the foot of the gravesite. It was my grandfather’s military service headstone, used until my grandmother died nearly eight years after him.
My grandfather served in the United States Army as an embarkation-debarkation officer at Governors Island, New York during the first world war.
from “My Story” by James E. Welch
The question that remains
Despite this welcome glimpse into some of my family’s New York history, I still find myself wondering. This time about the origins of my father’s deep wellspring of grit and temerity to do the right thing at the end of the Vietnam War.
Note: I did not have a conclusion formed when I began writing this today. But as I’ve pored over photos, documents, and letters, a curious but endearing notion has begun to form. Follow me if you will.
This is photo of my Grandfather Welch smoking a pipe—it’s the only evidence that I have that he was a consummate pipe smoker but he does look quite comfortable with it.
My Grandfather Welch in the 1960s
In a December 28, 1958 letter home, my mother wrote about how she gave my father a “pipe and pipe rack” for Christmas and that his parents gave him G.K. Chesterton’s new books.
My father was a great fan of Chesterton—during my childhood we had many hardbound copies of his books keeping us company from dusty bookshelves. I also recall him reading a paperback copy of the Father Brown Mysteries at our old kitchen table on Maui. I am, coincidentally, currently watching the series based on that character on PBS.
With Chesterton a part of his life as early as the 50s, he must have live deeply into his ideas and philosophies, and not just the one that said, "In Catholicism, the pint, the pipe, and the Cross can all fit together. . . ” though I’m sure he did like that notion.
So when things began falling apart in Saigon, I cannot help but think that my father asked himself what was the right thing to do? Perhaps he was holding onto his pipe at the time, perhaps he thought back to words he read in one of Chesterton’s books:
“What is wrong is that we do not ask what is right.”
“[James E. Welch] cared more about his staff and Vietnamese workers than he did about his career. I think we can just end with, ‘He did the right thing.’”
I began this newsletter with the notion that I might find out more about my NY roots, and indeed I did. But in such a different way than I was expecting. I love the idea that the shared respect of an English author between my grandparents and my father led to his deep belief in doing what’s right.
It made me happy to be a New Yorker and to be part of that tradition.
From a 2018 essay in which I muse about my love of New York.
If you already have a copy, consider buying one for a local library or high school teacher! The more people who are thinking about the 50 year anniversary of the end of the Vietnam War, the better.
Bravo. Very well done. I love that you unearthed such personal details from some of dad's youthful writings - I had no idea they existed. And the picture of him with Jean and parents, priceless. Again, you have outdone yourself, with both the research and insights about our common history. 🤙
Good job, Kat. Discovering one's roots is a fascinating endeavor...like solving a Father Brown mystery (I watch him, too).
Bravo. Very well done. I love that you unearthed such personal details from some of dad's youthful writings - I had no idea they existed. And the picture of him with Jean and parents, priceless. Again, you have outdone yourself, with both the research and insights about our common history. 🤙