tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78813619595750866102024-03-13T00:07:12.830-04:00breadcrumbs & the occasional grain of saltHelenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-416100990582023212016-11-12T19:15:00.000-05:002016-11-12T19:15:27.487-05:00A treasure out of the blue ..........<div style="text-align: justify;">
Family history and the research thereof has been my avocation for close to twenty years. During that time I have found ‘previously unknown’ cousins of all degrees from the UK to western Canada, Australia and even in my own city – it has been quite a trip. The greater part of my work has involved repositories in Wales, Scotland, England and ‘both’ Irelands as well as Canada - with an awful lot of help along the way. For the last five years however I have been fairly inactive, having pretty much exhausted all available sources. </div>
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Then, along came this ………… Within the genealogy community there are central message boards where one is able to leave requests for help, be it with family names, locations or even research avenues. Not having left such a request in a very, very long time, it was a complete surprise a couple of months back when I received a response to one by way of an email sent through Rootsweb. </div>
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A gentleman in Wales, in helping clear the home of a relative’s parents who had both recently passed away, had happened across a suitcase in the attic labelled ‘Cecil Stockwood’. A genealogist, he initially attempted to find links between the name on the suitcase & his relative’s family – and found none. He went to the message boards on the off chance that someone was researching Stockwood, and found me. After the first contact, he sent scanned images of some photographs and a hand-written family tree….. then kindly offered to pack everything up and send it off to me.</div>
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An absolute treasure trove arrived. </div>
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The minute I first saw the name, I was 99.9% sure that Cecil Stockwood was my Gran’s first cousin of that name and the hand-written family tree served to confirm that. My gg-grandfather Thomas Stockwood was drowned at sea in 1874 on the shoals at Sancti Petri, off Cadiz, Spain. He left behind his wife Angelina, two children, Thomas William & Annie Gertrude, and a third child on the way who proved to be our great-grandfather Alfred John. Three years later, in 1877, when their mother and paternal grandfather passed away within months of one another, the children were left with no means of support. Young Alfred John was placed with a maternal uncle, Annie Gertrude was admitted to the Mueller Orphanage and Thomas William became a youthful clerk to family members running the Junction Hotel in Taff’s Well. The children were effectively separated and from all indications, lost touch. My late uncle once said that Gran never mentioned any family belonging to her father ……….. except to say that she was related to the Archbishop, which she indeed was. Cecil was Thomas William’s eldest child – he had a sister Lily (called Poppy) & also a brother, Hubert. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RFLkppXZ59s/WCetPfQ3wUI/AAAAAAAAAVY/oUzWMu9mY0AShgnAy_1d8zjf9Rv53-cYACK4B/s1600/Cecil%2BSTOCKWOOD_01a.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RFLkppXZ59s/WCetPfQ3wUI/AAAAAAAAAVY/oUzWMu9mY0AShgnAy_1d8zjf9Rv53-cYACK4B/s320/Cecil%2BSTOCKWOOD_01a.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
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Cecil Thomas Stockwood …. 1900 - 1967 </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_-DmaWHlOWI/WCetYB4hPEI/AAAAAAAAAVg/8lJLI1ClwRAEzGzyoI9WvT73ujbZqQgvQCK4B/s1600/Thomas%2BSTOCKWOODa.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_-DmaWHlOWI/WCetYB4hPEI/AAAAAAAAAVg/8lJLI1ClwRAEzGzyoI9WvT73ujbZqQgvQCK4B/s320/Thomas%2BSTOCKWOODa.jpg" width="193" /></a></div>
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This photograph is inscribed on the reverse, “Thomas Stockwood”. </div>
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There are many “Thomas” in this family, but the most likely one I think would be Thomas William, Cecil’s father and brother to g-grandad Alfred John </div>
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Cecil passed away in 1967; his wife Doris in 1993 and since they had no children, it appears that the contents of the suitcase were left in limbo, ending up in the aforementioned attic. Although the contents do not contribute a significant amount to our tree, they are an intimate portrait of their life & love at the beginning of the 20th century. </div>
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.a photograph album inscribed ‘to Auntie, Christmas 1918, from Cecil” … he does not name Auntie so I shall have to see if there were any maternal aunts – he had only Annie Gertrude on his father’s side or perhaps Alfred John’s wife Eveline, but I doubt it would be this last </div>
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. a second album, this one of a trip to Europe in 1927 taken by Cecil, his sister Poppy and two friends. There are photos of Cannes & Mont St Michel – all accompanied by letters from the Hotel Biarritz home to Doris (not his wife at that point) expressing how much he misses her – he was very romantic, poetry and all. </div>
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. a series of letters from Cecil to Doris in which he calls her ‘Cromwell’ – these are of a more intellectual bent but romantic just the same </div>
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. Certificates of business proficiency issued to Doris in the early 20s in Cardiff </div>
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. official thank yous for her participation in the Home Guard in WWII, her ration book & identity card </div>
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. certificates of merit for courses taken by Cecil in his capacity as an employee of the Great Western Railway – it seems his father was also a railway employee and I know his g-grandfather William (my ggg-grandfather) to be stationmaster for the Taff Vale at Pentyrch </div>
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. correspondence from a family friend who was helping to clear out Poppy’s home after she passed away as well as paperwork relating to her death – Poppy and her husband also died childless </div>
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. correspondence from friends in Europe before Cecil’s death & afterwards </div>
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. dozens of condolence cards received by Doris upon Cecil’s death </div>
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. not to mention the hand-written family tree </div>
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. photographers’ envelopes containing b&w photos, some are copies of those in the albums, some later</div>
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. photographs by the dozen, unfortunately most subjects are unidentified but I feel as did the gentleman who found the suitcase, that most would prove to be family & friends of Doris.</div>
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. Studio portraits of all sizes including close to two dozen cartes de visite. </div>
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. a possible daguerreotype </div>
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. there is even a certificate of shares in a long defunct company ….. </div>
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. various certificates of birth, marriage & death </div>
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. photographs of company ‘outings’ </div>
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. and of his acceptance into the “Pelman Institute” (google it )….. </div>
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I am sure I must have left something out, but you get the gist………. </div>
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So far I have read only a small portion of the letters and what I see makes me want to hibernate for a bit & read everything! There are letters from friends in nearby England, from friends and family during WWII stationed in such diverse places as Iceland, India and Ceylon. Unfortunately, preparing for the arrival of the chubby man in the red suit precludes that right now, but once his visit is done, I will get to it!</div>
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As I sit here I foresee future blogs with more photographs and excerpts from the letters ……. </div>
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Stay tuned …</div>
Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-27155073722689705362014-09-11T12:02:00.000-04:002014-09-11T12:02:17.532-04:00The Angel & Richard III<div style="text-align: justify;">
Quite a few years ago in a tiny bookshop in Evesham I purchased a copy of <b>"The English Inn Past & Present",</b> written by A. E. Richardson & H. D. Eberlein. It was published in 1925 and describes the architecture, surroundings and history of inns as found in their research tour of the country. Under a subheading <i>"The Fifteenth Century Inn" </i>they imagine the scene in 1420 on a walk in London, eventually arriving at The Angel in Grantham.
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Which is the part I thought might be of interest since, without getting into personalities, they describe what that scene may have been in October of 1483. The following is an excerpt.
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"With our minds centered on the aspect of the fifteenth century, we looked upon the stone front of The Angel at Grantham with feelings of respectful enquiry. It stands in the middle of the town, facing the Market Square and the ancient cross, a guardian of the North Road from the late fourteenth century, a silent witness to the momentous events of peace and war. Gone are its more ancient glories, the galleries and external stairways, the timber-built wing to the right of the front, the rambling barns at the back. There have been many later additions, interesting as relics of travel and having a place in the sequence of the life of the house, but at this stage we are concerned with its aspect on the night of the 19th of October, 1483, when Richard the Third was housed within.
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Seated in the oriel window of the room on the ground floor to the left of the entry we speculated on the former character of the house, and endeavoured to reconstruct the development that had taken place in social life between the years 1420-1483. It was assumed that few changes had occurred in the matter or manner of building during these sixty-three years. The monasteries were intact, so were the pilgrim inns and "Royal houses" in various parts of the country. In London at this time rumours were toward of the movement against Richard, The Duke of Buckingham had the sympathy of the people; but it is in the long room forming the first floor of the "Maison du Roi" that a significant incident in history was enacted. We thought of a pack train approaching the town, making for York, the merchants discussing political events; the packmen, and the dogs, already six days on the road, sore tired, the gloom of the North Road having affected both man and beast. Perhaps it is a matter of urgency that the train enters Grantham before dusk and inns at The Woolpack, for The Angel this day are closed to ordinary men. As these ruminations were continued, we thought of the King signing the death warrant of the Duke of Buckingham in the room above. We had a picture of the town in the gathering dusk of the October evening with the twinkling of the torches, the assembly of men-at-arms, archers and crossbowmen, of soldiers billeted in the houses of the townspeople, of the King's archers standing at the entry of The Angel the open doors of which reveal horses and messengers. How little has changed , and yet how much! The torchlight of 1483 lit up the embayed façade and flicked the tracery before us; it showed up in the deep recessing and the regal integrity of the building. In the fifteenth century, suspended from a heavy oak frame, there was a painted sign of an angel with a flaming sword. From the adjoining buttress projected a stave, at the end of which was carved the sign of a bush. We pictured the house as it appeared to the entourage of the King lodged in the neighbouring buildings. We thought of the knights and officers who used this room, of the rush-strewn floor, the log fire, the ceiling beams, the grotesque heads, and the tapestried walls. The apartment in which the King lodged then extended the whole length of the first floor. There are still to be seen the two stone mullioned bay windows, following the lines of those below, one at each end of the room. At the center is the semi-circular oriel with a raised seat, from whence can be viewed the Cross in the Market Square. We pictured Richard the Third and his attendants, the halberdiers on guard and the firelight showing up the tapestried scenes of biblical subjects.
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It would be impertinent to attempt to dramatise the scene or to give personality to the characters. They must remain hazy and indistinct, but we can imagine the scene, the marshalling of the troops, the stopping of the pack trains till the King and his following have departed, the splendour of the cavalcade, and the pageantry of the mediæval setting. It is above such things that the gilded angel has cast its sightless eyes .... "</div>
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Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-87095767785778152572013-06-19T20:26:00.001-04:002013-06-19T20:26:42.125-04:00Spirit & Mister<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She’s called Spirit because that is how I saw her in the parlance of the day, a truly free spirit. Mister was her rock. Their ‘real’ names I will keep to myself … </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We met, Spirit and I, before Mister, at work. We were teenagers; she had come to the city from a small town north of us and was living in a ‘young ladies’ residence – I was still at home with my parents. She jumped whole-heartedly into life in the big city as she saw it and within what seemed like days was announcing her impending marriage to a flyboy, a marriage that kind of faded away. Undaunted, we became a part of a little ‘gang’ – gang bearing no resemblance to today’s connotation – of unattached girls who worked together & played together. If ever a period of time in one’s life is deserving of the caption “those were the days” this is it. We even had our very own Cheers where everybody knew our names. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Spirit met a man and married him (not Mister). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They lived in a teeny basement apartment along with two spaniels (one called Gumper), a guinea pig called Alice, a bunch of mice both black and white (her contribution to ending segregation) and a canary that flew free and did its business over the bathtub. Oh, and a rabbit, also roaming free, who wore rubber panties ~ as well as a slightly miffed cat who was denied access to all those delicious mice. One afternoon there was a knock at the door – a gentleman presented himself as being from the Board of Health to whom the superintendent of the building had reported the presence of multiple animals. {I must interject here to say that Spirit’s home was scrupulously clean – no ‘animal’ smell – and all those residents that were not caged were trained, with the exception of the rabbit :>)} G’bless our Spirit, she simply led the inspector to the building’s garbage room which he found to be infinitely more objectionable than her home and issued a warning to the super! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The marriage ended ~ I think he tried to cage her spirit to no avail… </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The years passed and then she met Mister. It is difficult to explain how friends know instantly when one of them has met “the one”, but we all did. Spirit glowed, she confessed amazement that Mister wanted to be with her, Mister was understated, always by her side. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They moved away, several thousand miles and we kept in touch, mostly by phone. Mister had a successful business & they were enjoying life. Then Spirit was diagnosed with breast cancer – the treatments were debilitating, but she beat it, according to her mostly because Mister was there with her and for her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One more time they moved, back across the continent, not to our city but not as far away. I travelled to visit and took my son along. We used the phone and chatted for hours. Spirit and mister set up home near the ocean. They had two cats and all the wildlife she loved right outside the door – which she fed religiously all winter long. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They kept the birdseed in the attic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mister hauled the ladder down, stepped up to grab a bag of birdseed and was greeted by wee cascades of seed husks and two tiny eyes peering over the edge of the ceiling. “We have squatters” he told Spirit. Field mouse. She knew that the mouse who had set up home in her attic would have to go, there was already a mess with the birdseed that might attract other, less desirable tenants. She began to call hardware stores and the like looking for humane mouse traps – bear in mind that this was quite a few years ago and humane mouse traps were not de rigueur yet ;>) Mostly the stores thought Spirit was unhinged, but she eventually found some a short drive away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mister set up the traps in the attic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A while later, in the middle of the night, Spirit woke Mister when she heard the trap go off. He suggested that they look into it in the morning but Spirit was adamant, what if the mouse were hurt? Unsure of what exactly he could do if the mouse was hurt, up into the attic went Mister, flashlight in hand, to find the mouse in one piece, albeit in the trap – and outside the trap, her babies. This instantly complicated things because neither he nor Spirit had been aware of babies. The plan had been to trap the mouse and then set it outside in a sheltered area with a supply of food, but now babies too? Spirit insisted they had to be moved, the mother could not be let out of the trap obviously but neither could she be left in, after all she had to feed the babies, didn’t she? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This was the winter of 1993. The winter of the perfect storm. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I really don’t recall the details but I DO know that in the wee hours of a very stormy night Mister got dressed in his warmest clothes and transported the mouse family, complete with food, out through the wind and snow, and deposited them in a cozy place. Once more back in bed and dozing off, Spirit wondered out loud if they should perhaps have kept them in a cage until morning. She told me it was the one and only time that Mister ever yelled at her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Spirit had joined a group of cancer survivors who were giving support to those still fighting the disease ~ she had now been cancer free for seven years, then the magic number for breast cancer survivors, it supposedly indicated that their battle was truly over – you know, well if it hasn’t come back in seven years …………. chances are, etc. She called me regularly, our Mum was in the final stages of colon cancer & Spirit wanted to know how Liam and I were coping; she knew and understood the effect a loved one’s illness had on those around them. “I know how your Mum is doing – how are YOU doing” I can still hear her saying.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Chance however, was not kind to Spirit and Mister – a few years later the cancer that had attacked Spirit all that time before came back with a vengeance. More debilitating treatments taking such a toll on her and Mister – they did not help and the cancer spread. In the month of August in what was to be the last year of Spirit’s life I stopped off to visit her during a trip elsewhere. We had such hope – except for the kerchief covering the loss of hair and bouts of extreme fatigue she looked and sounded like Spirit always had. We talked and we talked – I managed to get her out for a walk along the shore, stopping at every bench along the way. She knew she was going, she was content that her cats would be looked after but she was terrified for Mister, there had been just the two of them for so long. I left knowing in my heart it was the last time I would see her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mister worked in Manhattan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In September of that year the Towers were destroyed and I panicked – Spirit depended upon him so much. The phone of course was useless – I emailed with no results and then I remembered that Spirit’s brother, whom I had met only once, lived in our city. I found him & he was able to tell me that Mister was ok – that on the day before Spirit had had such a terrible reaction to her treatment that he was late leaving home – he watched the Towers fall from his bus. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> In October Spirit slipped away.
