It was in the dim and distant days beyond recall, when men were men and women were ... but I digress - before I've even started! - let's just say it must have been four or five years ago when I first read about Emily Finch in one of those many unsolicited magazines and leaflets that penetrate the meagre defences of my letterbox flap. She was looking for help to start a charity ... no easy task, as I know from experience! Approving of her aims, I sent her a donation and in response received the occasional e-mail as the project progressed. Now I'm a regular supporter of the Bus Stop by prayer and a standing order.
Last summer, planning an extension to take advantage of my attendance at my cousin's 'big' birthday celebration, I booked a B&B near Huddersfield in order to make visits to three National Trust properties before I surrendered my membership later in the year. Whilst in the area, I thought I might drive through some of the towns and villages where the Bus Stop operates ... just to get a feel of the sort of communities it serves.
The whole plan was thrown into chaos when, with less than a week to go, I suffered a car accident, in which my lovely Tigra was written off. However desperate I might be for road transport to be replaced, it wasn't going to be in place by the end of the week: what was I to do? It needed little thought to hit upon public transport and I decided to go by bus and train, with the result that a beautiful sunny afternoon found me walking across Nottingham city centre from train station to bus depot after the smoothest two-leg train trip you could imagine. The ensuing National Trust bonanza was abandoned, and those Yorkshire villages didn't even get a thought.
The other evening, as I was getting ready for bedtime and made my regular 'final circuit' of e-mail and social media websites before shutting down the computer, I found an invitation to the Bus Stop's AGM in a few weeks' time. Suddenly, in a moment of freedom recognised, I realised that, instead of a swift 'it's a long way away, click-and-delete', there was actually no reason that I shouldn't go to the meeting. It's being held in the middle of York, almost opposite the famous Betty's Cafe Tea Rooms so, when I found the location, my next thought was where would I park the car? and I began to scour the map of York for car parks.
I soon discovered the NCP at the railway station and all at once I made the link I'd forgotten about all those months ago. To take the train would certainly overcome the parking difficulties but the very fact of going to the AGM would bring me directly into contact with the organisation, instead of the vague 'well, this is the place' experience that my summer plan would have achieved. With a few more clicks I had discovered a direct train in each direction and made the booking. I now have the tickets on my noticeboard, ready for use when the time comes, and all I need is fine weather to catch my initial bus, and then for my walk to the venue when I get there.
Talk about wishes being granted!
Friday 25 January 2019
Friday 18 January 2019
Mary, Who Were You?
Despite all that the advertisements claim about family history research being easier with the advent of on-line searches by the score, countless millions of events now indexed and all the rest, I can't believe my ever-extending list of ancestors who just refuse to be traced is unique. We could be forgiven for thinking that people a century or two ago conspired to make life difficult for prying descendants who are trying to uncover all their little secrets.
My general pattern of activity of late in that field has been the filling-in of gaps in the basic details of some of my closer relatives; the one who has attracted this present ire is but one example. The story began with my maternal grandmother's aunt, who married the eldest of eight brothers and this tale starts with one of those brothers, the third of the eight, named Joseph Munford.
I already knew that he was born in Norfolk in the first quarter of 1851 and that he died in Co. Durham fifty-two years later. He was married to Mary and they had three children, Elizabeth, Joseph junior and Fred. I even knew when the children were born and had identified the deaths of the two sons but there, three years or so ago, I'd left it.
Just before Christmas, I tried to find out more. My research path seemed so straightforward. Since I last looked at this family, the GRO has published indexes that show the maiden name of the mothers of all children whose births have been registered since 1837. I already had the children's birth records; all I needed to do was look up those three entries in this index, identify their mother and look up the marriage. If only it were that simple! I found the three entries all right but the first showed the name Patterson, the second Fulcher and the third nothing at all ... which is usually the sign that the birth was illegitimate.
Then I remembered that I had located the family's entry on the 1911 census. I looked at this again. Here, sure enough, was Mary, now a widow, with her three children. She had given her age as 50 ... although she had been consistently aged 30, 40 and 49 in the three previous censuses. Maybe she looked young for her age and sought a new partner; Joseph had been dead 8 years by then. Mary had completed the so-called fertility data although, as a widow, she didn't need to. She had had eight children: the three living with her and five who had died. This would account for these three being aged 29, 19 and 9.
