This week's post is a bit personal. I apologise for that; if you don't like personal, feel free to walk away for now and come back next week.
This week's post is a bit religious. I apologise for that; if you don't like religious, feel free to walk away for now and come back next week.
Now, for those of you who are left, let me reminisce a little. This week has included sunshine and daffodils. Somehow they go together and, in my mind, they also go along with Holy Week and Easter. I was reminded on Monday evening of a particular Holy Week; it must have been thirty-three years ago. Gosh! - that's half a lifetime away!
First, a bit of background. Our vicars, a husband-and-wife team, look after two churches and have sought to get us, different as we are, to co-operate and work with each other. Apart from being good for us, it also makes the vicars' lives a bit easier if we know what's going on down the road and are willing from time to time to join together with things. Each of the churches has two Readers - lay ministers if you prefer that expression - who take a regular part in the worship as well as other pastoral duties.
During the first three days of Holy Week, it's the custom in many churches to hold short services each evening, and in our own churches here it seems to be a tradition that these services are led by the Readers, with two of them held in our church and one at the smaller medieval church in the village. On Monday evening, the man who was leading our service had persuaded his wife to read the Bible verses that formed the focus of his talk and the meditations of us all. I was reminded of two situations all those years ago when I served as a Reader in the village where I then lived.
I had been licensed almost two years at the time, and my colleague a year less. Suddenly that January we found ourselves without a priest, and we quickly learned - with the willing help of the Rural Dean - what we could and couldn't do for ourselves, and what could and could not be expected of us, I having a full-time job and a young family and he being retired and not enjoying the best of health. We decided that Easter that we would follow that pattern of short services each evening. It was a new venture, not only for us but for that church as well, and we were surprised and pleased by the level of interest that resulted.
As part of that same exercise of memory this week, I recalled another event from those times. My friend and I had decided that, given our respective skills and availability, he would focus on pastoral work, and I on administration. As part of these responsibilities, I arranged for one of a team of organists to be present for each service. One summer evening no organist was available and I was left with a stark choice: either we attempt to sing all the hymns and psalms unaccompanied - no mean feat for the small congregation that we expected - or we opt for a said service, which would leave the majority somewhat deflated. I hit on a third alternative.
Although she attended a church of a different denomination, my wife was an accomplished musician and regularly played the organ there. I decided to ask her if, on this one occasion, she would play for us. She was reluctant because of being unfamiliar with the instrument, and even more so because of the musical styles that weren't part of her own tradition but, seeing the need, she allowed herself to be persuaded.
This recollection set me thinking about relationships and the reciprocal duties of husband and wife ... a topic that has been no stranger to my contemplations in recent years. I saw before me the willingness of a wife to join her husband in leading worship (later in the week I saw the opposite situation, too, when a husband performed the same service for his wife, the other Reader in our church), and I recalled a wife who had agreed to co-operate with me in a similar way. I found myself wondering whether co-operation would have been so forthcoming had the roles been reversed. I realised that a lot more would have depended on whether I would, personally, have enjoyed the task than on any feeling of duty to my wife. In the possibility, however unlikely, that she will be reading this, I have to say now, in respect of all such occasions, "Maria, I'm sorry!"
The more I dig into this, the deeper the hole I feel trapped in. There have been so many areas of life where I've been unintentionally selfish - not through a specific desire for personal gain, but simply through lack of thought for another party - and I put this down to being an only child. In my formative years, there was never another individual to be considered; if I couldn't have something, it wasn't because someone else was getting it, it was a matter between me and the provider - usually my parents - and either I could persuade them by argument or tantrum ... or I couldn't. There was no question of compromise or sharing with a sibling. It's a shortcoming that has caused me some difficulty in adult life, but one I've had to live with, and even now am still learning to deal with.
Confession is good for the soul, they say, and traditionally it's specially called for at Easter. So my wish for all my readers, but especially for my siblingless readers, is, "A Happy Easter to one and all."
Back to normal next week ... and it looks like being a busy one!
Saturday, 26 March 2016
Friday, 18 March 2016
All in the Family: Remember, Discover and Kut
After the excitement of the trip to the seaside last weekend, I've come down to earth with a bump. I'm not sure whether it's the lull before the storm of activity at Easter, or just the ongoing cold which, like those that so many of my friends seem to have, or have just had, seems to be going on for weeks on end with no appreciable sign of improvement. I've felt no inclination to go out so, apart from essentials, I've been at my desk thinking about the relatives again.