I think of her still ……</span>…
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Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-57961340989307895242013-01-01T14:51:00.000-05:002013-01-01T14:51:10.995-05:00our JohnAs babies in our Gran’s house we were put to sleep every night under the dining room table John & I ~ bombs you see ~ this was early 1940's England. His Dad and mine were often away on duty but in that tiny council house lived Gran & Grandad, Mum’s little sister Peggy, John & his Mum (known as ‘big’ Peggy), our Mum and me. I have never managed to figure out who slept where, with the exception of John & myself.<BR><br />
From the under-the-table days until I was about ten we spent time together as cousins do ~ he visited us in Surrey and we travelled to Evesham to visit them. I was even sent up there alone a couple of times to spend a week or so. We swam in the local river with his younger brothers and sisters ~ we pinched (green, much to our dismay) apples from orchards and suffered the consequences ~ we went to get eggs from the nearby farm for his Mum ~ but mostly we just wandered in the daylight as little groups of children are wont to do & I looked up to my older cousin.. <BR><br />
We never really knew each other as adults on a day-to-day basis ~ thousands of miles separated us ~ yet sometimes two people simply have a connection ~ he was always the one in touch when it meant something. I am sure he had his faults and foibles but I was not witness to them, all I see is the child, and even what I see may be romanticized just a wee bit. Our John was not a good ‘letter-writer’ nor was he ‘internet-inclined’ ~ no matter though, we saw each other over the years when I visited our grandparents, aunts and uncles. He called on my wedding day ♥ There were other not so happy transatlantic calls when we lost Mum, then his Dad, his beloved sister Kath and our Aunt Peggy, who left us much too soon.<BR><br />
The last time we saw each other was rather a special occasion ~ Dan, Maggie & I made a trip to Wales, it was fifty years since we had left & Dan had not been back. John drove down to meet the cousins he had never seen and to (I am sure) give me a hug. I can still hear him say “There she is!” with open arms. There was a wonderful family dinner, Auntie Peggy & her family, the three of us & John. We walked for hours round a car boot and then said goodbye in the parking lot because he was driving back home from there. We cried.<BR><br />
Recently I wrote John a letter, telling him of family news including the impending birth of my first grandchild – I never mailed it. A few days ago I mentioned the letter to Maggie saying that I would update it and mail it ~ well, now I cannot.
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We lost John this morning, on the first day of the new year. <BR><br />
John was a son, a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather and my heart breaks for those he leaves behind. To me, he was the childhood companion I will always cherish.<BR><br />
G’bless John ~ and maybe we will ‘gather’ more apples when I get there ..
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<br />Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-9245988397092844402012-10-31T16:03:00.001-04:002012-11-01T19:19:59.548-04:00 Copper ~ the only television series during which I did not do a knit-a-long
Some time back when chatter was about a new show being produced by BBC America, I was not terribly hopeful with regard to what the quality might be. After all, we in North America have been subjected to so many pale imitations of UK & Continental successes (Torchwood, my personal eek!) tailored to a less adventurous palate that they defy counting ~ so what kind of chance would a period piece have being produced here in its entirety, even given that the story takes place here?<BR><BR>
My doubts have been proven resoundingly unfounded and I am ecstatic.<BR><BR>
A huge amount of credit for what I feel to be realistic portrayals of life and surroundings of the era and location goes to the producers and directors for insisting upon it; to the makeup and costume folks who kept the fingernails dirty and the wristwatches out of sight; to the designers & crew for an amazing set (as I have read described elsewhere); to the writers for not holding back an inch and to the cast, definitely the most obvious to those of us out here watching, for giving us characters we could love/hate. Each & every one seemed to immerse themselves in the filthy, no holds barred world of civil war era New York. How awful life must have been – most people in Five Points were not long off the boat, escaping horrific conditions in Ireland & Scotland only to find life was not much better – they were still downtrodden, life was cheap, there was war, there was disease, perhaps the only difference was that they could make a little money, any which way they chose. And that they did, following the highly notable example of Boss Tweed & his cohorts at Tammany Hall.<BR><BR>
Not so strange then given the era, that even with a comradeship formed under the worst of circumstances, Morehouse, Corcoran & Freeman clearly exhibit the separation of class – the great divide as it were.<BR><BR>
So, what do I think the future might hold? hmmm .. musings follow …<BR><BR>
Forgive me for this,, but I cannot see any logical way in which Matthew might escape persecution/prosecution ~ he did beat up a white man, unforgivable back then no matter the circumstances, no matter the ‘guilt’ of the victim. One has to wonder what Corcoran might do ~ he and Matthew have already had (negative) words about their civil war experiences and as we have seen is increasing his drug dependency. My feeling is that Kevin’s good side will win out (eventually) and he will do whatever is necessary, by any means, to help Matthew. And of course Sara will find something else for which to blame herself – or will she surprise us all and fight for her man? And unrelated – will we ever learn how Matthew came to develop medical skills. <BR><BR>
What of Morehouse? He has thrown Daddy to the wolves (just deserts) but will he be able to follow through? Behind the carousing drinker there is a heart, controlled as it may be by the constraints of society. Has he been looking for Daddy’s approval all along? Hopefully he will discover Elizabeth’s southern connections – the man who fought for the north cannot (as we have already seen) abide a person’s collaboration with the Confederacy. Will he extend a hand to Matthew? (Correct me if I am wrong but I seem to recall reading or hearing that Morehouse is not aware that it was Matthew that performed his surgery, he believes it to have been Kevin – is this true or am I imagining?) If I am not, then perhaps it will be revealed to him to secure his help. Then again he might not want that to be public knowledge. <BR><BR>
Ah Francis … g’bless. Of all he has done, using the excuse that Kevin was off to war to justify sleeping with his wife is just simply the worst, and indeed a good part of the cause of his torment. So what might happen to Maguire in the future? I think he may go back to being a copper, I think he will have to work very hard to regain Kevin’s friendship , if ever he does. I think Andrew may blame him in part for Kevin’s addiction – all in all our Francis has difficult times ahead even assuming that no-one takes action about the murders. Yet the mores of the day would not condemn his murders any more than those committed by Corky, Annie or Eva, would they? Francis is like the little child looking for love (in all the wrong places, to quote the country song). <BR><BR>
Annie’s future baffles . Eva has told her that she has a real chance to be a child, but does she really? Here is a little girl, forced into a ‘marriage’, abused, whose little sister has been murdered. Certainly, with a lot of help, she MIGHT be able to shuffle all this off into some hidden compartment of her mind – but what about the killings? Can she ever really forget Mr. Haverford’s death even if she felt he deserved it – what about the Madam whom Corky dispatched – and last but not least, her ‘husband’. Judging by her actions so far, I am fearful that she might use Corky’s involvement against him, threatening to tell all if he does not do what she wants (whatever that might be). There are sadly no shining examples for her to follow insofar as doing a turnabout.<BR><BR>
Eva ~ will Francis discover that she murdered Mollie? God help her if he does.<BR><BR>
Ellen ~ I feel no sympathy for this lady. Yes, the accidental death of her own child by her own hand is traumatic yet I think that she is perhaps more desperate about how she will survive if there is no Corky than she is about their daughter’s death … just an opinion. In my heart I hope she disappears in some fashion but I really don’t think that will happen.<BR><BR>
Elizabeth ~ not really a lady before her time, history shows that upper class folks of this era projected a patently false aura of morality whilst indulging in all sorts of vices. There was a hint that she may have been poor in her past, so was she subjected to god-knows-what in order to become Mrs. Haverford – was this why she was so upset when she discovered the truth about Annie’s ‘husband’? Methinks her downfall will be her association with Southern sympathizers. <BR><BR>
Kevin Corcoran ~ COPPER ~ tough, violent, caring, gentle and by any standard save that of the day, corrupt. A man frustrated by the unexplained death of his daughter while he was away fighting; his own inability to find his missing wife & living with the guilt of not being there for them. When he finally does find her, the revelations are almost too much ~ his daughter was killed by his wife ~ his wife was having an affair with his best friend (and she had an abortion because of the affair) ~ his best friend had been hiding his now addicted wife from him all along. What does his daughter’s image leaving the home signify ~ that now he knows what happened her ghost can rest? Again, my opinion only ~ I believe that with Matthew’s persecution Corky will find himself torn – can he or does he want to help Matthew, who certainly did the crime but who had what he felt were extenuating circumstances ~ I believe he will have opposition from Morehouse who, until he realizes Matthew’s importance in his own life, will tell Corky to leave it alone ~ I believe he will be discouraged by both Andrew & Francis from trying to help Matthew . I also believe that he will hit bottom with his addiction and claw his way back to help Matthew. I hope. <BR><BR>
At first, when you look at the murders these folks have committed you might wonder that they do not use knowledge against one another ~ Corky knows what Francis has done (as does Andrew) but will his own guilt associated with Annie stop him from doing anything about it ~ Annie of course knows what Corky has done, but can she take a chance & tell the world (to get her way) given that she has committed two murders herself …. Oh what a tangled web etc. <BR><BR>
Flawed heroes ~ I love them, dirty fingernails & all ♥<BR><BR>
For a little while, Sunday television fare was extraordinary and we know it will be again. <BR><BR>
<I>psst - if you read this without having seen COPPER, do yourself a favour and watch season one so as to be prepared for season two - another opinion </i>
Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-34704979846705129332012-02-29T11:40:00.002-05:002012-02-29T11:44:10.315-05:00Good Stuff<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">Hello, it’s been a while. I have erased 2011 from my memory as much as I can and have begun a beautiful 2012.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">Something happened genealogy-wise recently which is what brought me back here – a good something. When doing family research one tends to accumulate a lot of data about people long passed on, which of course is interesting, but a huge perk is finding living family members about whom you knew nothing whatsoever. This has happened on both sides of our family through the years and has garnered us relatives all over the world and right in our own back yard so to speak.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">We had a great-aunt-by-marriage who passed away about 30 years ago. She was Isabel, married to our great-uncle Jim, Nanny (King) D’All’s brother & they had a daughter Patsy. Many times I had looked for Isabel & Jim – I did find Jim on a passenger list in 1927 coming to Montreal, his contact was Nanny. Dan & I knew Uncle Jim as children and in later years Dan bought some property from Auntie Issie (she & Jim were long separated). Patsy I recall visiting our house but it is all very vague. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">One big problem was that I had no idea of Isabel’s maiden name until about a month ago when a search for Patsy turned up her birth record – Isabel was a Skillen. Repeatedly I searched but only found a passenger list with an Isabel Skillen coming to Montreal from Ireland in 1930 – unfortunately there was no contact name other than a lady who would be her employer and without her parents’ names I was stuck. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">Then last week I was chatting with a friend who does research & who has enviable contacts with those in charge of records. A mere 15 minutes later I had Isabel & Jim’s marriage record from 1932 complete with both sets of parents’ names added in the margin by a conscientious church staffer – gifts like these are rare. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">So, now to search for Isabel Skillen’s birth in and around Belfast with parents John Skillen & Sarah Black. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">I still have trouble believing what followed. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">Immediately a family tree popped up for a couple with identical names, in the correct area, in the correct era but with a daughter Annie born in 1906 – no sign of an Isabel in 1908. Regardless, I sent an email to the tree owner – it turns out that his mother-in-law is the daughter of Annie Skillen – she is called Isabel after her aunt who emigrated to Canada in 1930 – she has a daughter Trish, married to the tree owner, who is named after Isabel & Jim’s daughter Patsy! Which makes Trish our second cousin </span><span style="font-size:14.0pt; font-family:Wingdings;mso-ascii-font-family:"Lucida Sans";mso-hansi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";mso-char-type:symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings">J</span><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">All this in less than two hours. I have to say that this has been the exception to the norm. Finding family can take years even if you have all sorts of pertinent information & I certainly don’t want to give the impression that family research is a constant string of exciting events – it is not – but I think all of us who do it hope for things like this. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:"Lucida Sans","sans-serif"">Till next time<o:p></o:p></span></p>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-38142203595165599042010-11-07T14:30:00.007-05:002010-11-07T14:43:02.020-05:00on behalf of one veteran<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TNb_27L2oWI/AAAAAAAAAIk/DyMjfVeFC7U/s1600/maple.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TNb_27L2oWI/AAAAAAAAAIk/DyMjfVeFC7U/s400/maple.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536894110964031842" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This morning it was my intention to post a page from the defunct family history site, a page that commemorates those in our (extended) family that served in the military and went to war ……. some came home, some did not. Then, two headline stories caught my eye, one on the audacious disguise that failed for an illegal refugee from the far east and the other on the proposed changes to Veterans’ benefits. What leapt to my mind was the outrage our Dad would have felt at each of them.</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dad arrived in Canada from Scotland in the late 1920s with his parents. He was old school – you worked therefore you ate - so did your family. As a product of those times he would have been astounded that someone would even attempt to sneak into our country wearing a disguise and then to top it off be supplied with food, housing and all the necessities while waiting for unnamed bureaucrats to decide their fate. That we as a country could have homeless families and jobless youth and yet still accept people from elsewhere who immediately end up being government-supported would have been beyond the pale. </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Even more demoralizing would have been that we as a country had allowed this deplorable situation to develop on one hand while attempting to take away from Veterans with the other. Were he aware of the costs of health care today, the (de)value of the dollar and the lump-sum payment proposal he would be horrified. The military fought for their country and as such should be able to count on that country in time of need. That being said, there was only one reason in his estimation that anyone should call on the VA for help – military wounded and/or incapacitated during service was who the pensions were for, as well as their dependents; those who needed extensive medical care (no government medical insurances existed for anyone back then). </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Admittedly being part of the Commonwealth had allowed for his parents’ routine entry into our country and everyday jobs were not difficult to come by .. but still, nobody handed you a damn thing. You were not paid if you were ill – he even went to work with a full-blown case of the mumps because he knew the family needed his salary. Dad’s way of thinking may have been somewhat extreme – he for instance did not want to avail himself of the “unemployment insurance” that was temporarily available when he retired – it took Mum months to convince him that he need not be embarrassed to ’collect’; nor did he ever consider applying for any kind of help or support from Veterans’ Affairs. Handouts. It would have been dishonest to accept any support when he was perfectly capable of working.</span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">His views on the world situation may seem a bit bizarre to some – each year the minister from our church used to visit parishioner’s homes in order to obtain donation commitments. He arrived armed with ‘collection’ envelopes – you were expected to pledge for the year and donate a portion each week. Each envelope had two sections, one for the church and the other for missionary activities. Dad flat out refused to give to any missions – it was his firm belief that a goodly proportion of the world’s wars may never have happened had no-one been allowed to travel afar forcing their beliefs on whomever they encountered. “What gives us the right?” he would ask.</span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dad, in my heart I know you can see this and I hope I have not presumed …… I think I got it right …. Stop accepting immigrants unless they have a job to come to and don’t take a damned thing away from the vets who fought and are still fighting to make this country the envy of the world.</span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thanks Dad</span></i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TNcAKjNro3I/AAAAAAAAAIs/3T5RkVONJ98/s1600/harrykdall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TNcAKjNro3I/AAAAAAAAAIs/3T5RkVONJ98/s400/harrykdall.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536894448126632818" /></a>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-87401095138038640742010-11-06T21:51:00.023-04:002010-11-10T19:15:14.030-05:00Remembrance Day 2010<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TNs0N3JLmzI/AAAAAAAAAI8/EyUAPiiEzRA/s1600/armistice.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TNs0N3JLmzI/AAAAAAAAAI8/EyUAPiiEzRA/s400/armistice.