A few weeks ago I watched a performance of The Importance of Being Ernest. It was the first time I'd seen the play since sitting mesmerised at the age of eleven watching the school performance at the end of my first term at high school. On the safety curtain at this performance, which was screened to our local cinema directly from the Vaudeville Theatre in London's West End, was projected a quote from the author, Oscar Wilde: "If one tells the truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out."
I think I can see why it is that these words have stuck in my mind ever since! It was very soon afterwards that I mentioned in this blog the death of my great aunt Maria just before the end of the nineteenth century; as I did so, I wondered how it was that I knew that she had died in Accrington. I have recorded most deaths by the registration district, but usually the only reference to a specific location is from the burial register and, mostly this would be the case when death pre-dated the start of national registration in 1837. On searching my database I found that I had noted this from the edition of the Accrington Observer and Times of 30th May, 1896. Intrigued, I looked in my files for a copy of the obituary ... no sign of it!
I decided that I had probably looked it up in the on line newspaper collection on Find my Past ... that title isn't digitised yet. Could it have been via Lancashire library service ... one of the few for which you don't have to be resident to subscribe? As I tried - without success - to retrace my research of some years ago, I discovered a post on Genes Reunited from someone called Valerie, whose great-grandfather was one Fred Cubitt ... my great aunt's youngest son. My enthusiasm was stoked and I hastily took out a month's subscription to enable me to post a message to Valerie ... before realising that this message was posted over eight years ago! Unsurprisingly, I have had no reply. I did note, however, that one respondent in 2010 had kindly provided the local birth references from Preston record office for five of the children and I thought it a good idea to make a note of these.
This is where the Oscar Wilde quotation becomes relevant for, having stated that great aunt Maria had 'married and raised a family of six children', I then discovered that - depending on definitions and parameters - she could be truthfully said to have raised a family of five, seven or eight children ... but not six, as I firmly believed to be true when I wrote it. I knew that Maria's eldest daughter was born in 1871, before she had left Suffolk, and I assumed that the birth references that I was now about to collect related to the other five children, born between 1877 and 1889. As I noted them, however, I realised that the two eldest, born 1877 and 1880, were missing from the list and two new names had appeared in the midst of the other three I knew about, giving a total of seven Lancashire births, plus the eldest daughter, making a family of eight.
This discovery has prompted many evenings of further research into the family ... and I expect there will be more to come! I suspect the eldest daughter, Suffolk-born Annie, never really felt part of the family. She was so much older than the other children, and was almost five when her mother married Stephen Cubitt. In the 1881 census she was named as Cubitt and correctly described as 'step-daughter' to Stephen, but ten years later, by which time she was nineteen, she was called Evans and listed, bizarrely, as his 'sister-in-law'. She retained her mother's maiden name up to her marriage in 1894.
The two hitherto 'unknown' sons were Arthur and Willie. Arthur died in the summer of 1884 at a maximum age of five months; Willie was born a year later and died in 1889 without either of them having appeared on a census, which explains why I had no record of their existence.
I have now traced most of the other children's families down several generations and have linked in the mysterious Valerie who started the whole stampede for truth ... although I'll probably never have any contact with her. The eldest Cubitt daughter, Mary Ellen, appears to have led a single life, since I've found a possible death of Mary E Cubitt at about the right age in 1958, but more verification will be required before I can accept this, since she died in Paddington!
Annoyingly, though, I still haven't found that news cutting about Maria's death!
Friday, 26 October 2018
Friday, 19 October 2018
Bells Then and Now!
I'm amazed that in the last seven years and more, this blog has now passed the 400 mark. Since stepping out with some hesitation on May Day 2011, I dread to think how far those 'Four Wheels' have travelled. And, as edition no. 401 hits the air-waves, I'm looking forward to several more miles being covered tomorrow ... although it won't be me behind the wheel this time. It's the occasion of our annual Autumn Ringing Outing, and I'm being picked up at 8.25 for a day in Bedfordshire and Buckinghamshire.
With this excursion in mind, I woke up one night this week to find myself recalling my first such outing. About six months after I'd learned to ring, the old chap who had taught me was asked if he would be prepared to visit the church in nearby Palgrave, where there were a number of youngsters who would like to learn to ring their bells. After expressing his willingness to undertake the challenge, Bertie asked me if I'd like to go along to help. I suspect he thought the additional practice would be good for me and, whether by design or not, it certainly worked out that way.