This week my interest has been taken up with my father's second-eldest brother, Will. Like his elder sibling, Charlie, Will served in the Great War and it's always been my impression that, on returning from the conflict, they didn't rejoin the rest of the family but instead made their lives elsewhere. Certainly that's the case with Charlie, who settled in Derbyshire, where he married a war widow in the early 1920s. They went on to add twins to the children she already had, and I have a picture of one of the twins in the Home Guard in 1943, and another of him, with his father and mine on the seafront at Great Yarmouth in the 'fifties. Charlie died in 1963, but his son, who never married, continued to make the occasional visit to his Norfolk cousins before his own death in 1983.
I believe Will and his wife made only one visit to us from their home on the other side of Norfolk, for although they lived much closer to us, transport was difficult and complex, and Katie, his wife, was either blind or partially sighted. He was a heavily built man, and I was told that, of all the brothers, it was he who most closely resembled their father. He was about eight years older than my dad, who I remember was very upset when Will died; I suppose the age-gap was sufficient to command a kind of respect over and above the normal sibling affection. It was certainly enough for it to seem to Will that I was from a different world, for another of my few memories is of attending Katie's funeral, when he had asked who this young man (I was in my early twenties) was. The only explanation he could understand was that I was 'Jack's boy' (Jack being my father).
This week I've been researching Katie's family and, as a result, have added over forty new names to my records as I've discovered her paternal grandparents, born about 1820, and gradually followed all of her father's siblings through the censuses of the nineteenth century. What did fascinate me was the way that, wherever they lived across the county, they seemed all to have evaded the interrogation of 1861! Depending what alternative excitements next week offers, I might spend some time looking into her mother's family. I wonder whether Greaves will be any easier to unravel than Savory!
I decided to look into that side of the tree because I thought I knew all there was to be found about Will. I do remember being puzzled in my youth that there was never a mention of their having had children. I had taken for granted, of course, a marriage soon after the war when bridegrooms were scarce! This week I discovered why there was no family. They weren't married until 1936, and Katie was Will's senior by more than ten years! This now raises the probably unanswerable question of where was Will for nearly twenty years before his marriage ... and what was he doing in that time?
One question about him that I have tried to answer concerns his military service. However, with the unfortunate combination of a common name like William Evans and no knowledge of his regiment or service number, I stand little or no chance of finding out anything significant. One thing I do know, however, was my dad's the answer to what was possibly the only time I asked him what his brothers had done in the war. I think there was a total disregard of Charlie, as dad's monosyllabic reply told me, "Will was at Kut."
Now, call it coincidence if you will that, in the week when my research has led me in this direction, a tweet from the National Archives announced that, on a Wednesday afternoon in April, there will be a free talk entitled "Mesopotamia and the Siege of Kut-al-Amara". I went through a 'drop-everything-do-this' phase and, within the hour, I had secured a place at the event and ordered my train tickets to get there. I have no idea what of relevance the talk and discussion will reveal, but if nothing else I might get an idea of the significance of that whole episode of the War in the Middle East - an aspect of the conflict that normally loses out to the far greater attention paid to the Western Front.
So you see, I hadn't misspelled my title after all!
This week my interest has been taken up with my father's second-eldest brother, Will. Like his elder sibling, Charlie, Will served in the Great War and it's always been my impression that, on returning from the conflict, they didn't rejoin the rest of the family but instead made their lives elsewhere. Certainly that's the case with Charlie, who settled in Derbyshire, where he married a war widow in the early 1920s. They went on to add twins to the children she already had, and I have a picture of one of the twins in the Home Guard in 1943, and another of him, with his father and mine on the seafront at Great Yarmouth in the 'fifties. Charlie died in 1963, but his son, who never married, continued to make the occasional visit to his Norfolk cousins before his own death in 1983.
I believe Will and his wife made only one visit to us from their home on the other side of Norfolk, for although they lived much closer to us, transport was difficult and complex, and Katie, his wife, was either blind or partially sighted. He was a heavily built man, and I was told that, of all the brothers, it was he who most closely resembled their father. He was about eight years older than my dad, who I remember was very upset when Will died; I suppose the age-gap was sufficient to command a kind of respect over and above the normal sibling affection. It was certainly enough for it to seem to Will that I was from a different world, for another of my few memories is of attending Katie's funeral, when he had asked who this young man (I was in my early twenties) was. The only explanation he could understand was that I was 'Jack's boy' (Jack being my father).