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538077579527559986" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center;margin-bottom: 12pt; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i></i></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: justify; display: inline !important; "></p><div style="text-align: center; "><i><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; display: inline !important; "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#002060">Thank you</span></i></b></p></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 12pt; font-weight: bold; display: inline !important; "><i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#002060"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></i></p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center;margin-bottom: 12pt; font-weight: bold; "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#002060"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></p> <ul type="disc" style="font-weight: bold; "> <li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;color: rgb(8, 49, 148); margin-bottom: 12pt; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"">Lance-Corporal William King #31265,15th Battalion Royal Scots</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p></o:p></span></li> <ul type="circle"> <ul type="square"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="color:#083194;mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto;mso-list:l0 level3 lfo1;tab-stops:list 1.5in"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><b><i><ul type="disc" style="display: inline !important; "><ul type="circle" style="display: inline !important; "><ul type="square" style="display: inline !important; "><li class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(8, 49, 148); display: inline !important; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"">killed in Belgium on Sunday, 14th April 1918 at age 20. William was the son of William and Lizzie Matthew King of Lochee, Scotland, born on the 12th of January 1898 at 12 Henry Lane. His father William was a yarn dyer and his mother Lizzie a jute weaver - he was our Nan's brother. His death is commemorated at the Ploegsteert Memorial (Panel 1) in Comines-Warneton, Hainaut, Belgium. The memorial commemorates over 11,000 men who have no known grave. They fought in 1914 or 1918 on Belgian soil beside French troops, and died in France or Belgium when the frontier was of little interest in this area in which trench warfare lasted longest. The following exerpt from the Royal Scots 1914-1918 War History would seem to describe the conditions under which he died ..."Our defensive cordon was drawn close round Bailleuil on the night of the 13th/14th April 1918, and during the readjustments that were effected under cover of darness the 15th and 16th Royal Scots were sent up to the station at Bailleuil and aligned along the railway. From midday on the new position became the target of German gunfire but our casualties were few". </span></b></li></ul></ul></ul></i></b></span></div><b><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i><ul type="disc" style="font-weight: bold; display: inline !important; "><ul type="circle" style="display: inline !important; "><ul type="square" style="display: inline !important; "><li class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(8, 49, 148); display: inline !important; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman""> In 1922, William King was posthumously awarded the British War Medal & Victory Medal. The 5 inch wide circular placque is inscribed around its' circumference with the words 'HE DIED FOR FREEDOM AND HONOUR' and has the figures of Victory and a lion in the center. The placque is accompanied by a letter from the Record Office and another from Buckingham Palace signed by the His Majesty the King.</span></b></li></ul></ul></ul></i></span></div></b></li> </ul> </ul> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Lance-Corporal George D'All #63260,3rd Battalion, Canadian Infantry, Central Ontario Regiment</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">killed on Tuesday, 13th of June 1916 at age 40. George was born in 1875 in Dundee, son of Alexander D'All and Mary Jane McDowell. He was our grandfather's uncle. Alexander had died when George was four, so his mother brought up their three sons, George, Samuel and Alexander. George married Jessie Gow Robertson in 1895, and they had five daughters who survived infancy - Mary , Jessie, Jeannie, Margaret and Georgina. The girls were left orphans upon George's death, their mother Jessie having passed away in 1913.His death is commemorated at the Ypres Memorial, Menin Gate in Belgium. The Memorial is dedicated to the men who were lost without trace during the defence of the Ypres Salient in the First World War. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Sergeant John Arthur Stockwood # 2869 Rifle Brigade, 10th Battalion</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">killed September 3rd 1916 in Belgium,age 38, his death is commemorated on the rial, as well as in the nave of Holy Cross Church, Cowbridge and the Cowbridge War Memorial. Son of John Stockwood and Rachel Thomas, he was born in Cowbridge in 1878. He left his wife Beatrice Naunton Davies and three young children, Marion, Alick and Arthur Mervyn. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">2nd Lieutenant Lawrence Finlay Stockwood, Household Battalion</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">killed 12 October 1917, aged 20. His death is commemorated at the Cement House Cemetery, Langemark-Poelkapelle, Belgium. Son of Samuel Henry Stockwood and Alice Emma Taylor, he was born in Bridgend in 1897. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1in; font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; margin-left: 1in; font-weight: bold; display: inline !important; "><i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Daniel Joseph Linehan Bombardier - 147th Garrison Field Artillery</span></u></b><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194"> </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 1.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Our beloved Irish Grandad, Daniel left Ireland at age 12 to work in the pits at Coed Ely. Later in life he moved his family to Surrey, where my younger brother and I were born in his home in Worcester Park. Grandad died in Surrey in 1962 at the age of 71.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 1.5in; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: 800;"><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; "></p><div style="text-align: justify;font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; display: inline !important; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Joseph Albert Parsons, Unit 73rd Battalion and 13 Battalion Royal Hospital Corps, CEF</span></u></b><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"> </span></b></p></i></span></div> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10pt;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 1.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Joseph, born in Liverpool of Somerset origins, married Mary Robertson D'All, daughter of George D'All who had been killed in Belgium. Joseph & Mary's descendants are spread from the Maritime Provinces to British Columbia. He died in Montreal in the 1980. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Major the Reverend Alfred Beauchamp Payne</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 1.25in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">born at Cowbridge, September 17th, 1882, son of Thomas Payne & Mary Elizabeth Susan Stockwood. Appointed chaplain 60th Rifles, 1913. Volunteered for active service with this Battalion in 1914 and proceeded overseas. Appointed chaplain 11th Battalion at Valcartier; when the battalion was broken up at Salisbury Plains was appointed chaplain of No.1, C.C.S., with which unit he served until his return to Canada. Married Marion Frances Moore (daughter of the Reverend William Moore, Rector of Lyndhurst, Ont.); the couple lived in Saskatchewan where he was appointed Rector of Shaunavon in 1923. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Colonel Illtyd Henry Stockwood, South Wales Borderers</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1.25in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">born at Porthcawl 29 July 1892, son of Samuel Henry Stockwood & Alice Emma Taylor, he served with the South Wales Borderers during WWI in Gallipoli and Mesopotamia, as well as with the Tank Corps & the RAF in France and Belgium. WWII saw him again serving with the Borderers in the UK and in troopships. He died in 1932. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Private William Bertram Stockwood, 11th Battalion CEF (CAMC)</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 1in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">born at Cowbridge 26 March 1884, son of John Stockwood & Rachel Thomas, William emigrated to Canada before WWI and enlisted in the CEF at Valcartier, Québec on 23 September 1914. He served in France and England, married Emma Tuffs in 1915 and was invalided out in 1919 at Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. He died 25 November 1952 in Victoria, British Columbia. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; display: inline !important; "><i><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Inspector William Scrimgeour D'All Hong Kong Police Force</span></u></b></i></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i></i></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-weight: bold; display: inline !important; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 1in; font-weight: bold; display: inline !important; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">William, born in Dundee in 1904 to Samuel D'All & Agnes Dryden Scrimgeour,joined the Hong Kong Police Force on 18 May 1928. He married Helena Middleton Gauld in 1933 in Dundee, and was in Hong Kong when it fell to the Japanese in 1941. What follows is a newspaper interview with William almost a year and a half after he returned to Scotland.</span></b></p></i></span></i></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 1in; "></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: 800;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Sylfaen, serif; color: rgb(8, 49, 148); font-weight: bold; "><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1in; font-weight: bold; "><b><i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Mr. D'All said that he had been a civilian policeman in Hong Kong for the past nineteen years. About three weeks after Japan declared war on the Allies, they captured Hong Kong. "Fortunately," said Mr. D'All, "my wife and family had been evacuated to Australia before this took place." He, with many others, was taken to Stanley Internment Camp, Hong Kong, which housed 2500 internees. Close by was another large camp for military personnel. "Christmas Day 1941" said Mr. D'All rather ironically, "was the day I was taken inside the barbed wire compound, and there I remained until I was released in early September 1945. We were given no time to go home for any extra clothing and necessaries, but hustled off to Camp in the clothes in which we stood." In the words of Mr. D'All, "Camp life was pretty grim." They had two meals a day, if they could be called meals which consisted of two small bowls of rice with a little vegetables among it. Many died from beriberi and more suffered from malnutrition. "Only on two occasions," said Mr. D'All, "would the Japanese allow Red Cross parcels to get through." They had to work five hours every day, which may not seem too long, but in their weak state it was a punishment. The work was of an agricultural nature. The only relief to a really horrible existence were the frequent bombing raids made on Hong Kong by squadrons of American aircraft."</span></i></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">William retired from the Force on 30 December 1946 and spent the rest of his life in Dundee. He received two civilian commendations for help given to other prisoners during his time in the camp. He passed away in Dundee, where his surviving son Ian and his family live, in April of 1977. William's service is mentioned on Tony Banham's </span></b><a href="file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/Helen/My%20Documents/websites/web/hongkongwardiary.com"><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:blue">"Not The Slightest Chance"</span></b></a><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194">, a site dedicated to the defence of Hong Kong, 1941. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 0.75in; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: 800;"><u><br /></u></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Corporal Harry King D'All Royal Montréal Regiment (32nd Reconnaissance Regiment)</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">born in Dundee in 1921 to Harry Bruce D'All & Helen (Nell) King, he emigrated to Canada with his parents in the early 1930's. He was in the Black Watch (Montréal) Cadets and enlisted in the RMR in 1939, serving in England in the Reconnaissance Troop. The letter above was sent by his mother in 1940 and salvaged from the sea when the ship carrying it was torpedoed. Nan had fortunately put the return address at the top of the letter, so it was returned to "Mum" labeled "salved from the sea". He met and married Mum, Gertrude Maria Linehan and when he was demobilised in 1946 we came to Canada as a family. After returning to England for a few years, we settled in Montreal for good in 1951. Dad continued with the RMR, now a peacetime militia regiment and retired as Regimental Sergeant Major. He died on 12 June 1988. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Dennis Price Linehan Royal Air Force</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">born in Tylcha Fach in June 1920 to Daniel Joseph Linehan & Gertrude Teresa Stockwood, Uncle Den served with the RAF for the duration of WWII. He married Joan Delafield, who passed away in 1995. Uncle Den lives in Evesham and most of his seven children and their families live in the surrounding areas. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-bottom: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><u><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">John (Jack) Watson Chivas Merchant Marine</span></u></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 1in; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194">Jack's entire working life, peacetime & wartime was spent in the Merchant Marine. He and his wife Ella D'All, Grandad's sister, lived in British Columbia. Ella passed away in 1972, Jack in 1997 - they had no children. </span></b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-left: 0.5in; "></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: 800;"><br /></span></span></div><b><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: bold; "><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><b><i><span style="font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194">This last I include purely for its historical significance; having five Regimental Sergeants Major in one picture is a rare event. This was taken at Valcartier, Québec in July 1956 during the summer exercises of the Regiments.</span></i></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TNszqLxWCuI/AAAAAAAAAI0/yzbLz5chLWw/s1600/rsmvalcartier.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TNszqLxWCuI/AAAAAAAAAI0/yzbLz5chLWw/s400/rsmvalcartier.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538076966589434594" /></a><br /><br /></i></span></div><i><b><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: bold; "><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 0.5in; font-weight: bold; "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194">J. Ritchie RSM Victoria Rifles of Canada</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194">H. D'All RSM Royal Montreal Regiment</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194">T. Turley RSM Black Watch (RHR)</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194">W. Cunningham RSM Service Corps</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194">G. Fogarty RSM Canadian Grenadier Guards</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center; font-weight: bold; "><b><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#083194">R. Diplock Brigade Sergeant Major (Ret)</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p></o:p></span></p></i><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#002060"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b><i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Sylfaen","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#083194"> </span></i></b></p>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-37182290137481580542010-11-01T16:18:00.015-04:002010-11-01T16:47:33.068-04:00matchboxes & golliwogs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TM8hmYD5ZLI/AAAAAAAAAFI/hPE-zcew9eo/s1600/golli.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 311px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TM8hmYD5ZLI/AAAAAAAAAFI/hPE-zcew9eo/s400/golli.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534679410239169714" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Golliwogs are not politically correct in today’s world, but they were a part of my life, and my Gran made some lovely ones as well as other<span> </span>fabric dolls. They were fabric dolls of colour,<span> </span>patterned after the minstrel shows as they were portrayed back then.<span> </span>The one Dan is holding in the photo had a green and white striped suit with pink polka-dotted swiss lapels and shirtfront – Gran sewed every curl of his hair by hand and his earring was a curtain ring.<span> </span>His bowtie was pink.<span> </span>Heaven only knows where he is now, but I would dearly love to have him.<span> </span>Once Gran<span> </span>made a nun, dressed entirely in a white habit complete with rosary.<span> </span>Grandad was the gardener for a convent – the details are fuzzy so I am not sure whether it was for his retirement or that of the Mother Superior - but the doll was made for whichever event it happened to be. Gran’s pride and joy was the sewing machine on the sideboard beside the dining table. You turned the wheel by hand (no pedals or electricity) – she made all the dolls and their clothes on it and many other things as well.<span> </span>Mum used it to make my first dresses … The china doll I am holding in the same photograph was a gift for my last birthday in England, my ninth – and the second doll and the last doll I was ever to possess.<span> </span>Dad sent the money from Canada – she had a china head, arms and legs and a cloth body.<span> </span>Much to my dismay I was to discover that her head had a seam from ear to ear which split open as I dropped her within the first hour.<span> </span>Fortunately, Grandad had glue.</span></i></p><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We didn’t have a lot, but then no-one in the rows of council houses did, that’s why we were all there. Grandad, a gentle Irishman who had developed black lung from laboring below ground in the Welsh mines from his teens to his 30s, had moved his family with no lock, stock or barrel<span> </span>to Surrey in search of work.<span> </span>He bicycled from Coedely in South Wales to the English countryside despite his lungs – he had little or no choice if he wanted to feed everyone.<span> </span>Eventually he found work on the railroad and later was the gardener cum general factotum at a nearby convent.<span> </span>Their first home in England was a disused Quonset hut where dampness misted the walls when it rained, a not unusual event, especially in the winter. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When they secured the council house that was to be their home until Grandad passed away 30 years later, it must have been a huge relief for him.<span> </span>Not a grand house, but it served his family of five quite well – a sitting room with space for a table and chairs, a scullery with Gran’s stove and another table, bathroom with just that – a bath, since the toilet although in the house proper, was reached by an outside door – and upstairs, one big bedroom, one smaller and the “box room” made into a third bedroom.