I turned again to the indexes. I found no less than ten Munford - or Mumford (the names became easily confused, even by the people themselves) - children between 1874 and 1894, all registered in the same Auckland district and all with the surname Patterson (except for one that was Pattison). The list didn't, of course, include Joseph, who had been registered to a mother named Fulcher. It was about then that I realised that, although the birth of Elizabeth was in the March quarter of 1881, she hadn't appeared on the census that year ... and, when she was listed in 1891, it was as a nine-year-old. Now, for most of their married life they had lived in Merrington Lane, Spennymoor but, in 1881, Joseph and Mary had been living at Ferry Hill, which was in the neighbouring district, Stockton; there was a birth of an Elizabeth Munford in Stockton in the September quarter of 1881, with the mother's maiden name given as Fulshaw ... not too much of a stretch of the imagination from Fulcher!
Was I following a false lead looking for Patterson (or similar)? Were there lots of births to Fulcher mothers as well? After checking both districts, I could find only the two I already knew about, whether registered as Munford or Mumford. I decided to begin another search 'from the other end'. In 1881, Mary's birthplace had been given as Winfarthing, Norfolk, the same as Joseph's; later it was curtailed to Norfolk, with no place name. I looked first for a Munford-Patterson marriage in Norfolk, not expecting much success, because Joseph was already living in lodgings in Co. Durham in 1871. I opened the search nationwide, still with no success. There was an Auckland marriage in 1874 of Robert Munford to either Mary Ann Ridley or Elizabeth Pattison which caught my eye because Joseph's father was named Robert, which could imply a confused parish clerk, but for this to be the one I sought, it would also need the brides' names to be mixed up as well. Furthermore, there was no birth registered anywhere in Norfolk between 1837 and 1856 for either of these women.
What can I make of my researches? With any certainty, nothing. By assuming some degree of deception, a number of possibilities emerge, none of them convincing. Mary might have been born locally in Co. Durham or have migrated from a third area to meet Joseph in that area. Maybe they just called themselves by his name without being married. If she really were Mary Patterson, did she lie about her age and, if so, by how much? If her '50 in 1911' claim were correct, she could have been living as a housewife in 1881 and saying she was 30, but would she already have had three children, the earliest registered six years before? If she were really Mary Fulshaw, or Fulcher (which fits the two elder surviving children), is it likely that she would have had no intervening children? If that really were the situation, why, as a '50-year-old' widow in 1911, would she have claimed five more who had died? Would this have won her a 'sympathy vote' of some kind with a prospective suitor?
As I stray into the world of fantasy, I ask, could there have been two women involved? Could Mary have died after the birth of the second surviving child and replaced by a 'younger model'? It wouldn't be the first time for a second wife to share the same name as the first. I did say 'fantasy'. There are no suitable death or marriage records in the Auckland district for those years ... I didn't look further afield. And anyway, why would such a second wife lie about the children when, as a widow, she wouldn't have to supply that information anyway? And why would the four of them all be living together? We could imagine the 9-year-old's situation, especially if this woman were his real mother anyway, but in that instance what would keep the two elder ones at home?
The deaths of these two ladies is also shrouded in conjecture. The only death I could find for Mary Mumford in the right age-range was in Worthing in 1937. You couldn't get much further from home than that! As for Elizabeth, her daughter, ... there is a death of a 56-year-old Elizabeth Mumford in 1939 in Durham Western district (age too young), but the only two marriages of that name in the Durham area are one in 1913 to Walter Smith (but the bride has a middle initial 'U'), or one in 1938 to Fred Storey. Without a certificate to indicate ages, the latter is a possibility, and could fit in with some notion of caring for an ailing mother on the south coast. There are a number of women on the 1939 register with that name, but none apparently married to Fred (although many married women were not with their husbands in September 1939!) and two possible death records exist for a 75-year-old Elizabeth Storey, one in 1954 and the other in 1955; but not a shred of evidence to link them to me!
So, my records remain blank for all these details; after all, how far does conjecture stretch?
My general pattern of activity of late in that field has been the filling-in of gaps in the basic details of some of my closer relatives; the one who has attracted this present ire is but one example. The story began with my maternal grandmother's aunt, who married the eldest of eight brothers and this tale starts with one of those brothers, the third of the eight, named Joseph Munford.
I already knew that he was born in Norfolk in the first quarter of 1851 and that he died in Co. Durham fifty-two years later. He was married to Mary and they had three children, Elizabeth, Joseph junior and Fred. I even knew when the children were born and had identified the deaths of the two sons but there, three years or so ago, I'd left it.