This week I've been researching Katie's family and, as a result, have added over forty new names to my records as I've discovered her paternal grandparents, born about 1820, and gradually followed all of her father's siblings through the censuses of the nineteenth century. What did fascinate me was the way that, wherever they lived across the county, they seemed all to have evaded the interrogation of 1861! Depending what alternative excitements next week offers, I might spend some time looking into her mother's family. I wonder whether Greaves will be any easier to unravel than Savory!
I decided to look into that side of the tree because I thought I knew all there was to be found about Will. I do remember being puzzled in my youth that there was never a mention of their having had children. I had taken for granted, of course, a marriage soon after the war when bridegrooms were scarce! This week I discovered why there was no family. They weren't married until 1936, and Katie was Will's senior by more than ten years! This now raises the probably unanswerable question of where was Will for nearly twenty years before his marriage ... and what was he doing in that time?
One question about him that I have tried to answer concerns his military service. However, with the unfortunate combination of a common name like William Evans and no knowledge of his regiment or service number, I stand little or no chance of finding out anything significant. One thing I do know, however, was my dad's the answer to what was possibly the only time I asked him what his brothers had done in the war. I think there was a total disregard of Charlie, as dad's monosyllabic reply told me, "Will was at Kut."
Now, call it coincidence if you will that, in the week when my research has led me in this direction, a tweet from the National Archives announced that, on a Wednesday afternoon in April, there will be a free talk entitled "Mesopotamia and the Siege of Kut-al-Amara". I went through a 'drop-everything-do-this' phase and, within the hour, I had secured a place at the event and ordered my train tickets to get there. I have no idea what of relevance the talk and discussion will reveal, but if nothing else I might get an idea of the significance of that whole episode of the War in the Middle East - an aspect of the conflict that normally loses out to the far greater attention paid to the Western Front.
So you see, I hadn't misspelled my title after all!
Sunday, 13 March 2016
Routine Gives Way to ...
It's been a week of preparation, execution and recovery; its pinnacle has been the first major exploratory journey of the year not, as you might expect, in the motorhome, but in a car ... and someone else's at that!
Sunday saw the last choir practice before two significant worship offerings. One was the musical highlight of this morning's service, and the other will come in a few days' time when we are to sing a Taizé chant at a special meal in church on Maundy Thursday. I caused a few raised eyebrows at the end of the practice when I announced that I should not be there this morning and added, "... but you can think of me on the end of a rope in Suffolk!"
Monday found me driving between home and church on many occasions, as I attended the usual early breakfast gathering, and then contrived to meet (wearing my 'Health & Safety' hat) with two groups who make regular use of the premises, firstly those preparing lunches for the lonely, and secondly a youth group who meet there after school. Last weekend was the launch of a major information gathering exercise in the form of a questionnaire being issued to all users of the church and hall, so I can assess the needs and abilities of people in this regard.
It was also good to meet up in the evening with a former ringer who was to join us for this weekend, giving many of us a chance to finalise transport arrangements for that occasion. Along with this were regular features, like a Welsh lesson (this one was no. 13, and taught me how to tell what happened yesterday, using the past tense) the fourth in the series of Lent supper discussions on Wednesday, and the quarterly inspection of my flat by the landlord's agent on Thursday morning.
Between these excitements, I continued my exploration of the 1939 Register (now free, as part of my annual subscription to findmypast.co.uk). I have discovered that the closure of certain records owing to the possibility that the subject persons might be still alive seems also to extend - amazingly - to people who were still civilians in 1939 (service personnel weren't included in the first place) but subsequently lost their lives in action.
Notionally, the only means of securing the release of these entries is the production of a death certificate, but having been successful in the case of my uncle by providing a copy of a list of casualties on the Burma Railway, where he died of malaria in 1943, I decided to make a similar attempt in respect of my cousin who died in an RAF mission on D-Day. Here, however, I hold out less hope of success, since the only evidence I could produce was the flying log where his plane is listed as 'missing' and is identified not by his name but by that of the pilot.