<span> </span>Heat came from Gran’s kitchen stove and a coal fireplace downstairs as well as a fireplace in the ‘big’ bedroom.<span> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When one reaches the so-called golden years as I have, you often wonder if all your memories are really memories or simply events culled from stories told to you by others.<span> </span>Obviously I cannot claim to have been a witness to Gran &<span> </span>Grandad’s life in Wales or their move to England – I can however recall with great clarity each and every room in their council<span> </span>house and have memories, as well as stories, associated with almost all of them.<span> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This <span> </span>is one of the ‘culled events’ – most of my (remembered) life I have been terrified of fire in any form. As a child and even a teenager I simply could not even light a match, including the big, wooden kitchen ones.<span> </span>A sound in the night became fire crackling; sirens were signals of fire engines coming to wherever I was living at the time; the smoke from a wood fire meant that the wooden bones of my house were smouldering.<span> </span>The<span> </span>grate in Gran’s sitting room almost always had a nice, warm coal fire going – I remember the dampness on your back when your front was toasty warm, the firemarks on the front of your legs,<span> </span>somebody or other with chilblains, visiting the defunct air raid shelter in the back garden to fill the coal scuttle – never alone because there were spiders.<span> </span>As was the case with pretty much everyone we knew, the sitting room fire was the only one regularly lit, anything else was used just before bedtime and only briefly –they never did ‘take the chill off the air’, which was the reason given for lighting them.<span> </span>We did have hot water bottles though.<span> </span>Before these memories, something happened to which Mum ascribed my irrational fear of fire, something I honestly do not recall.<span> </span>I was barely toddling, Dad & Grandad were sitting on either side of the fire when apparently I decided to try out my newly-found legs;<span> </span>were it not for Dad seizing the back of my dress at the last second, my wobblies would have launched me face-first into the hot coals.<span> </span>I know it was pretty close because Dad could never imagine why I was not singed. Well, perhaps my skin was not, but my psyche sure was. Over the years<span> </span>I have become less paranoid as one does what one has to do in order to live – but that does not include using the gas oven with the pilot light in my present apartment<span> </span>(I have managed the stove-top burners without too much cringing) – I use a counter top electric oven to roast & bake. </span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TM8icJ-VXPI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/ra0dn3ahq5Y/s1600/sewing.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TM8icJ-VXPI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/ra0dn3ahq5Y/s400/sewing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534680334170676466" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nor do I recall the coal storage bin in its original incarnation as an air raid shelter yet I certainly spent time there along with the rest of the family. Since each house had an identical brick structure I am making a leap of faith in the assumption that the ubiquitous council provided this protection to those in proximity to London – rough concrete-roofed, solid brick – ours stood to the right as you went out the back kitchen door, Grandad’s shed was to the left, with the garden path between them.<span> </span>I bring this up because during the war years the little house that did so well for five was pushed to accommodate a<span> </span>few more – my uncle had married and there was a son John too; Mum & Dad were married & had produced moi – when Dad was off doing his Canadian Army duty & Uncle Den was doing the same in the RAF, his wife Big Peggy (big so as to distinguish from Mum’s little sister “our” Peggy), their son John & I swelled the family.<span> </span>Other sleeping arrangements elude me, but I am told that John & I were put to bed each night underneath the dining table where we could be easily grabbed & transported to the shelter when the air raid siren sounded – the table was also perceived as protection for the infants from an unannounced raid.<span> </span>I have often wondered how Auntie Peg at only ten years old felt about the ‘priority’ given to the babies – she did tell me once that what few<span> </span>toys she had became ours <span style="font-family:Wingdings;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-char-type:symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings"><span>L</span></span>.<span> </span>The dining table figured largely in childhood entertainment – our Gran espoused the philosophy that housework would always be there but children would not, so spend time with them while you can.<span> </span>Upended it became a pirate ship – we had cardboard swords & eyepatches with cocked hats fashioned from newspapers; with a sheet draped from leg to leg it was my faraway tree where sat on bed pillows and read when it was too wet outside (there was no heat in the bedrooms); it was a castle; <span> </span>it was what ever we children imagined.<span> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This next sitting room memory is as clear as a bell.<span> </span>Our Peg, along with the young man who was to become our Uncle Brian, was looking after undeniably missish me and my young brother Danny who was ostensibly asleep upstairs.<span> </span>Gran had a kiddie table in front of the window – I don’t recall the exact task, but we were <span> </span>at that table when we heard Dan’s footsteps on the stairs.<span> </span>Being me, I leapt up before the adults could react and arms akimbo officiously confronted my little brother, who by virtue of the steps was now of a like height, only to receive a bloody nose as a reward.<span> </span>He turned and went backup without a word while Peg dealt with my nose.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A much much later sitting room memory occurred when I was on my first return to England – I had brought cigarettes for our Peg and was not aware that Grandad did not know that she smoked and handed her a package right in front of him.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The scullery was warm.<span> </span>Gran making small beer from dandelion leaves in the huge earthenware bowl,<span> </span>Welsh cakes on the griddle, thick bacon rashers with rind for Sunday tea, birthday cakes … on that same return visit, the neighbour lady arriving with a bowl of cherries from her tree so that I would not have to pick my own. <span> </span>Gran did the ironing in the scullery, with two castiron irons heated on the griddle.<span> </span>Off the scullery, the bathroom, where bath water was heated by paying the geezer (sp?) ie by putting money in the gas heater.<span> </span>During the war, bath water was rationed to five inches once a week so people shared the water.<span> </span>Until we left England, Dan & I always shared the Saturday night bath to save paying the geezer twice, a hangover from the wartime rationing & economics.<span> </span>The laundry was done in the bathroom – Gran had a washboard on which she scrubbed everything (on her hands & knees beside the tub) – before she had a mangle, she wrung everything by hand, even bed sheets, and hung them on the clothesline. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Soooooo, sooner or later I guess I should get into the rest of the tag line …<span> </span>memories have been at least partially covered, but what of the matchboxes?<span> </span>I began by stating that we did not have much.<span> </span>There are times when I think of my son’s and nephews’ birthdays and Christmases that I wonder how my generation was not overcome with boredom. <span> </span>So much STUFF!<span> </span>Now I am not going to claim that our Christmases resemble those of Mum and her siblings – they had stockings with an orange & a lump of coal – and the reason I am not venturing there is because I honestly have no memory of<span> </span>one blessed Christmas before we<span> </span>came to Canada – I don’t think much was made of them or surely I would remember??<span> </span>Of course, nobody is left to ask either. I do remember having several lovely books, Johanna Spyri’s Heidi, Enid Blyton but am not sure how I got them. The Woolworths shop in our town carried a myriad of items as they did everywhere, and among those items were tiny, mini baby dolls not even as long as my little finger was at the time – these miniature dolls were within the realm of possible purchase and indeed I had quite a few, so did my friends.<span> </span>We collected matchboxes<span> </span>from our families and refurbished them up as wee beds and other furniture.<span> </span>A handmade pillow in a matchbox with the slip-on cover refinished in some scrap of fabric made a comfy baby cot.<span> </span>Gran used to put together entire sitting room sets, settees and armchairs, made from fabric and lace-covered match boxes – they were given as gifts and sometimes sold.<span> </span>It was Gran who supplied me with the scraps of material for mine.</span></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TM8jtg-CfZI/AAAAAAAAAFk/heHaxLoRONA/s1600/sunbeam.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TM8jtg-CfZI/AAAAAAAAAFk/heHaxLoRONA/s400/sunbeam.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534681731912859026" /></a><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Another source of amusement was faery dish gardens - faeries were after all a fact of life, they lived in the hedgerows and at the bottom of the garden, especially if the gardener let things run wild.<span> </span>We gathered moss, pretty coloured stones, tiny plants, berries and assorted items meant to make a comfortable habitat, then we cadged a dish and hopefully a bit of mirror or glass and <span> </span>spent hours arranging all our finds in the dish around a pond in a way we felt would please any faery.<span> </span>One of our neighbours had a derelict patio of sorts at the end of his garden where we could pick up small pale green tiles when occasionally allowed if we asked nicely.<span> </span>The fae loved them.</span></p></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What do I remember about the bedrooms ? Well to start with I have no idea where Danny & I slept.<span> </span>There were three rooms, Gran & Granddad had the front room with the fireplace except when Mum was giving birth – then she occupied the big bed – three times.<span> </span>Peg has said she slept in the box room, which leaves the third room for Mum, Dad, Dan & me – not sure how it worked.<span> </span>In addition to the births, there was another exception to bedroom number one and that was when I succumbed to the German measles.<span> </span>This was the only bedroom with heat and the doctor was apparently extremely worried – the measles had closed my eyes and he was not at all sure what the outcome would be. Mum & Gran bathed my eyes incessantly<span> </span>for days.<span> </span>One day, when Dad came home and made his nightly visit -<span> </span>I can hear Mum’s voice “look Daddy, she can open her eyes” <span> </span>-<span> </span><span> </span>I blinked open long enough to see a candle on the mantelpiece (the room was kept dark) … When Danny was born, he almost immediately developed what was referred to then as bronchial pneumonia. This meant that his cot was moved into the sitting room near the fire to keep him warm.<span> </span>Mum said it was touch & go for about six weeks – he came out of that (obviously <span style="font-family:Wingdings;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-char-type:symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings"><span>J</span></span> ) but suffered from the croup for much of his early childhood.<span> </span>I recall being awfully affronted when he was in hospital in an oxygen tent and got a new lorry! (Well it wasn’t his birthday after all).<span> </span>He was in hospital aboard ship with an attack when we travelled to Canada ,and so far as I remember the last one was on our first New Year’s in Canada, <span> </span>Mum & Dad were going out and we had to have the Doctor because Danny could not breathe. <span> </span>I was terribly impressed by the Doctor who interrupted a phone call on the party line so he could call the pharmacy.<span> </span>I for one outgrew sibling jealousy, but for along time Danny got a gift on MY birthday so he would not fuss.<span> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On to the funny, <span> </span>sorta.<span> </span>Each November in England, one celebrates (or celebrated??) Guy Fawkes day by burning the Guy and setting off fireworks.<span> </span>Sometimes it rains – hard.<span> </span>One year there was a downpour and we children were relegated to watch from the house while Dad and Grandad ventured into the back garden to set Guy alight (with some sort of flammable help) and attempt the fireworks.<span> </span>I am pretty sure that they only did this to stop the whining at the disappointment with rain on Guy Fawkes night – that being said they did get the Guy afire as I watched from the bed under the box room window. <span> </span>Then the fireworks – there were some that were in strings, sort of curved up together, that ‘walked’.<span> </span>Walk they did, only one turned around and headed straight for Dad who took off running.<span> </span>Already hyper from the whining I was hysterical with laughter, jumped up and down, managed to fall in between the bed and the window, smacking<span> </span>my nose on the sill – yet another bloody nose.<span> </span>Many years later I was to learn from Peg that Dad had run because whatever they had used to light the Guy was on his clothes – it could have been a very different story.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now that we are in the back garden … Grandad grew vegetables, all kinds of them.<span> </span>Potatoes, carrots, onions, cabbage stretched from the house to the laneway, unbroken except for a line of black currant bushes where the path ended halfway down.<span> </span>Dad was not a gardener but one spring Grandad enticed him into planting and caring for peas, which he did very well.<span> </span>He however did not think so because there was very little yield for the amount of plants in his estimation.<span> </span>Grandad listened to him then said that not much was sweeter than peas still in the pod<span> </span>(while nodding at Danny and me)… Dad never planted anything else.<span> </span>Two little children can wreak havoc in a garden.<span> </span>Grandad had to declare the black currant bushes verboten because we sat underneath them and ate the not quite ripe berries, making ourselves ill and limiting the crop.<span> </span>The previously mentioned neighbour lady with the bowl of cherries had a garden that was a child’s delight – apple, pear and cherry trees, blackberries, raspberries , black currants , gooseberries – the list goes on.<span> </span>We thought we were so smart! <span> </span>Down the garden we would go, past the shelter, crawling among Grandad’s veggies until we could cross into her garden sight unseen – uh huh.<span> </span>Why do you think she presented me with a bowl of cherries all those years later? Danny planted an apple seed and from it grew a tree.<span> </span>Gran used to periodically send pictures of the tree’s progress. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TM8kP7pr6eI/AAAAAAAAAFs/8vsNFrLHOMk/s1600/danstree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TM8kP7pr6eI/AAAAAAAAAFs/8vsNFrLHOMk/s400/danstree.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534682323190802914" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Oh gosh, we were not all bad and we were not alone in what we did – not that it makes it right – we were stealing.<span> </span>Idle minds and all that.<span> </span>This of course was before we found other things to do with our minds.<span> </span>Having the example of Gran, I was given a needle and thread when I was very young – I made the clothes and covers for the faeries and for a doll that was a precursor to Barbie.<span> </span>I watched Gran & Mum knit, begged needles and wool and taught myself how – to this day I knit with the wool in my<span> </span>left hand – I never did master the multi-tasking right hand.<span> </span>I read anything I could set my hand to – all of these things before I reached the age of four.<span> </span>Children are amazingly self-sufficient you know.<span> </span>The end of the garden path, halfway down the garden, was where I used to sit on sunny days to read, sew or knit – that is until I discovered my tree.<span> </span>At the very<span> </span>bottom of the garden was an unpaved laneway between us and the houses across the back and nestled in the lane, stunted and gnarled, was an ancient (to my mind)<span> </span>apple tree.<span> </span>Lord only knows whose it was to begin with. Its branches spread out horizontally as if it had been pruned that way and right in the center where the branches split, was a space just big enough and comfy enough to accommodate my four-year old bottom.<span> </span>So there I read.</span></p></i></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Once more I have blathered on …. Hopefully someone will like it …….</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p></i>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-43538920146113491752010-09-20T16:21:00.008-04:002010-09-20T16:49:34.506-04:00our Thomas<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s been a while …….. hard to </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">believe that I have not written anything in more than a month!</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One of the most interesting characters in our family saga is Thomas Stockwood, our gg-grandfather.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There were several Thomas’ , starting with the earliest we have been able to find to date, Thomas (1) born in Monmouth ca 1735, our 5</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> g-grandfather who had two sons, Thomas (2) ca 1752 Monmouth, husband to Margaret David and John ca 1755 husband of Ann Thomas.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thomas (2) & Margaret had several children, one of whom was yet another Thomas (3) baptized in 1790 at St. Woolas in Newport.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This Thomas(3) and his wife Maria May born ca 1798 in Newport, were married at St. James in Bristol on 28 December 1813 – they had sixteen children of record and moved the family from Monmouth to Cardiff in the early 1820s, in between the baptism of Joseph at St. Woolas in 1822 and that of Maria in Cowbridge in 1824.</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thomas (3) and Maria May did have a son called Thomas in 1814, but we are descended from h</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">is younger brother William who was baptized in 1821 at St. Woolas.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">William moved with the family to Cardiff when he was extremely young.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He married Louisa Fulli(n)love at St. John, Cardiff on 15 April 1839. In 1841 the census records them as living at Harris Buildings, Cardiff with their infant daughter Mary. William’s profession is ostler, not altogether unexpected given that his father Thomas (3) was a coachman.</span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Georgia","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Through the census records and the birth records of his children William is seen as progressing to “railway labourer” – 1848, “clerk Taff Vale” – 1851 and “stationmaster” – 1856.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The family, in accordance with William’s new profession, left Cardiff for Pentyrch where William was stationmaster, then on to Walnut Tree Junction. They were most certainly somewhat elevated in prosperity </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">along with William’s job at the Taff Vale.