Once all of the learners could safely handle a bell, there was no need for Bertie to attend every week and, within a year or so, I was there every Friday evening running the practices and teaching them to ring simple methods. By the summer of 1972 we were looking for further adventures. I suggested an outing with a difference. With transport limited, we opted to travel by train to Norwich, spend the morning exploring and then do a little ringing in the afternoon. The older beginners - the village's rector and his churchwarden, both of whom were probably in their sixties - didn't find this appealing, and declined the invitation.
So the party set forth one sunny Saturday morning. I was accompanied by Mark, a work colleague who often helped with the practices, and possibly his sister Debbie, who was also a ringer, and we took Mary, the churchwarden's daughter, Colin and Roger, two brothers of whom Colin subsequently became a much more accomplished ringer than I ever did, and another boy named Stan. Of these I was the eldest, in my early 20s and, with the exception of Mark, all the rest were at secondary school. None of us had any recognised accreditation; there were no health and safety considerations in those days.
The morning was spent visiting three churches where there were bells that were no longer rung. The first was St Stephen's in the city centre, then very much on the decline and with three bells that were never rung, and then we moved on to St John de Sepulchre, which at the time had eight fine bells that weren't rung because the tower was unsafe. We were met by a robed priest who exhorted us not to attempt to do so. These bells were later sold and split up. Six of them were installed at Erpingham in the north of Norfolk, and the other two enabled the six at East Harling to be made up to the octave.
I was present at the dedication of that new ring, which was preceded by a quarter peal that has lingered in my memory. For some reason the start had been delayed and with the congregation all assembled the vicar announced that 'we will wait for the ringers to finish'. Aware of this, we were aware of a slight increase in the speed of the ringing and all hoped they wouldn't make a mistake. Suddenly, on three consecutive strokes, the conductor called, "Bob! That's all! Stand!" signifying the end of the composition, instructing the end of ringing and finally the setting of the bells ... and the dedication could proceed.
Our third exploration was at St Clements where there were three bells in a frame that was in such a dangerous condition that we wouldn't have been allowed up there today. A picture exists of the four youngsters having just emerged into the sunlight on the top of the tower after climbing through the bells and all around that dodgy frame!
After our packed lunches had been eaten, we were met by a celebrated local ringer, the Revd. Gilbert Thurlow, shortly before his elevation to become dean of Gloucester Cathedral. He was very familiar with the churches of Norwich, and told us much about the places we'd been to and also those where we were going to. Much of what he told us probably went over our heads, but we felt it a great privilege to have him ring with us at St George's, Colegate and St Michael Coslany.
Tomorrow our greatest challenge will be the fine ten at SS Peter & Paul, Olney, where the bells are well over twice the weight of those at our home tower! With luck, we will be welcomed by a local ringer who will be able to help where needed, but I'm sure neither this privilege nor any dangers we face will match those experiences of 46 years ago!
With this excursion in mind, I woke up one night this week to find myself recalling my first such outing. About six months after I'd learned to ring, the old chap who had taught me was asked if he would be prepared to visit the church in nearby Palgrave, where there were a number of youngsters who would like to learn to ring their bells. After expressing his willingness to undertake the challenge, Bertie asked me if I'd like to go along to help. I suspect he thought the additional practice would be good for me and, whether by design or not, it certainly worked out that way.
Once all of the learners could safely handle a bell, there was no need for Bertie to attend every week and, within a year or so, I was there every Friday evening running the practices and teaching them to ring simple methods. By the summer of 1972 we were looking for further adventures. I suggested an outing with a difference. With transport limited, we opted to travel by train to Norwich, spend the morning exploring and then do a little ringing in the afternoon. The older beginners - the village's rector and his churchwarden, both of whom were probably in their sixties - didn't find this appealing, and declined the invitation.
So the party set forth one sunny Saturday morning. I was accompanied by Mark, a work colleague who often helped with the practices, and possibly his sister Debbie, who was also a ringer, and we took Mary, the churchwarden's daughter, Colin and Roger, two brothers of whom Colin subsequently became a much more accomplished ringer than I ever did, and another boy named Stan. Of these I was the eldest, in my early 20s and, with the exception of Mark, all the rest were at secondary school. None of us had any recognised accreditation; there were no health and safety considerations in those days.
The morning was spent visiting three churches where there were bells that were no longer rung. The first was St Stephen's in the city centre, then very much on the decline and with three bells that were never rung, and then we moved on to St John de Sepulchre, which at the time had eight fine bells that weren't rung because the tower was unsafe. We were met by a robed priest who exhorted us not to attempt to do so. These bells were later sold and split up. Six of them were installed at Erpingham in the north of Norfolk, and the other two enabled the six at East Harling to be made up to the octave.
