52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks (2026-27): A Hard Choice
The weekly prompt is provided by www.amyjohnsoncrow.com. The prompt for the week of June 22 is "A Hard Choice."
In my previous post about my great-granduncle Ole Lorensen, we looked at how he served as the family's anchor in America, building a life as a shipwright in the Norwegian enclave of South Brooklyn. But history is rarely a straight line of unbroken triumphs. Behind the dry ink of census records often lies the heavy weight of impossible, heartbreaking decisions.
For this week's prompt, "A Hard Choice," I find myself looking closely at Ole’s middle child and only daughter: Alice Lorensen. Alice is my first cousin twice removed. Uncovering her story gives a personal face to the cold statistics of 1918 Brooklyn. It makes me realize that our ancestors' resilience isn't just an abstract concept—it is the very reason we are here to tell their stories today.
By 1916, Ole and his wife, Marie Elizabeth Hansen, had built a busy household at 747 53rd Street in Brooklyn. They were parents to three young children: Leonard (10), Alice (8), and baby Hans (2). Ole was working steadily in the shipyards, and the future seemed set.
Then came 1918.
The dual tragedies of World War I and the devastating influenza pandemic tore through Brooklyn's crowded neighborhoods. Late that year, Marie passed away from acute lobar pneumonia, leaving Ole a widower with three young children to care for while working grueling hours as a ship carpenter.
It was a crisis point that forced a devastating choice upon the family. How does a single, working-class immigrant father in 1918 keep his family afloat when his primary partner is gone?
The answer, written cold and clear in the 1920 U.S. Census, reveals a family fractured by necessity.
When the census taker knocked on the door of Ole's brother, Jens Olsen, in January 1920, the household was already crowded. In an act of profound sibling solidarity, Jens and his wife Gyda had taken Ole and his two young sons, Leonard and Hans, into their home. But Alice wasn't there. She appeared listed as a "boarder" in the completely separate Brooklyn household of Knut and Eliza Knudsen.
It is easy to look at this through a modern lens and assume it was a temporary emergency arrangement. However, the records tell a different story. By the time of the 1925 New York State Census, five years had passed, and the family dynamic had shifted yet again. Ole himself was no longer residing in his brother's household. Yet, his brother Jens had taken in even more extended family, including several second cousins. Sitting among them were Ole's two sons, Leonard and Hans, still listed as nephews and still firmly kept within the family fold.
By contrast, the 1925 census shows that fourteen-year-old Alice was still living with the Knudsen family at 631 60th Street. The separation forced by the tragedy of 1918 had become a long-term reality.
It is easy to look at this separation through a modern lens and feel a pang of sorrow for the lone daughter left outside the immediate family circle. But looking deeper into the social realities of 1920 Brooklyn reveals the agonizing logistics behind this hard choice:
- The Reality of Direct Care: Leonard was eleven and fast approaching working age; Hans was a toddler who could be minded more easily in a communal family setting or required a different tier of shared oversight. Alice, at age nine, was in a vulnerable middle ground.
- Gender Boundaries of the Era: In immigrant communities of the early 20th century, raising a young girl without a mother presented distinct social challenges. Placing Alice with a trusted family friend, a neighbor, or a household with an available maternal figure—even as a boarder—may have been seen as the safest, most respectable path to ensure she received proper care and schooling.
- The Cost of Survival: Ole’s job as a shipwright required long, inflexible hours at the waterfront. He could not be home. Dividing the children was likely the only way to ensure they were all fed, housed, and supervised.
We may never know the exact conversations that took place at 747 53rd Street after Marie died. We don't know if Alice wept at the separation, or if Ole walked the Brooklyn streets at night, torn apart by the decision to let his daughter live under someone else's roof.
What we do know is that "a hard choice" is rarely an easy binary between right and wrong. Often, it is a choice made in the dark, driven by the fierce, messy desire to simply help your children survive. Alice's years as a young boarder in Brooklyn are a poignant reminder that the branches of our family trees don't just grow outward toward the sun—sometimes, they are bent and tested by the storm.
The separation of her childhood could have been the defining tragedy of Alice’s life, but the records tell a story of remarkable resilience. By 1920 and continuing through 1925, a young Alice was living as a boarder in the Brooklyn home of Knut and Eliza Knudsen at 22 4th Place, while her brothers found refuge with their Uncle Jens. Yet, Alice never lost her footing. By 1930, at just nineteen years old, she was residing at the Norwegian Lutheran Deaconess Home, working diligently as a student nurse. She officially graduated from the Nursing School of the Norwegian Hospital on May 11, 1932.
Alice also went on to build the stable, lasting home that had been fractured in her youth. On November 24, 1934, she married Angelo Charles James Caliendo at Our Saviour's Lutheran Church—the very same church where she had been baptized as a baby. Interestingly, Angelo was a practicing physician. It is easy to imagine that the young nurse and doctor first met while Alice was fulfilling her clinical rotations in the local Brooklyn medical community. Together, they raised a family of their own, ensuring that the family line moved past the hardships of 1918.
While I don't have information about Alice and Angelo's family outside of the 1940 & 1950 U.S. Census and their obituaries, I know their story continued far beyond these early records having raised three daughters. I have chosen to not name them as I am unsure if they are living or not. As my first cousin twice removed, Alice’s journey from a nine-year-old boarder to a trained nurse, wife, and mother is a powerful testament to the strength of those who carry our family history forward.
If any of her descendants come across this post, I'd love to hear from you and learn more about Alice! Feel free to comment on the post.
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