</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Our” Thomas, if you will, </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">was William & Louisa’s third child and eldest son, baptized in 1843 in Cardiff.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was in researching our Thomas that I began to get a hint of the incredible amount of records available at the National Archives in Britain and associated repositories ~ and it absolutely amazes me to this day.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Knowing from Annie Gertrude’s file that Thomas had drowned at sea I set out to find </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">whatever I could.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Once again, folks on the list came through and let me know that given his date of death & the name of the ship upon which he was serving, I might be able to find his registration papers.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And I did – with lots of help!</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A friend went to Kew then mailed me a copy of Thomas’ Certification as Second Engineer, which he earned in Bristol on May 28</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> 1865.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Speaking as a researcher, opening the proverbial can of worms is not necessarily a bad thing … on the registry record were listed all the ships he upon which he served and all the voyages he took from registration until his death …. perhaps this illustrates why we are always looking for the ‘one more thing’ – you never know what may be attached! The friend who had procured the registration,</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">an expert in records maritime, enclosed the ‘how to’ instructions for interpretation of the ships’ information – quite an exercise – they are in ‘code’ so as to minimize the use of space I imagine.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For instance, the 1868 column contains the following notations:</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">60255</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lord Bute</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">21.10 62 Galveston<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">21.2. 69 Galveston<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">62<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">60255<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lord Bute<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">11.3 62 Galaty<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">16.6 72 Galaty</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Which translates into : The Lord Bute, Ships’ Registry # 60255 sailed on October 21, 1868 from Liverpool (port#62) to Galveston.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(British ports are assigned a #, foreign ports are not) – February 21 1869, she sailed from Galveston to Liverpool.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">March 11 1869 the voyage to Galaty (Mediterranean) started in Liverpool (#62) and ended on 16 June in Newport (#72)….. I am not sure of everything written there, but have been able to extract a fairly comprehensive, albeit short,</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">history of his career.</span></span></i></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">To summarize:</span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Georgia","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thomas Stockwood was born 15 October 1842 in Cardiff</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">baptized 19 November 1843 in Cardiff<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">as far as we have been able to determine he began his seafaring career aboard the Isabella Croll (#17769) in late 1863<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">received his Certificate of Competency as 2nd Engineer 23 May 1865 at Bristol based on his experience aboard the Isabella Croll<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">married Angelina Collins aka Annie at St. John, Cardiff 31 May 1866<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">first son Thomas William baptized 19 May 1867 at Cardiff<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">daughter Annie Gertrude baptized 25 June 1869 Tonwynglais<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in; "><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">drowned at sea 15 April 1874 off the coast of Cadiz at the Sancti Petri shoals – he was 32 years old<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">son Alfred John, our g-grandfather was born 7 June 1874 at Cardiff</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After Thomas’ </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">death and the birth of Alfred John,</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Angelina sold their possessions and moved close to her in-laws William & Louisa. I have not been able to determine whether they actually lived together or just nearby.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In August of 1876,</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Angelina died of a “ramolissement” of the brain;</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">she was followed by William in December of the same year.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In 1877 we see the application for placement in the Muller Homes wherein Louisa is deemed unable to care for her grandchildren. The original request was for all three children, but in the end it was only Annie who went.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In 1881 Thomas William resided with his maternal great-aunt Urina Hicks Davies in Eglwysilan and Alfred John with his Uncle John Collins in Morganstown, Radyr. We have been able to trace Thomas William – his marriage & child – and of course Alfred, but Annie Gertrude, after her release from M</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">uller into the care of an aunt, continues to elude us.</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For about ten years, this was all I had been able to find ~ then earlier this year, on a whim as is so often the case, I ‘googled’ “Cornubia shipwreck Cadiz” & WOW – up popped several auction house entries from two years previously, advertising this:</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">NINETEENTH CENTURY SHIPWRECK: notarial copy of an official shipwreck protest</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: black; "><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">issued by the British Consul Cadiz, dated April 16th, 1874 describing in</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div> <span class="apple-style-span"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">detail the fate of the steamship Cornubia out of Cardiff and wrecked off the</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Spanish coast. Written in neat scribal hand on 11pp folio with official</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">stamps. £30-£40. </span></div></span></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My heart stoppe</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">d – or at least did a really good lurch! Each of the houses concerned very kindly volunteered to contact their buyers to see if anyone still had the papers ~ to no avail …….. but yet again, listers are the best! Two people sent newspaper accounts of the Official Board of Trade Enquiry, one from the Western Mail dated 20May 1874</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">& the other from</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the Bristol Mercury edition 23 May 1874.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></i></span><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: black; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I shivered when reading the account from the Western Mail in particular – this is an excerpt:</span></span></i></span><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: black; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Two or three minutes afterwards he telegraphed that the engines must be stopped, and when he required them to be in action again, in order to get the ship from off the shoals, he learnt that they were disabled.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With regard to Stockwood, the second engineer, who still remained on the vessel, he (the captain) gave him a life-buoy and said</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Here is the ship sinking, and very likely I shall go down with it.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Why don’t you try to save your life?”</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There was a ladder lying at his feet, and he begged Stoc</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">kwood to pick it up and jump into the sea with it.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Stockwood took the ladder in hand, looked at it, dropped it down again, and turned away. “</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is difficult to reach the conclusion that I did unless one reads both articles and the Board of Trade summary I later found at the Archives – but I feel that Thomas died needlessly, that the Master was negligent, and I do not believe for one second that a man with two small children and a third on the way would be so cavalier. I instead believe that Thomas was ordered below to restart the engines & died as a consequence – just my opinion, but there it is.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The fact that the Master constantly attempts to shift blame to the Mate ……</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Since the acquisition of the newspaper accounts, I have obtained a very abbreviated official inquiry summary from the Archives as mentioned above, as well as Thomas’ actual Certificate of Competency – as opposed to the copy of the Register. Along with the Certificate is his application for same, in his own handwriting .. so wonderful to have this from over 100 years ago.</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I shall not give upon the search for the Consular Protest – it is out there somewhere …</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As a result of my delving into Thomas’ life as a mariner I have gained a new efriend in the person of a retired Merchant Mariner as well as his wife and family – they have become of invaluable help in trying to determine exactly what happened on April 15</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> 1874.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TJfEy7_GR-I/AAAAAAAAAE4/jI46NtvGInk/s1600/sancti1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TJfEy7_GR-I/AAAAAAAAAE4/jI46NtvGInk/s400/sancti1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519096247740680162" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Isla Sancti Petri and the Castillo, showing a hint of what it could be with a storm ....</span></i></p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TJfF_tzcsNI/AAAAAAAAAFA/PzK7SysowE8/s1600/cert1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 317px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TJfF_tzcsNI/AAAAAAAAAFA/PzK7SysowE8/s400/cert1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519097566783647954" /></a>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-76844242191683727922010-08-18T15:26:00.014-04:002010-08-18T16:01:58.560-04:00absolutely not about genealogy<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mid-August {sigh} …… where has (most of) summer gone? Well, wherever summer has gone/is going, fall is coming and the winter-is-around-the-corner syndrome has hit with a vengeance. Thanks in part to air-conditioning (we have been 100+ frequently this year) I have halfway knitted a new scarf ~ with no snowflakes in sight. Arthritis-in-the-thumb be damned, I refuse to spend my hard-earned $$ on mass-produced stuff any more. Got a little long-absent knitting enthusiasm going and unearthed some other patterns, notably one for an aran purse I have always wanted to make. Wonder if I will this time? Hmmm ……</span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TGw07LG9MFI/AAAAAAAAAD4/lbRl982drHs/s1600/yarn.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TGw07LG9MFI/AAAAAAAAAD4/lbRl982drHs/s400/yarn.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506834635566166098" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One love of my life that never sleeps nor takes a sabbatical is </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">reading </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">~</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">this summer, replete with glorious five-day weekends, has been epic.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">All three of Steig Larssen’s Millennium tomes bit the dust. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was so wound up in the first two that I a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ctually bought for the first time in forever,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">the hardcover edition of number three because the paperback was not out..</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A second hardcover, since I</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> simply could not wait, again, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Guy Gavriel Kay’s Under Heaven – an absolutely incredible read and a definite read-again – as a matter of fact I have not even put it in a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">bookcase.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then along came</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Minette Walters, Greg Iles, Kathy Reichs, Peter Robinson</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">and oh wonder of wonders, the magnificent Stephe</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n King and his delicious Under the Dome.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">SK at his finestkind.</span></span></i></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TGw2bRa7OEI/AAAAAAAAAEA/5NOp-EED6EA/s1600/books.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TGw2bRa7OEI/AAAAAAAAAEA/5NOp-EED6EA/s400/books.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506836286527977538" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have been reading (and knitting) since before I was four years old – my favourite book as a child was Kingsley’s The Water Babies seconded by anything Enid Blyton. It was a</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> given in our house that I could not simply be called for dinner if I was deep in a book, I had to be physically touched or I would read right through any</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> mealtime. That being said, only two books in my entire adult life have affected me personally (and</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> my adult life accounts for a considerable length of time) - the first was Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. Hospitalized at 16 for tests, I received my first copy from a friend – I could not put it down. Perhaps it was the</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> era, my own idealism, but I really, really wanted to be Dagny Taggart (and find John Galt). Romanticism aside, Ms. Rand’s depict</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ion of the destruction of a corrupted society scared me to death. Some years later and a lot of water under the bridge, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Stand arri</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ved (bless Mr.King) – one more time the world as we know it became redundant – in my mind I became Frannie helped that I identified Harold as a teenage acquaintance),</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">confused but with th</span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">at strong inner spark. I have absolutely no idea of how many times I have read each of these…….</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Reading Under the Dome spurred me to re-read other Stephen works, so far I have</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> gone through Lisey’s Story, </span></span><span style="font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Hearts in Atlantis, Talisman, Black House (latter two with Peter Straub), The Dead Zone</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">…… and currently Insomnia.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I see Duma Key staring at me as well.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Despite all of this I have a </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">confession to make – </span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Georgia","serif"">–<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>for reasons I cannot fathom I have never been able to get “into” the Dark Tower series – each time I have tried, because I KNOW I will love it, I get stopped dead part way through Gunslinger …….</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Georgia","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-style: normal; "><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family: "Georgia","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri;mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA">UPCOMING EXCITEMENT!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></i></span>The erudite Jack Whyte has a new book due out in September.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have read his Dreams of Eagles series several times as well as the Knights Templar Trilo</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">gy. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This book is the first of the new Guardians Trilogy, the subject is the Scottish Wars of Independence, and it is called The Forest Laird – William Wallace,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">to be followed by Robert the Bruce and later The Black Douglas.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Given our family history and Dad’s propensity for quo</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ting Robbie Burns “</span></span></i><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">'Scots, wha hae wi'</span></span></span></i></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></i></span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span style="color:black;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wallace" title="William Wallace" style="background-attachment:initial;background-origin: initial;background-clip: initial; background-color:initial;background-position:initial initial;background-repeat: initial initial"><span style="color:#0645AD;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Wallace</span></span></span></a></span></i></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></i></span><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">bled”, </span></span></span><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">they should be extremely interesting. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Another author, of whose books I have read only one and was suitably impressed, is Mark Chadbourn.