I was present at the dedication of that new ring, which was preceded by a quarter peal that has lingered in my memory. For some reason the start had been delayed and with the congregation all assembled the vicar announced that 'we will wait for the ringers to finish'. Aware of this, we were aware of a slight increase in the speed of the ringing and all hoped they wouldn't make a mistake. Suddenly, on three consecutive strokes, the conductor called, "Bob! That's all! Stand!" signifying the end of the composition, instructing the end of ringing and finally the setting of the bells ... and the dedication could proceed.
Our third exploration was at St Clements where there were three bells in a frame that was in such a dangerous condition that we wouldn't have been allowed up there today. A picture exists of the four youngsters having just emerged into the sunlight on the top of the tower after climbing through the bells and all around that dodgy frame!
After our packed lunches had been eaten, we were met by a celebrated local ringer, the Revd. Gilbert Thurlow, shortly before his elevation to become dean of Gloucester Cathedral. He was very familiar with the churches of Norwich, and told us much about the places we'd been to and also those where we were going to. Much of what he told us probably went over our heads, but we felt it a great privilege to have him ring with us at St George's, Colegate and St Michael Coslany.
Tomorrow our greatest challenge will be the fine ten at SS Peter & Paul, Olney, where the bells are well over twice the weight of those at our home tower! With luck, we will be welcomed by a local ringer who will be able to help where needed, but I'm sure neither this privilege nor any dangers we face will match those experiences of 46 years ago!
Friday, 12 October 2018
The Length of a Generation
Today's post begins with a history lesson. Ask people what they know about the history of Texas and many - in this country at any rate - will respond with blank faces. Some who were brought up on stories of cowboys and the Wild West might mention Davy Crockett and the Alamo, but few would go beyond that. One of my schoolboy fascinations was the geo-political history of the USA; as a result I remembered that Texas was briefly an independent republic before being annexed by the United States in 1845.
My attention was drawn this week to an item broadcast on CBS Evening News of 6th March 2018, which informed me that the President who signed the Decree of Annexation was John Tyler. Tyler became the first Vice-President to succeed to that role when his predecessor, William Henry Harrison, died in April 1841 after only a month in office. The focus of the news item this March was the discovery that - amazingly for a man born in 1790 - two of his grandsons are still alive! The younger of the two, Harrison Ruffin Tyler, was interviewed with his son at the family home in Charles City, Virginia, which President Tyler had renovated for his second wife, Julia.
Julia was only 22, and some thirty years younger than her husband, when they married after the death of his first wife, Letitia, in 1842. After raising a family of eight children with Letitia, the President went on to have a second family of seven with Julia. Of these, Lyon Gardiner Tyler, the third son and fifth child was born in 1853. Lyon's life followed the pattern of his father, to the extent that he re-married following the death of his first wife. Lyon's second wife was 35 years his junior, and bore him three sons, the youngest of whom died in infancy. Harrison, the second son, was born in 1928 when his father was 75 years old.
As a result of learning about the Tyler family this week, my thoughts have been focused on my own. As a small boy, a pattern of births was revealed to me that was probably one of the earliest seedlings of my interest in genealogy. Three girls were born in successive years following my birth, as cousins who had married before my arrival started their respective families. I was the last of one generation; these three, born of three different sets of parents, were the start of the next one.
I have often commented with some amusement on the Biblical precedent followed by my father, who was John, born of Zachariah and Elizabeth (see Luke ch. 1). However, unlike the Baptist, dad wasn't executed in his mid-thirties, but lived two days beyond his eightieth birthday, and gave me the best upbringing his meagre status would allow. What I hadn't realised until after his death, was the fact that he missed only one unit of being that most fortunate of creatures, 'a seventh son of a seventh son'.
I knew from the list in the family Bible that this Zachariah and Elizabeth had a family of twelve, of whom three children died within their first year. I knew all the rest of them, five of whom were my uncles, but had never done the sum of adding in the son who died, which makes dad the seventh son. I never knew anything of my grandfather's family until starting my researches, and I have often wondered just how much dad knew of them ... like so many families, it just wasn't a topic of conversation. I now know that grandfather was one of ten children and just as my father was the youngest son, so was his father; with three elder sisters and one younger one, he was the sixth son of the family.
I have called this article the length of a generation; in the case of the Tyler family from the birth of John to the birth of his youngest surviving grandson was 138 years. We can't compete with that! From my grandfather's birth to my own was a mere 81 years, and looking back another generation, my father's birth was only 79 years after his grandfather. And it's a progressive trend, for the earliest I can go back is only one more generation and from the end of the eighteenth century I can say that my grandfather was born only 69 years after his grandfather!