Just before Christmas, I tried to find out more. My research path seemed so straightforward. Since I last looked at this family, the GRO has published indexes that show the maiden name of the mothers of all children whose births have been registered since 1837. I already had the children's birth records; all I needed to do was look up those three entries in this index, identify their mother and look up the marriage. If only it were that simple! I found the three entries all right but the first showed the name Patterson, the second Fulcher and the third nothing at all ... which is usually the sign that the birth was illegitimate.
Then I remembered that I had located the family's entry on the 1911 census. I looked at this again. Here, sure enough, was Mary, now a widow, with her three children. She had given her age as 50 ... although she had been consistently aged 30, 40 and 49 in the three previous censuses. Maybe she looked young for her age and sought a new partner; Joseph had been dead 8 years by then. Mary had completed the so-called fertility data although, as a widow, she didn't need to. She had had eight children: the three living with her and five who had died. This would account for these three being aged 29, 19 and 9.
I turned again to the indexes. I found no less than ten Munford - or Mumford (the names became easily confused, even by the people themselves) - children between 1874 and 1894, all registered in the same Auckland district and all with the surname Patterson (except for one that was Pattison). The list didn't, of course, include Joseph, who had been registered to a mother named Fulcher. It was about then that I realised that, although the birth of Elizabeth was in the March quarter of 1881, she hadn't appeared on the census that year ... and, when she was listed in 1891, it was as a nine-year-old. Now, for most of their married life they had lived in Merrington Lane, Spennymoor but, in 1881, Joseph and Mary had been living at Ferry Hill, which was in the neighbouring district, Stockton; there was a birth of an Elizabeth Munford in Stockton in the September quarter of 1881, with the mother's maiden name given as Fulshaw ... not too much of a stretch of the imagination from Fulcher!
Was I following a false lead looking for Patterson (or similar)? Were there lots of births to Fulcher mothers as well? After checking both districts, I could find only the two I already knew about, whether registered as Munford or Mumford. I decided to begin another search 'from the other end'. In 1881, Mary's birthplace had been given as Winfarthing, Norfolk, the same as Joseph's; later it was curtailed to Norfolk, with no place name. I looked first for a Munford-Patterson marriage in Norfolk, not expecting much success, because Joseph was already living in lodgings in Co. Durham in 1871. I opened the search nationwide, still with no success. There was an Auckland marriage in 1874 of Robert Munford to either Mary Ann Ridley or Elizabeth Pattison which caught my eye because Joseph's father was named Robert, which could imply a confused parish clerk, but for this to be the one I sought, it would also need the brides' names to be mixed up as well. Furthermore, there was no birth registered anywhere in Norfolk between 1837 and 1856 for either of these women.
What can I make of my researches? With any certainty, nothing. By assuming some degree of deception, a number of possibilities emerge, none of them convincing. Mary might have been born locally in Co. Durham or have migrated from a third area to meet Joseph in that area. Maybe they just called themselves by his name without being married. If she really were Mary Patterson, did she lie about her age and, if so, by how much? If her '50 in 1911' claim were correct, she could have been living as a housewife in 1881 and saying she was 30, but would she already have had three children, the earliest registered six years before? If she were really Mary Fulshaw, or Fulcher (which fits the two elder surviving children), is it likely that she would have had no intervening children? If that really were the situation, why, as a '50-year-old' widow in 1911, would she have claimed five more who had died? Would this have won her a 'sympathy vote' of some kind with a prospective suitor?
As I stray into the world of fantasy, I ask, could there have been two women involved? Could Mary have died after the birth of the second surviving child and replaced by a 'younger model'? It wouldn't be the first time for a second wife to share the same name as the first. I did say 'fantasy'. There are no suitable death or marriage records in the Auckland district for those years ... I didn't look further afield. And anyway, why would such a second wife lie about the children when, as a widow, she wouldn't have to supply that information anyway? And why would the four of them all be living together? We could imagine the 9-year-old's situation, especially if this woman were his real mother anyway, but in that instance what would keep the two elder ones at home?
The deaths of these two ladies is also shrouded in conjecture. The only death I could find for Mary Mumford in the right age-range was in Worthing in 1937. You couldn't get much further from home than that! As for Elizabeth, her daughter, ... there is a death of a 56-year-old Elizabeth Mumford in 1939 in Durham Western district (age too young), but the only two marriages of that name in the Durham area are one in 1913 to Walter Smith (but the bride has a middle initial 'U'), or one in 1938 to Fred Storey. Without a certificate to indicate ages, the latter is a possibility, and could fit in with some notion of caring for an ailing mother on the south coast. There are a number of women on the 1939 register with that name, but none apparently married to Fred (although many married women were not with their husbands in September 1939!) and two possible death records exist for a 75-year-old Elizabeth Storey, one in 1954 and the other in 1955; but not a shred of evidence to link them to me!