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Quite some time </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ago I picked up his Lord of Silence and loved</span></span> it. </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Inexplicably (to me at least ) my bookstore has not seen fit to stock anything else of his, until now that is -</span></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Because of this experience with Mark Chadbourn’s books – and others ( Kate Forsyth,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Stephen Lawhead, Maggie Furey et al)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have been </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">thinking about an e-reader ….. just thinking though – I might have a hard time giving up the ‘feel’ of a book in my hands and yet, the weight of the reader versus a hard cover book or even today’s trade paperbacks would be much easier on the </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">arthritis in these hands, not to mention that ordering books online in the midst of winter would be infinitely preferable to venturing outside. I do so love being in a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> bookstore though {sigh} <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Throughout the years I have read a huge</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> proportion of the classics from Dostoyevsky to Dickens, best sellers such as Gone with the Wind, but now I concentrate mostly upon my true loves, fantasy literature and </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">any and all interpretations or points of view on the Uther/Arthur/Merlin saga with a few mysteries thrown in for good measure.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In no particular order, some favourites …..<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">~ Guy Gavriel Kay ~ Maggie Furey ~ Pamela Freeman ~ Janny Wurts ~ Helen Hollick ~ Mark James ~ Gail Z Martin ~ Irene Radford ~ Karen Miller ~ Mark Chadbourn ~ Gregory Frost ~ Holly Taylor ~ Robert Scott & Jay Gordon ~ Bernard Cornwell ~ Edward</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Rutherfurd ~ Ayn Rand ~ Thomas B. Costain ~ Trudy Canavan ~ Khaleed Hosseini ~ </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Stephen Lawhead ~ Marion Zimmer Bradley ~ Jack Whyte ~ Anne Kelleher ~ Laura Resnick ~ Kathy Reichs ~ Greg Iles ~ Minette Walters ~ Juliette Marillier ~<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I think I started this whilst</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">bemoaning the approaching end of summer …. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">back to SK …</span></span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TGw3I5u4bhI/AAAAAAAAAEI/wmQFnGkJqqs/s1600/cheshire.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 169px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TGw3I5u4bhI/AAAAAAAAAEI/wmQFnGkJqqs/s400/cheshire.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506837070443212306" /></a>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-34992915071211817062010-08-02T07:57:00.011-04:002010-08-02T08:24:45.988-04:00sooooooooo – who are the Stockwoods??<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:small;"><i>To date we haven’t visited Mum’s family at all, so here goes …</i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>.</i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Mum’s mother Terry, our Gran, was Stockwood by birth and a Linehan by marriage</i></span></span></span></div></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>.</i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>her mother Eveline (Grannie Stockwood) was married to a Stockwood and was a Davies by </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>birth</i></span></span></span></div></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>.</i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Eveline’s mother Maria (Grannie Davies, so as to be distinguished from her daughter) was a </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Davies by marriage and a Price by birth. Not knowing Grannie Davies’ Christian name, </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>asked our Peg who was convinced she was called Eveline, like her daughter. Uncle Den </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>however, set me straight – she was Maria Price ~ Our Mum was called Gertrude Maria and </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Uncle Den was Dennis Price Linehan in her memory. </i></span></span></span></div></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>.</i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Gran married a gentle Irish miner called Daniel Linehan who had arrived in Wales barely </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>into his teens and found work in the pit at Coedely. They had three children – Dennis Price, </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Gertrude Maria (Mum) & Margaret Teresa – all three gave me as much information as they </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>could - we even have an audio tape courtesy of Peg, of Gran singing all the ‘old’ songs. It <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>has </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>often occurred to wonder how she sang so prettily given she was rendered deaf when <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>quite </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>young.</i></span></span></span></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Rather than attempt to unravel the Davies records in Wales for the moment, I chose to go with the Stockwoods, especially since apart from his name, no-one really knew a blessed thing about great-grandad Alfred John Stockwood.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></i></span></span><span style="font-weight:bold;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:small;"><i>baby steps </i></span></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>One of the first places one looked for family back then was the 1881 Census for the UK (not including Ireland). There were a lot of Stockwoods ~ including a six year old Alfred John, born in Cardiff, listed as ”nephew”, living with a John Collins and his wife Sarah-Annie. </i></span></span></span></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TFa2sUkQOlI/AAAAAAAAADo/Xpp0H97VHms/s1600/ajstockwood.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 231px; height: 352px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TFa2sUkQOlI/AAAAAAAAADo/Xpp0H97VHms/s400/ajstockwood.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500784867430906450" /></a><i><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>(herewith began the mass accumulation of paper – I kept every Stockwood listing from 1881, feeling that someday they would prove to be “mine” – and down the road a few years, most of the Welsh ones are!). </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Must digress a wee bit to confess that I do “collect” Stockwoods. By this I mean that I research the name even when I cannot immediately prove a connection ~ in doing this I have details from all over the world, including a large family in our own province of Newfoundland ~ Florence, the researcher, ‘knows’ that an ancestor called John came from the UK, but not his actual origins. Similar families exist in parts of the UK, in Lincolshire & Essex where a William Stockwood married into the Moncar family – William’s father, whom I have never found, was Thomas, a bricklayer from Middlesex. Two Welsh Stockwood ladies married into the Hole family – one of</i></span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;">these ladies we have absolutely identified, the other, because of a date discrepancy, is a bit of a problem.</span></div></i></span></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Perhaps the best link, because it included contact with a living relative, was looking into Gran’s claimed connection with Arthur Mervyn Stockwood, late Bishop of Southwark. Peg said they did not really believe Gran, but research has proven that they should have, Gran & Arthur were in fact third cousins. His nephew David, who sadly has since passed away, lived in Toronto ~ we exchanged quite a few emails about the family.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i><b>Back to Alfred John </b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Mailing lists are wonders. I needed to know who AJ’s parents were and a list member with local access to parish records kindly presented me with their names – Thomas Stockwood and Annie Collins along with a bonus of two other children, both older than AJ, Thomas William (1867) and Annie Gertrude (1869). </i></span></div></i></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;"><i>In 1881, Thomas William, a fourteen year old clerk and nephew, was living at the Junction Hotel in Taff’s Well with the proprietors, John and Urina Davies.</i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Annie Gertrude at twelve, was in an orphanage – of their parents there was no sign, ominous if you take into account Annie Gertrude’s residence, the Muller Homes in Bristol. </i></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TFa11SHzTjI/AAAAAAAAADg/Tj5Z4ySgR1Q/s1600/annieletter2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 115px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TFa11SHzTjI/AAAAAAAAADg/Tj5Z4ySgR1Q/s400/annieletter2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500783921881894450" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>The orphanage was to be my first BIG BREAK – the Muller Homes were still in existence, albeit as a museum and I was able to obtain and hold in my hand photocopies of handwritten correspondence from 1877, requesting that Annie be admitted, the information that had to be supplied, her acceptance and her dismissal in 1882. </i></span></div></i></span></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> From this I learned that:</i></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Thomas, her father, had drowned at sea in 1874 </i></span></span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>our grandfather AJ was born after his father’s death</i></span></span></span></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>her mother Annie (or Angelina) passed away in 1876</i></span></span></span></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Thomas’ father William who was helping Angelina, died two months later in 1876</i></span></span></span></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;"><i>All relatives, Grandparents, aunts and great-aunts, uncles and great-uncles, were enumerated along with their relationships and reasons why they could not take Annie in – some would be willing to take though her if for any reason she had to leave the Home. </i></span></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Interestingly, one had blatantly lied as I was to discover later – Urina Hicks Davies states that she was a widow, yet in 1881, four years later, her husband John was alive, well & running the Junction Hotel with Annie’s older brother Thomas in residence. </i></span></span></span></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;"><i>The papers included:</i></span></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>the death certificate for Angelina</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>the newspaper article recounting Thomas death</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Thomas and Angelina’s marriage certificate</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>Annie’s birth certificate</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>statements of health from a doctor</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>. </i></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>letters from town officials detailing the childrens’ financial situation</i></span></span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>... a veritable goldmine of information. How sad that the necessity of placing a child in an orphanage would result in someone a hundred years later being able to tarce their family.</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>This set of documents with its myriad pieces of information, no matter how obscure, has allowed me to build a decent family history, albeit the “distaff” side as Dad would have said, tongue in cheek………</i></span></span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TFa32t41ZzI/AAAAAAAAADw/I3wHzH-10HI/s1600/mullerhousde.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 244px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TFa32t41ZzI/AAAAAAAAADw/I3wHzH-10HI/s400/mullerhousde.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500786145538434866" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">With the deaths of their father, mother and grandfather, Angelina and Thomas’ three children were separated. One has to wonder if they ever saw each other again – certainly neither Mum nor her brother and sister knew of them – perhaps Gran did, but if so, she never said …</span></i></span></div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-65991223276653162362010-07-25T09:30:00.008-04:002010-07-25T10:04:13.526-04:00the uncle we didn’t know (about) and the aunt who never was …<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As time went on and finding additional information from afar became more difficult, I hired a researcher in Scotland to locate and transcribe birth, marriage & death records from the ledgers. This involves finding an event in the master index and then looking at the full entry, so you do have to have at least an idea of the year. Transcription by an accredited person is inherently less expensive than ordering actual certificates on top of research fees for people who may or may not be yours, therefore a lot do this, especially for family members who are not in their direct line. One should also record the indexed location for backup. A transcription will sometimes provide more information than the certificate itself.</span></span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">OOPS – sorry – wandered off there ...</span></span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Along with the death record of our g-grandad Alex came a surprise – it was witnessed by his son George – of whom we had never heard one whisper in our entire lives. You may recall that at</span></span><span style="font-family:"georgia","sans-serif""> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the start of this endeavour I stated that Grandpop had had three sisters; he had alternated vacation visits to them, Ella and her husband Jack Chivas in Victoria BC one year, Lizzie and her husband Bill Moon as well as Jean in Dundee the other – but no brother. </span></span></i><i><span style="font-family:"georgia","sans-serif""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family:"georgia","sans-serif""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The researcher looked into it ~ lo & behold she found George’s birth – he was indeed Grandpop’s brother. Total incomprehension on my part.</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family:"Verdana","sans-serif""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:"georgia","sans-serif""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I distinctly remember calling Dan and asking if he had ever heard that Grandpop had a brother ~ there was a pause and then a noooo that went up at the end with question mark. Called <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Mag</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">gie too – nope. It is always a good thing to check with both brother and sister because there is a considerable difference in our ages and Dan & I recall some things while Maggie remembers others. I resorted to the bits and pieces in the albums and found some photographs from Grandpop’s trips, those in which I did not recognize the folks. Lizzie & her husband Bill were well-known to us as were Ella & Jack, so it was by process of elimination that I chose which pictures to remove from the horrid sticky pages – on the back of one Dad had written “George & Jean”. Amazing.</span></span></span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Revelation though he may have been, poor George ended up on the back burner for a couple of years, until I made a trip to the UK and went to visit Betty, Alex’ (Ottawa) sister. I had been named after Nanny (Helen) and Grandpop’s sister Jean (or so I thought) , who was rarely if ever mentioned ~ we knew more of Ella & Lizzie and our Mum had been of the opinion that Jean was ‘frail’ and in hospital a good bit of the time. </span></span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Auntie Lizzie was still with us then, although very elderly and in hospital. We contacted her daughter Irene - she did not think it would be wise to visit her Mum who had become both blind and deaf, so we chatted instead. Irene was the first person I heard refer to Dad as young Harry in general conversation – as a young person her older cousin Harry had spent many a summer in Dundee </span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">J</span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span></span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yes, according to Irene there was an Uncle George, married with children and visited by Grandpop every second year when he visited her Mum Lizzie. Nope, no sister Jean but George’s wife was Jane so perhaps I was named after her ?? – another thing we will never really know. Irene was not terribly interested in the family history, but she did help as best she could. </span></span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Several years later I exchanged phone calls and emails with George’s daughter Evelyn who had run across my (now defunct) web page. She supplied me with information on her brothers George (yup, another one) and Douglas as well as her own life with her husband Joe and their boys Ian and Brian. </span></span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Funny how versions of events differ from person to person – when I wondered aloud why Grandpop had never mentioned George, Irene had recounted a story of him (George) as a baby being dropped by Grandpop and ending up with a limp and perhaps Grandpop felt guilty?? Evelyn however was very aware that her Dad had had a congenital disease that caused his limp. She could not think why I might have been named after her Mum ~ frankly, neither could I ~ and not a one of us could fathom why our branch of the family did not know of her parents …….. she said her Dad always looked forward to Grandad’s visits.</span></span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here we were, having had lived our lives until now thinking that Dad, an only child, had just one cousin in Irene, also an only child, when he actually had three more in George’s children … his family had just ‘lost’ Jean but gained a bunch ~ tripled or quadrupled or something like that … math is not my strong suit .</span></span></i><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, to be clear ~ Grandpop (Harry Bruce D’All) married Helen (Nell) King; they, with our Dad Harry King D’All, ended up in Montréal ~ Auntie Lizzie married William (Bill) Moncur Moon, they lived in Dundee and had a daughter Irene ~ Ella married John (Jack) Watson Chivas and emigrated to Victoria, British Columbia; they had no children ~ George married Jane Alexander Fenton Ramsay; they had three children in Scotland, George, Douglas & Evelyn ~ oh, and there was no Jean.</span></span><o:p></o:p></i></p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TExCkSH8ZCI/AAAAAAAAACw/3ezYpjrko54/s1600/lizziandbill.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 376px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TExCkSH8ZCI/AAAAAAAAACw/3ezYpjrko54/s400/lizziandbill.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497842436220412962" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TExC38eV1FI/AAAAAAAAAC4/aL6w2iTevCU/s1600/ellajack.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 380px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TExC38eV1FI/AAAAAAAAAC4/aL6w2iTevCU/s400/ellajack.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497842774006158418" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TExDu6i4weI/AAAAAAAAADQ/VME5b5VrP3s/s1600/georgejanedall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 366px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TExDu6i4weI/AAAAAAAAADQ/VME5b5VrP3s/s400/georgejanedall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497843718381158882" /></a>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-37915360983305636762010-07-24T14:14:00.007-04:002010-07-24T14:23:18.975-04:00insatiable reader am I .....