I mentioned the succession of annual births that marked the transition from my generation to the next; My favourite personal example of this phenomenon is the fact that, after migrating to Lancashire in search of work, my eldest great-aunt had married, raised her family of six children and died - albeit at the early age of only 45 - some four years before the turn of the twentieth century!
My attention was drawn this week to an item broadcast on CBS Evening News of 6th March 2018, which informed me that the President who signed the Decree of Annexation was John Tyler. Tyler became the first Vice-President to succeed to that role when his predecessor, William Henry Harrison, died in April 1841 after only a month in office. The focus of the news item this March was the discovery that - amazingly for a man born in 1790 - two of his grandsons are still alive! The younger of the two, Harrison Ruffin Tyler, was interviewed with his son at the family home in Charles City, Virginia, which President Tyler had renovated for his second wife, Julia.
Julia was only 22, and some thirty years younger than her husband, when they married after the death of his first wife, Letitia, in 1842. After raising a family of eight children with Letitia, the President went on to have a second family of seven with Julia. Of these, Lyon Gardiner Tyler, the third son and fifth child was born in 1853. Lyon's life followed the pattern of his father, to the extent that he re-married following the death of his first wife. Lyon's second wife was 35 years his junior, and bore him three sons, the youngest of whom died in infancy. Harrison, the second son, was born in 1928 when his father was 75 years old.
As a result of learning about the Tyler family this week, my thoughts have been focused on my own. As a small boy, a pattern of births was revealed to me that was probably one of the earliest seedlings of my interest in genealogy. Three girls were born in successive years following my birth, as cousins who had married before my arrival started their respective families. I was the last of one generation; these three, born of three different sets of parents, were the start of the next one.
I have often commented with some amusement on the Biblical precedent followed by my father, who was John, born of Zachariah and Elizabeth (see Luke ch. 1). However, unlike the Baptist, dad wasn't executed in his mid-thirties, but lived two days beyond his eightieth birthday, and gave me the best upbringing his meagre status would allow. What I hadn't realised until after his death, was the fact that he missed only one unit of being that most fortunate of creatures, 'a seventh son of a seventh son'.
I knew from the list in the family Bible that this Zachariah and Elizabeth had a family of twelve, of whom three children died within their first year. I knew all the rest of them, five of whom were my uncles, but had never done the sum of adding in the son who died, which makes dad the seventh son. I never knew anything of my grandfather's family until starting my researches, and I have often wondered just how much dad knew of them ... like so many families, it just wasn't a topic of conversation. I now know that grandfather was one of ten children and just as my father was the youngest son, so was his father; with three elder sisters and one younger one, he was the sixth son of the family.
I have called this article the length of a generation; in the case of the Tyler family from the birth of John to the birth of his youngest surviving grandson was 138 years. We can't compete with that! From my grandfather's birth to my own was a mere 81 years, and looking back another generation, my father's birth was only 79 years after his grandfather. And it's a progressive trend, for the earliest I can go back is only one more generation and from the end of the eighteenth century I can say that my grandfather was born only 69 years after his grandfather!
I mentioned the succession of annual births that marked the transition from my generation to the next; My favourite personal example of this phenomenon is the fact that, after migrating to Lancashire in search of work, my eldest great-aunt had married, raised her family of six children and died - albeit at the early age of only 45 - some four years before the turn of the twentieth century!
Friday, 5 October 2018
One Thing Leads to Another!
I may have used this title before but if so I've no compunction about using it again. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has found it to be true, both in an immediate sense, and also when reflecting over past events and realising how they have led to later developments ... those 'if only ...' moments: some good, some bad. This week's events have embraced examples of both short- and long-term categories.
A year ago, I was prompted to go along with a few others as representatives of our church in response to a town-wide appeal to explore the possibility of starting a breakfast/drop-in facility to help the town's homeless or vulnerable citizens. At that stage, my interest was purely from the point of view of information-gathering; nothing would persuade me to do anything in a kitchen or, for that matter, talk to strangers! However, when a clipboard was passed round to collect names of those who would like to explore the idea further, it collected mine and gradually I was drawn in.
At first, I committed myself to 'the Ark' on a once a month basis to 'set the scene', putting tables and chairs out and so on. After that I would stand by the serving hatch, sipping coffee and observing ... and feeling more and more uncomfortable about not taking an active part in what was going on. The name ARK stands for Always Room for Kindness, and I felt uneasy that keeping my distance like this betrayed that aim. Eventually one of the other helpers drew me into a conversation she was having with a 'client' and the ice was broken. Soon my monthly visit became fortnightly and, having no competing commitment, I began attending every week.