And so to the ringing weekend. We arrived at Felixstowe mid-afternoon on Friday and returned home approximately two days later. One of the most praiseworthy elements was the food, which was excellent, although its location was a little unpredictable. Dinner last night was restricted to bar service, because of a 'function' which was using the private room where we had enjoyed Friday's dinner and yesterday's breakfast. This function proved to be a wedding reception, the crowning feature of which was a murder mystery event (for which we were thankful since it meant that instead of loud music the only disturbance to our slumbers was the occasional scream or loud 'bump'!) Its aftermath meant that our breakfast today was served in the restaurant, but the quality was just as impressive.
We rang at six churches yesterday and two this morning. It's always good to attempt to ring bells other than our own, since the challenge peaks our own abilities, as well as giving local bands a rest, or a boost, according to their own situation. This weekend offered some rings that are well-used by the local enthusiasts, although perhaps less so for regular service ringing ... or so it seemed to me. There was a great deal of contrast, too, between those larger prestigious and historic edifices and more modest premises in parishes that are quietly efficient, or perhaps with only a handful of regular worshippers and struggling to keep up with maintenance and expenses. It was a weekend that was both enjoyable and thought-provoking.
Sunday saw the last choir practice before two significant worship offerings. One was the musical highlight of this morning's service, and the other will come in a few days' time when we are to sing a Taizé chant at a special meal in church on Maundy Thursday. I caused a few raised eyebrows at the end of the practice when I announced that I should not be there this morning and added, "... but you can think of me on the end of a rope in Suffolk!"
Monday found me driving between home and church on many occasions, as I attended the usual early breakfast gathering, and then contrived to meet (wearing my 'Health & Safety' hat) with two groups who make regular use of the premises, firstly those preparing lunches for the lonely, and secondly a youth group who meet there after school. Last weekend was the launch of a major information gathering exercise in the form of a questionnaire being issued to all users of the church and hall, so I can assess the needs and abilities of people in this regard.
It was also good to meet up in the evening with a former ringer who was to join us for this weekend, giving many of us a chance to finalise transport arrangements for that occasion. Along with this were regular features, like a Welsh lesson (this one was no. 13, and taught me how to tell what happened yesterday, using the past tense) the fourth in the series of Lent supper discussions on Wednesday, and the quarterly inspection of my flat by the landlord's agent on Thursday morning.
Between these excitements, I continued my exploration of the 1939 Register (now free, as part of my annual subscription to findmypast.co.uk). I have discovered that the closure of certain records owing to the possibility that the subject persons might be still alive seems also to extend - amazingly - to people who were still civilians in 1939 (service personnel weren't included in the first place) but subsequently lost their lives in action.
Notionally, the only means of securing the release of these entries is the production of a death certificate, but having been successful in the case of my uncle by providing a copy of a list of casualties on the Burma Railway, where he died of malaria in 1943, I decided to make a similar attempt in respect of my cousin who died in an RAF mission on D-Day. Here, however, I hold out less hope of success, since the only evidence I could produce was the flying log where his plane is listed as 'missing' and is identified not by his name but by that of the pilot.
And so to the ringing weekend. We arrived at Felixstowe mid-afternoon on Friday and returned home approximately two days later. One of the most praiseworthy elements was the food, which was excellent, although its location was a little unpredictable. Dinner last night was restricted to bar service, because of a 'function' which was using the private room where we had enjoyed Friday's dinner and yesterday's breakfast. This function proved to be a wedding reception, the crowning feature of which was a murder mystery event (for which we were thankful since it meant that instead of loud music the only disturbance to our slumbers was the occasional scream or loud 'bump'!) Its aftermath meant that our breakfast today was served in the restaurant, but the quality was just as impressive.
 |
| St Botolph, Burgh. |
 |
| All Saints', Sproughton |
Friday, 4 March 2016
Seasonal Routines
I suppose the most noticeable aspect of this week has been the fact that I've had a cold. I deny outright any suggestion of 'man-flu' but, having suffered many a chest infection in the past either through self-neglect or after a premature profession that 'it's over now', at the first proper signs of a cold these days I take medication and try to rest a little more than usual, with plenty of fluids. Normally this is easier now that I'm no longer office-tied, but this week I had booked to attend a couple of talks in London, and it was touch-and-go whether I would have to forgo this pleasure.
However, there have been many blessings to compensate for what is, after all, a minor - if snuffling - inconvenience, beginning on Monday with my first official regular inspection of the church premises in my new guise as Health and Safety Officer. I did question whether this was wise, given my state of health, but realised that little would involve being out in the cold, so I went ahead and was then pleased to have this landmark achievement behind me.