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TEsuUbz8tZI/AAAAAAAAACg/9V1sDgThAhg/s1600/ag24.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 138px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TEsuUbz8tZI/AAAAAAAAACg/9V1sDgThAhg/s320/ag24.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497538698733729170" /></a><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Homage to Stephen King, master weaver</span></b><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>No power loom with flying shuttle for this man. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>He sets up the strong threads of the warp for each masterpiece by hand, thread by thread, - the static elements, the basic colours, the story line, all established with infinite care and aforethought. They are the constants, the frame within which the characters collide, split, disappear, or go on. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>The weft - hues and shades galore .. perhaps even he does not know at the beginning whether the bright blue weft will blaze throughout, break with no warning or just fade away. Does he call the other-than-humans the woof, or are they all, bright or subdued, the weft? Will the inimitable scarlet get past the selvage?? I picture Mr. King with a fistful of many-coloured threads, each thread an intricate blend of love, angst, anger, greed, curiousity, determination, premonition, fatalism. </i></span></div></i></span></span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:small;"><i>Threads of like hues make up the background characters, those not central to the tale but needed to provide the ‘mood’, the everyday man, the sheep. A few of these have a hint of bright yellow, they are those who realize what is happening is wrong, but feel helpless (or too afraid) to change it … and they will likely perish. Still others have more of the bright yellow, entangled with an even brighter green – these are the wefts who try to alter the conditions and may, by one act of bravery (or foolishness depending upon one’s point of view) do just that. </i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The purple of the power seekers blended with the black of non-conscience and orange of anger is evident from the start and along with the lighter coloured hangers-on will last until almost the conclusion. Unlikely heroes, heroines – kids, men, women, dogs … all have a warm red base embedded with the grey of despair, the bright white of hope, the glorious gold of conviction …. yet even some of these are truncated … and in them all, the glittery silver of the unknown. </i></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>In and out, up and down, weft to warp, he creates. Everything comes together in an incredible blend of colours, a tapestry of the first order crated by the master weaver. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Thank you Mr. King</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>(written after reading Under the Dome)</i></span></div></i></span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TEsumXYTn_I/AAAAAAAAACo/17eOJ4m4EYw/s1600/sk.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TEsumXYTn_I/AAAAAAAAACo/17eOJ4m4EYw/s320/sk.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497539006781693938" /></a>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-2020867070975604162010-07-18T19:49:00.005-04:002010-07-18T19:58:27.175-04:00where are Nanny & Grandpop??<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The living room is a disaster. As it becomes more and more cluttered with photographs in various stages of order, euphemistically speaking of course, I for the first time am missing my separate office and large desk of the old house. That being said, it is a mess I can live with temporarily – well, it’s not really a mess, just an upset. The end will justify the means… </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></b></p> <br /><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">where are Nanny & Grandpop?</span></span></b></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TEOUXjjL3dI/AAAAAAAAACY/_ae-q1LN8wI/s1600/nangranddall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TEOUXjjL3dI/AAAAAAAAACY/_ae-q1LN8wI/s320/nangranddall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495399102722858450" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The short answer is “Believe it or not, we don’t know”. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nanny passed away in Montreal in the spring of 1951. She was Helen King D’All, King was her maiden name. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The death of his mother brought our Dad back to Canada and later that sa</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">me year, Mum, Dan & I followed.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There is only a very dim recollection of Nanny in the back of my mind … of our first foray to Montréal after the war </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">when </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I became Red Riding Hood for Hallowe’en (scared witless of ghosties and ghoulies) –and of a baby doll all dressed in pale green knits that she sent with a friend who was on a trip to England.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nanny was Past-President of the now-defunct Scottish Clans in Montréal and there are lots of condolence letters –</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">it is a strange feeling indeed to see your name preceded by “the Late” when you are living and breathing </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(I am named after her).</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Not much was ever said about Nanny except that she was very ill and bedridden for the last few years of life and that she was young, only 50 when she died.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Going by the surgery we know she h</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ad, I would opine colon cancer – but cancer was a word uttered in hushed tones in the 1950s, if it was uttered at all.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fast forward to 1969 – in December we lost Grandpop.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fast forward again to 1997 and the devastating loss of our Mum,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">whom the world knew and loved as Annie ~ well, at least the Canadian world, at home in the UK she is forever </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘our Gertie’.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mum had expressed the wish to be cremated and when I made the arrangements </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was informed that in order for her to have her own marker, as opposed to her name simply being inscribed on a central column,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I would have to purchase a double plot, which of course I did.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The thought then occurred that no-one had ever mentioned Grandpop’s interment </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, so after a discussion with Dan & Maggie, we agreed that I would retrieve his ashes and have him buried with Mum. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The best of intentions sometimes go awry ~ there were no ashes at the crematorium and according to the funeral home, Dad</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">had signed for and taken Grandad’s ashes. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Uh oh??</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We asked Mum’s family, neighbours, anyone we could think of and nobody</span></span><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">knew what had been done with Grandpop.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The next solution (hopefully) was to find the disposition of Nanny’s ashes and there would be Grandpop, right? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">No</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">eureka </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">here either ~ history had simply repeated itself albeit with a casting change when Grandpop died, it seems he had signed for and</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">taken </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nanny’s ashes just as Dad had with his. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I remain convinced that Grandpop took Nanny back to Scotland on one of his many trips, but I have no proof.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It has always been my </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">impression however, that she would have been happier in Dundee and if my conviction is true, it makes me feel that he knew it and made sure she got home.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There is a family suspicion that Dad may have scattered Grandpop’s ashes over the St. Lawrence ~ in reality ~ we have no clue whatsoever ………..</span></span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></p>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-29855750752545320252010-07-11T19:25:00.015-04:002010-07-11T20:21:31.128-04:00around the next corner<div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I am committed ~ since mid-afternoon a box has been sitting in my kitchen, in that box are about two dozen photograph albums ~ empty. Several lifetimes worth of photographs now reside in my living room waiting to be identified, sorted into logical groups, scanned and recorded onto cds for the family. A few of the albums were the horrible “sticky” kind and a good many of those pages will have to be scanned as a whole, then separated into individual pictures using PS. Once that is done, all the originals will go into proper archival albums. Somewhere in there I have to choose a suitable software for storage & publication.<br /><br />As a child, I received a Brownie Hawkeye camera for Christmas and began to take many, many pictures. Soon I realized that they were disappearing, being sent “home” by Mum. To counteract that I created albums, labeled the pictures, captioned them , even dedicated the albums – today as I emptied those same books there were many vacant spaces, even in the captioned ones – or there were completely unrelated shots in place bearing my original captions. Later on I began to take slides and continued to do so when I graduated to a 35mm. The consequence of that last move is the need to print all those slides in order to include them in the project. Mum would have been flummoxed by digital cameras, God love her.<br /><br />There is no target date because I have absolutely no idea how long this will take <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDpTr3uTPCI/AAAAAAAAAB4/LSnD2leMrjk/s1600/owl.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 53px; height: 45px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDpTr3uTPCI/AAAAAAAAAB4/LSnD2leMrjk/s320/owl.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492794708689370146" /></a> will let you know how it goes </span></span></i></p><i><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Helen</span><o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /></i></p><i><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">around the next corner<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /></span></span></i></p><i></i></i></i><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><i><i><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sometimes you get desperate.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></i></p><i></i></i></i></i><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><i><i><i><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A family name containing an apostrophe can be a problem,search engines may ignore or reject it and a plain old “google”will dredge up Latin languages posts ad infinitum containing “d’a”. On an evening when it seemed that all leads were exhausted I idly punched our name into the Canadian telephone database, expecting only one result (mine) – there were five.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></i></p><i></i></i></i></i></i><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><i><i><i><i><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And the feather arrived to knock me over.</span></span></i></p></i></i></i></i></i><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><i><i><i><i><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mine of course, two in the Ottawa area and two out west. Naturally I wrote to all of them (snailmail) and one more time, a phone call did it, this time a gentleman who knew EXACTLY how to pronounce our name –ie family.</span></span></i></p></i></i></i></i></i><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><i><i><i><i></i></i><p class="MsoNormal"><i><i><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Alex lives in Ottawa with his wife Mary, the other listings were their sons Alex, Billy and Graeme and they also have a daughter Mary.Here is more proof of the wrongness of the “we were the only immigrants” theory – Alex himself is an immigrant!<br /><br />Hierarchically, Alex is second cousin to Dad, his daughter and two of his sons between them have seven children(and counting, hence our generation had gained another gaggle of 3rds, most of whom we met when invited to Alex & Mary’s 50th wedding anniversary party. Alex also has a brother Graeme & sister Betty in Scotland; Betty had done some family research and I stayed with her on a subsequent trip to the UK, first time I had been in Scotland – ever.</span></span></i></i></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><i><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></i></i></i></p></i><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In talking family with Alex we untangled the relationship – Alexander (1853) D’All & Mary Jane McDowell had three sons :</span></span></i></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">George, born in Dundee in 1875 was Mary’s father, shown here with his wife Jessie Gow Robertson:</span></span></i></p></div></span></div></i><i><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDpUPULk2EI/AAAAAAAAACA/POg1XEJEtBw/s1600/georgejess.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDpUPULk2EI/AAAAAAAAACA/POg1XEJEtBw/s320/georgejess.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492795317623773250" /></a></i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Samuel, born in 1876 was Alex’ (Ottawa) Grandad, shown with his wife Agnes Dryden Scrimgeou</span></span>r.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDpVP3kCSmI/AAAAAAAAACI/bIRrn5QrnFo/s1600/samnagnes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 205px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDpVP3kCSmI/AAAAAAAAACI/bIRrn5QrnFo/s320/samnagnes.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492796426633235042" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Alexander, born 1878 was our great-grandfather, with his wife Isabella Bruce.<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDpeIFjUICI/AAAAAAAAACQ/YikwkxSgd0Q/s1600/alexbella.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDpeIFjUICI/AAAAAAAAACQ/YikwkxSgd0Q/s320/alexbella.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492806188554002466" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />Betty knew of a family grave and some history in Dundee and I made tentative plans to visit –my first time in Scotland. We were off!<br /><br />Now that I think of it, had I been at all interested in extended family right out of high school , an incident on a short-lived job at an insurance company might have been more significant and most definitely would have blown the “only immigrant” theory right out of the water. Filing client cards I happened upon one with our family name; that night I asked Dad and his answer was “must be one of Alex’s boys, I heard one had come over” . He brushed it off as their being distantly related to Grandpop. I let it go – stupid. When I think of all the times our name was remarked upon as not having been seen before and our explaining that we were the only ones over here - grrr. </span><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Unfortunately the mystery of why the three branches of the family failed to connect before this is one that will never be solved, anyone who knew why is no longer with us. </span><br /><br /><b>A plethora of Alexanders</b><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Before this goes any further and everyone including me becomes thoroughly confused, we have a lot of Alexanders and a fair number of Georges in Dad’s family, just as we have a lot of Thomas’ and Williams in Mum’s Stockwoods (whole ‘nuther story or two) .<br /><br />. the earliest Alexander (so far ) in our direct line is our gg-grandfather born 1853;<br />. our g-grandfather’s eldest brother George 1839 had a son Alexander 1881;<br />. our Alexander 1853 had a son Alexander 1878 (g-grandfather and father of our Grandpop)<br />. that Alexander’s 1878 brother Samuel (one of the triumvirate) had a son Alexander 1900 who also had a son Alexander 1927 (the cousin in Ottawa) who also had, you guessed it, a son Alexander 1956 ……… </span><br /><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">…….sort of like the begats isn’t it??<br /><br />The reason for our G-Grandfather being called “old Alex” had become apparent early on. There are probably others, mais trop c’est trop </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></p></div></div></div></div></div></div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-76320635570607599892010-07-08T14:24:00.018-04:002010-07-10T19:18:30.426-04:00a guest blogger .......... and robins ...<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">We have a guest blogger: When Maggie saw the robin she sent me her full story about the wingèd creatures which I felt had to appear here. </span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Our family is by birth Celtic ~ Irish, Scots, Welsh …. we have by default inherited a love of music, a sense of destiny, a belief in the otherworld of fae and elf as well as a healthy respect for the unknown. I firmly believe in Maggie’s robins – Mum instilled a love of family in all of us and I cannot imagine her not watching over her brood.</span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Thank you Mag …</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">♥♥♥♥♥</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i></i></span></span></p><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></o:p></p></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span><span style="font-family:"georgia","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language: AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I remember when I was a </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">child; my mum would often say that when she died she wanted to come back as a bird so she could fly over all of us to watch us. Just one of those childhood things that sticks with you. In the few weeks following the terrible loss of</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">our dear mum, when sitting in the livin</span></span></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia, sans-serif; font-family:";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">g room at the cottage I noticed that whenever I looked out the door, there</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">was a robin sitting on the fence “looking” straight</span></span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span style="font-family:"Verdana","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language: AR-SAfont-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> towards me. Then I found at home, in the back yard</span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span style="font-family:"Verdana","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language: AR-SAfont-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> again on the fence, there was a robin “looking” at me. One morning as I walked the dogs before work, there was one hopping along the grass, jumping to each lawn as we went down the street. That’s when I knew, Mum was watching.