In a conversation with that same helper one week, I think it was a comparison between her children growing up and leaving her some free time and my having retired that led to the revelation that she also volunteers at the local hospice, and the suggestion that there might be a need in their warehouse that could provide an application for some of my excess capacity. Once I'd been accepted by the organisation, I determined that - as much for my own enjoyment as anything else - I wanted my commitment to be a versatile one. I am therefore learning what is involved in collecting larger donations from houses, and servicing the retail shops that raise funds, and also computer work, processing books for bulk sale. Inevitably, the odd items that, for one reason or another, can't be sold catch the eye as potentially of interest or use to the volunteers so, rather than see them scrapped, we are able to pay a small amount and claim them as ours.
When I brought home a couple of CDs this week, I realised that my already full cabinet wouldn't accommodate them, and space had to be made by selecting two unwanted ones to offer as donations on my next visit. Today I spotted, sitting on top of a skip in the yard, what looked like a roll-top CD cabinet; further examination revealed that one of the roller doors was split. I thought it could be mended and enquired about obtaining it for my use. It was quickly mended - to my satisfaction, at least - and I set about filling it, only to discover that the width of the sections makes it more suitable for DVDs than CDs. As a result, it is now filled with these and, by virtue of 'moving the space along', I have capacity for some more books on my shelves ... and a few cobwebs have been evicted in the process!
As if all this 'personal development' weren't enough, a few weeks ago, as I emerged from the theatre, I bumped into the chairman of my local Liberal Democrat branch, who asked me if I would take some minutes at that week's meeting. This led to my agreeing to take on the secretary's duties up to the next Annual Meeting. Following on from that, the need to circulate all members with information from time to time, led this week to my exploring the intricacies of MailChimp, which, after two sacrificed evenings on the altar of discovery, I would like to say I've just about mastered ... time alone will tell!
A year ago, I was prompted to go along with a few others as representatives of our church in response to a town-wide appeal to explore the possibility of starting a breakfast/drop-in facility to help the town's homeless or vulnerable citizens. At that stage, my interest was purely from the point of view of information-gathering; nothing would persuade me to do anything in a kitchen or, for that matter, talk to strangers! However, when a clipboard was passed round to collect names of those who would like to explore the idea further, it collected mine and gradually I was drawn in.
At first, I committed myself to 'the Ark' on a once a month basis to 'set the scene', putting tables and chairs out and so on. After that I would stand by the serving hatch, sipping coffee and observing ... and feeling more and more uncomfortable about not taking an active part in what was going on. The name ARK stands for Always Room for Kindness, and I felt uneasy that keeping my distance like this betrayed that aim. Eventually one of the other helpers drew me into a conversation she was having with a 'client' and the ice was broken. Soon my monthly visit became fortnightly and, having no competing commitment, I began attending every week.
In a conversation with that same helper one week, I think it was a comparison between her children growing up and leaving her some free time and my having retired that led to the revelation that she also volunteers at the local hospice, and the suggestion that there might be a need in their warehouse that could provide an application for some of my excess capacity. Once I'd been accepted by the organisation, I determined that - as much for my own enjoyment as anything else - I wanted my commitment to be a versatile one. I am therefore learning what is involved in collecting larger donations from houses, and servicing the retail shops that raise funds, and also computer work, processing books for bulk sale. Inevitably, the odd items that, for one reason or another, can't be sold catch the eye as potentially of interest or use to the volunteers so, rather than see them scrapped, we are able to pay a small amount and claim them as ours.
When I brought home a couple of CDs this week, I realised that my already full cabinet wouldn't accommodate them, and space had to be made by selecting two unwanted ones to offer as donations on my next visit. Today I spotted, sitting on top of a skip in the yard, what looked like a roll-top CD cabinet; further examination revealed that one of the roller doors was split. I thought it could be mended and enquired about obtaining it for my use. It was quickly mended - to my satisfaction, at least - and I set about filling it, only to discover that the width of the sections makes it more suitable for DVDs than CDs. As a result, it is now filled with these and, by virtue of 'moving the space along', I have capacity for some more books on my shelves ... and a few cobwebs have been evicted in the process!
As if all this 'personal development' weren't enough, a few weeks ago, as I emerged from the theatre, I bumped into the chairman of my local Liberal Democrat branch, who asked me if I would take some minutes at that week's meeting. This led to my agreeing to take on the secretary's duties up to the next Annual Meeting. Following on from that, the need to circulate all members with information from time to time, led this week to my exploring the intricacies of MailChimp, which, after two sacrificed evenings on the altar of discovery, I would like to say I've just about mastered ... time alone will tell!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)