Tuesday was, of course, St David's Day. Not being Welsh, I wore neither leek nor daffodil, but there were plenty of opportunities to exercise my growing understanding of the language. People on Facebook were wishing each other 'Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Sant hapus', (some with the 'w' accented, some with the 'y', and some with no decoration at all!) Eventually, I resorted to the dictionary for some authority in the matter! And one thoughtful friend sent me the first verse of Calon Lân in both languages, which I very much enjoyed.
Then came the trip to London on Wednesday. The talks I'd booked into were being held at the Society of Genealogists, so I went prepared to do a little research whilst I was there. That was fine, until I discovered that I'd misremembered the time of the second talk, and found that it was half over by the time I was about to get ready to attend. Giving up on this, I made for home, and began to make myself ready to attend the weekly supper and discussion group that is the church's mid-week highlight during the season of Lent.
Yesterday was a housekeeping day, but with shopping and laundry done, I set about recording the entries I had discovered in my examination of the parish register fiche the previous day. All too soon, however, it was time to attack some of the food items I'd purchased earlier in the day. I'm trying to learn a few basic recipes so as to avoid eating too many manufactured meals with their high levels of inadvisable ingredients, and this week's plan was to restock the freezer with several helpings of goulash.
The day was rounded off with a family history exercise with a definitely original twist. In readiness for Mothering Sunday this weekend, I decided to compile a pictorial 'collage' of the five 'mother figures' in my life, these being my mother, two grandmothers, and their respective mothers. I was amazed how difficult it was to persuade my simple Microsoft program to accommodate five pictures with borders and captions but, by bedtime, I'd achieved an acceptable result ... even if this was less sophisticated than I'd hoped for at the outset.
Tomorrow sees another seasonal tradition, as the men of the church gather to man a 'posey production line' in readiness to present the outcome to all the ladies present in church on Sunday morning. We're looking forward to exercising our growing expertise with foil and kitchen roll, foliage and sweets, and - of course - the indispensable daffodils!
However, there have been many blessings to compensate for what is, after all, a minor - if snuffling - inconvenience, beginning on Monday with my first official regular inspection of the church premises in my new guise as Health and Safety Officer. I did question whether this was wise, given my state of health, but realised that little would involve being out in the cold, so I went ahead and was then pleased to have this landmark achievement behind me.
Tuesday was, of course, St David's Day. Not being Welsh, I wore neither leek nor daffodil, but there were plenty of opportunities to exercise my growing understanding of the language. People on Facebook were wishing each other 'Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Sant hapus', (some with the 'w' accented, some with the 'y', and some with no decoration at all!) Eventually, I resorted to the dictionary for some authority in the matter! And one thoughtful friend sent me the first verse of Calon Lân in both languages, which I very much enjoyed.
Then came the trip to London on Wednesday. The talks I'd booked into were being held at the Society of Genealogists, so I went prepared to do a little research whilst I was there. That was fine, until I discovered that I'd misremembered the time of the second talk, and found that it was half over by the time I was about to get ready to attend. Giving up on this, I made for home, and began to make myself ready to attend the weekly supper and discussion group that is the church's mid-week highlight during the season of Lent.
Yesterday was a housekeeping day, but with shopping and laundry done, I set about recording the entries I had discovered in my examination of the parish register fiche the previous day. All too soon, however, it was time to attack some of the food items I'd purchased earlier in the day. I'm trying to learn a few basic recipes so as to avoid eating too many manufactured meals with their high levels of inadvisable ingredients, and this week's plan was to restock the freezer with several helpings of goulash.
The day was rounded off with a family history exercise with a definitely original twist. In readiness for Mothering Sunday this weekend, I decided to compile a pictorial 'collage' of the five 'mother figures' in my life, these being my mother, two grandmothers, and their respective mothers. I was amazed how difficult it was to persuade my simple Microsoft program to accommodate five pictures with borders and captions but, by bedtime, I'd achieved an acceptable result ... even if this was less sophisticated than I'd hoped for at the outset.
Tomorrow sees another seasonal tradition, as the men of the church gather to man a 'posey production line' in readiness to present the outcome to all the ladies present in church on Sunday morning. We're looking forward to exercising our growing expertise with foil and kitchen roll, foliage and sweets, and - of course - the indispensable daffodils!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)