</span></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Four years ago we went to Wales to visit my mum’s sister. I was telling her about my robin and she, too believed it was her sister. She said they never had robins in her part of the country, but wished she would see one. A couple of months<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> later, she called to say she was standing at the sink looking out at the beautiful old tree in the yard and what did she see…yes, </span></span></span></span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">a robin.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><span style="font-family:"Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Batang;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I continued to see my robin. Though obviously not the same one every time, there was just always one there… the city, the country, no matter where.<br /><br />Then quite suddenly my darling aunt passed way. We were so sad; it was like losing Mum all over again. Her daughter called me a few weeks after and said that she and her dad were sitting chattin</span>g in the solarium, when they heard some rustling in the bushes outside She turn to look and not one, but two robins hopped from the brush!!</span></i></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><span style="font-family:"Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Batang;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><span style="font-family:"Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Batang;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />After that when I looked to the fence, or watched while walking there were two.<br /><br />I guess one could say that if you are looking for them you are going to find them - that they are always around, but you just don’t notice them. It is probably true, but I like to believe Mum and Peggy are with <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">me.</span></span></span></i></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><span style="font-family:"Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Batang;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Then, last year Uncle Dennis, Mum and Peg’s older brother died. Poor old man, must have been so sad having lost his baby sisters and was gone fairly </span></span></span><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">soon. No, I’m not going to say there were now three robins everywhere, but within days of his death, I was at the park with the </span></span></span><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">boys. It is quite a large area and often there are flocks of seagulls,</span></span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> or Canada Geese landing and grazing on the soccer field. I was just standing</span> as the boy</span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">s sniffed every blade of grass, when I realized there were a lot of much smaller</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">birds on th</span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">e field. I walked over to find they were of course, robins. I</span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> am going to say 20 or 30, grazing. They stayed until we got quite close, then they flew off.<br /><br />Since that day I have to</span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> say that I don’t always feel like I am being followed by the robin. </span></span></i></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><span style="font-family:"Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Batang;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"></span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sometimes, of course, but not as frequently. To me, the large gathering </span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">was Mum and her family telling me that they were alright now, and she and her siblings were back with </span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">their beloved Mum and Dad who they had missed for so many years and they were happy. She still pops into check once </span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">in awhile, and I always say “Hi Mum” and then remind Sammy he can’t chase</span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> them!</span></span></i></span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDYdZDychtI/AAAAAAAAABw/2LSZax4t_S0/s1600/golden.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TDYdZDychtI/AAAAAAAAABw/2LSZax4t_S0/s320/golden.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491609111975724754" /></a><br /><p></p><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">These beautiful boys are a huge part of Maggie’s life, and were it not for her, heaven only knows where they would be. Maggie rescued Joe from an horrendous experience as a stray which left him scarred, blind in one eye and with shotgun pellets in his scalp.We will never know what actually happened, but he has come sailing through it all, sweet and gentle. Sam, poor Sam was in foster care, not because of mistreatment but because his owners were no longer able to care for him. Maggie took Joe to meet him, to see if they would be a “fit” – well, when they curled up together in the back seat of the car – he “fit”.</span></span></p></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></i></span></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My sister and many like her save animals from fates they do not deserve.If you have room in your heart and in your home, think about rescuing one – two ??? </span></span></p></i> <p></p><span style="font-family:"Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Batang;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:10.0pt;color:black;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><i><span style=" ;font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span style=" ;font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></i></span></p></i>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-78090940612495962342010-07-03T20:45:00.012-04:002010-07-03T21:17:55.484-04:00family around the corner ....<div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">After having spent a fair amount of time on this earth, I have reached the conclusion that in the grand scheme of things, the only thing that actually matters is family. There may have been times way back when my thinking kind of skittered away from that fact, but I always came home. If you think about it, one works to support a family, votes to protect (hopefully) your family’s way of life, espouses causes to prolong or bring the planet back to what it once was – to save it for your family. Sooooo, pretty much everything you do ~ or at least I do, since I won’t speak for others ~ is essentially for family. We are eventually forgiven the lapses that occur in our late teens and twenties when we quite naturally became me-firsters. </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Even though Mum’s family were in England and we were in Canada, there was a close relationship. Her sister Peg had one daughter and brother Den had seven children, and of the eight, only Den’s first son John is older than me. During the war, Mum and her sister-in-law lived with Gran ~ John and I were put to bed each night under the dining-room table to protect us from bombs if we could not be taken to the shelter in time. I once spent a holiday with his family before we came to Canada when I was nine. The next time I saw my cousins I was sixteen, then twenty-seven, then fifty-something – but –we were always in touch. </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Which is why it is so difficult to understand that we knew nothing of Dad’s family in Canada. </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Dad was an only child, so there were no aunts and uncles for us there. His Mum Nell had a brother Jim who flitted in and out of our lives as children. Jim had a daughter who was (rightfully I think) estranged from her father, so we never knew her. Grandpop of course had his three sisters, Ella in Vancouver who visited Montréal once, Lizzie in Dundee whose daughter Irene was mentioned occasionally and Jean, also in Dundee. </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">One of the first things I was to discover was that there are many, many more and not very far away …</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></i></p> <div style="mso-element:para-border-div;border:none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 3.0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt:wave windowtext 3.0pt;padding:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border:none;mso-border-bottom-alt:wave windowtext 3.0pt; padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"><o:p><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></i></o:p><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">family around the corner</span></i></b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> …. </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border:none;mso-border-bottom-alt:wave windowtext 3.0pt; padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Fifteen years ago give or take, an article of mine was published in our daily newspaper. There were several congratulatory calls, none of which prepared me for the one that opened with “are you young Harry’s daughter?” .. I am she, however only family would use the term - the few times I had heard it was when Grandad read us letters from Scotland – the gentleman went on to say that being young Harry’s daughter, I was then related to his wife. </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border:none;mso-border-bottom-alt:wave windowtext 3.0pt; padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">He was Gordon and his wife was Anita, daughter of Mary – Mary proved to be first cousin to our Late Grandpop, Dad’s father and although Mum was aware that there was a connection she had no idea what it actually was. Mary’s name had been mentioned often when Dan & I were children, always in the context of one or the other of our parents or Grandpop having “run into Mary”, but never once was it said that she was family. Even more shattering to me was that Gordon & Anita had called from within walking distance of our home! </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border:none;mso-border-bottom-alt:wave windowtext 3.0pt; padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>We got to know Anita and her family over the next few years. Mary had three children, one son Albert had gone to the Maritimes, another, Tommy to BC and Anita stayed here. At Mary’s 100</i></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>th</i></span></sup><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> birthday party in 1995 we met relatives from both ends of Canada and from the USA . To think that we had grown up in this city, at times even on the same street, with family out there of whom we never knew just floored me. Anita’s children Donald and Maureen are of an age with Dan and myself ~ it might have been nice to have been friends with cousins in the neighbourhood as well as with cousins overseas. </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border:none;mso-border-bottom-alt:wave windowtext 3.0pt; padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Mary, whose story as I have come to know it I will tell you later, lived to the grand old age of 110. Anita, whose Gordon is also gone, is in her 90s now, very “with it”!! ~ I love her company </span></i><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">J</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border:none;mso-border-bottom-alt:wave windowtext 3.0pt; padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span></span>We had been told all our lives that we were the only family to have emigrated – how wrong that impression was.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border:none;mso-border-bottom-alt:wave windowtext 3.0pt; padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">It was not until three or four years after this that I seriously dug into the family history. Mum had passed away after a lengthy illness, I had a hand-me-up computer from Liam and to be completely frank, I needed something to occupy my mind – this was it. So it was that I set off with absolutely no idea of how to proceed and funnily enough, it may have helped </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">J</span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> Joined a genealogy message board mostly concerned with American ancestors and through the members learned what was out there and how to proceed. One of those “members” in Iowa remains a friend to this day, although we have never actually met.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border:none;mso-border-bottom-alt:wave windowtext 3.0pt; padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"><i><br /></i></p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TC_d6FgFe5I/AAAAAAAAABQ/Jyz5eME_qWM/s1600/anitamary.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TC_d6FgFe5I/AAAAAAAAABQ/Jyz5eME_qWM/s400/anitamary.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489850460766829458" /></a></div></div>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881361959575086610.post-73977179198762629392010-07-02T15:25:00.008-04:002010-07-02T15:58:41.858-04:00Have you ever wondered where you came from??<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i></i></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Not the location so much, but the family? I had not until about 15 years ago when events led to the discovery of previously-unknown-to-me family living in my own city. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Strange, but it happens more often that you imagine.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Many people, although certainly not all,<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>know where they were born and who their parents were, and a lot have had the pleasure of having known and loved their grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I thought I knew of all mine, but as it turns out, I did not.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i></i></span></p><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; "><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p> </o:p></i></p></i><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The task of compiling one’s family history can be at times ~ exciting <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>~ joyous<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>~ frustrating<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>~ surprising ~ satisfying ~ sad ~ a whole welter of emotions come into play.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Our family story has been my preoccupation since that day and<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I thought it might be interesting and perhaps illuminating to describe events of all <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>emotional bents, not the mechanics of the research, but the unexpected.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i></i></span></p><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; "><o:p> </o:p></p></i><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It continues to amaze me each time I uncover something new or realize that the family “stories” I have heard all my life are either simply not true or have become slightly warped over time.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i></i></span></p><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; "><o:p> </o:p></p></i><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When I began, <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>all that I knew of outside our immediate family were the names of Dad’s grandparents, his aunts and his mother’s brother;<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>as for Mum I had little more, even though I knew her great-grandmother’s name, being a Davies in Wales is akin to being a Smith elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Not to mention being a Linehan in Ireland.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Dad had passed away in 1988, Mum was to follow in 1997 after I had developed my interest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Were I to offer one piece of advice to anyone embarking on a study, it would be to talk to the oldest member of the family before they are no longer there with their wealth of knowledge to impart. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i></i></span></p><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; "><o:p> </o:p></p></i><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Over these years down the research road I have accumulated data back to 1850 or so for Dad’s family and to the early 1700s for Mum’s. Oh, by the way, if you get the urge to travel this same road <span style="font-family:Wingdings;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-char-type:symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings;">J</span></span> live by the Boy Scout motto<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>~ BE PREPARED ~ you will amass reams of paper, if you do not have a spare room to use as an office, stay away from the dining room at the risk of losing it!!!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i></i></span></p><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; "><o:p> </o:p></p></i><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">For clarity’s sake, ‘we’ <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>are the three surviving offspring of Annie Linehan & Harry D’All; <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Dan & I were born in England as was our late sister Teresa, who died in infancy. Dan now lives in the USA and I am in Montréal as is my son Liam.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Our baby sister Maggie was born in Westmount, Québec; she lives in Pickering , Ontario with her sons Tim and Tyler as well as her “Golden” boys Joe and Sam.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i></i></span></p><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; "><o:p> </o:p></p></i><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Our Dad’s family is of Scots (Dundee,Angus) & Irish (Cavan/Antrim) descent and Mum’s of Welsh (Glamorgan) & Irish (Cork).<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i></i></span></p><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; "><o:p> </o:p></p></i><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I need to say this, the people I have “met” in the genealogy community, particularly Nancy in Iowa and the marvelous inhabitants of <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>the Glamorgan mailing list, <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>are amongst the most generous with their time, knowledge and expertise that it has been and continues to be my pleasure to know.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i></i></span></p><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important; "><o:p> </o:p></p></i><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When recounting family history, the word “tree” comes into play with great regularity.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This is a picture of my absolute favourite arbre which resides in the garden of our Late Aunt Peggy’s beloved Bryn Awel in Pembrokeshire, Wales.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Behold my very own Faraway tree …</p></i></span><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TC5EpWdwqhI/AAAAAAAAABI/I1ZOpfGgO5A/s1600/farawaytree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 188px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lu8RaSifLdE/TC5EpWdwqhI/AAAAAAAAABI/I1ZOpfGgO5A/s400/farawaytree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489400473006942738" /></a>Helenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04384588792296095535noreply@blogger.com2