So, my records remain blank for all these details; after all, how far does conjecture stretch?
Friday 11 January 2019
First and Four-most
It's been a week marked by a number of 'firsts' in one way or another.
About nine years ago, I picked up once more a habit I dropped at the age of about fourteen, that of watching live football. Not until recently, however, have I adopted what seems to be a universal trait of footie-following males (I'm not being sexist; I simply have no experience of this behaviour in females), in that there is one team that each refers to in conversation in the first person, e.g. "We thrashed So-and-so United this week," when, as individuals, they may have been tens, perhaps hundreds, of miles from the ground, let alone one of the team.
"My team" in this regard is the one of which my former boss is joint manager, Biggleswade FC. They weren't founded until 2016 so, in one achievement after another, they can legitimately claim the occasion to be their first. This Sunday to my delight - and that of about half of a record crowd of 527 - they achieved perhaps their greatest first so far in their short existence. For the first time, they reached the fifth round of the FA Vase competition. Last season they reached the fourth round, when they succumbed to the team that eventually lifted the trophy. This year, as a result of an 87th minute goal, they have gone one stage further, making it to the last sixteen teams in this national contest. To be fair, this would have been a first time honour for whichever team had won the match but, considering that their opponents, Stowmarket Town, have had since 1883 to make their mark, this has to have been of greater value to 'my' team.
Early next morning, came the next 'first-time' shock of the week. For three years and more a handful of us have been gathering at church on Monday mornings for a simple breakfast, Bible-reading and prayer. One of our number has difficulty getting up, and often arrives just as we're getting under way. We all value his company and are grateful for his efforts, and he joins in the amusement, often joking about his late arrival as coffee is poured for him and a plate is passed. This Monday, to our surprise and pleasure - and possibly to his as well - he arrived before we began!
On Wednesday, it could well have been me who was the embarrassed one. Our church home group meets alternately at my home and another one. This week saw the first gathering of the new year, and as I planned my week, I remembered that I should need to get my room ready as usual after lunch on Wednesday. At 2.0, therefore, with the scene set in readiness, I was patiently reading a book when, glancing at the clock, I had a moment's panic and, upon research, discovered that I should by then be knocking on a door on the other side of town. It wasn't a 'diary malfunction'; the diary hadn't even been consulted! For whatever reason, I was absolutely certain that the meeting was at mine ... but it wasn't. One thing we decided later was that, in a few weeks' time, we shall experiment with a video-assisted study, following a suggestion from our vicar of a particular course we might like to follow. This will be a first for us all.
This morning at breakfast, I fumed, "I've had enough!" I've lost count of the times I've had to explore the innards of my toaster with a narrow knife to recover the remains of a slice that has not managed to navigate its way out of the top of the 'operation zone'. Some years ago, when I had a motorhome, I obtained a toaster on freecycle to put in it and discovered, to my great pleasure, that it was big enough to take a full-size slice of bread.
Sadly, I had it only a short while before it decided it had toasted its last slice and it passed to that eternal kitchen cupboard from which there is no return (aka the council tip). I replaced it with a cheap one from the local supermarket and ever since then I've been scouring the shelves of Morrisons in a suspicious manner, looking for the loaf with the lowest profile, in an effort to make sure that this cheap toaster will accommodate my breakfast slice.
Now the worm has turned. After prolonged investigation on line, I have gained fluency in toaster-speak, learned the euphemisms used to disguise the fact that particular models - despite having 'wide slots, so you can toast crumpets' - will only accept 'square' bread, and also discovered one particular model whose unique selling point is that it will 'toast the whole slice'. Sadly this one is also priced in line with the rarity of its qualification. At last, I've settled for one with a 248mm slot to take four slices or four buns! It's cheaper than the 'toast the whole slice' luxury but, with that capacity, it ought to be able to meet my limited requirements with room to spare!
Watch this space ...!
About nine years ago, I picked up once more a habit I dropped at the age of about fourteen, that of watching live football. Not until recently, however, have I adopted what seems to be a universal trait of footie-following males (I'm not being sexist; I simply have no experience of this behaviour in females), in that there is one team that each refers to in conversation in the first person, e.g. "We thrashed So-and-so United this week," when, as individuals, they may have been tens, perhaps hundreds, of miles from the ground, let alone one of the team.
"My team" in this regard is the one of which my former boss is joint manager, Biggleswade FC. They weren't founded until 2016 so, in one achievement after another, they can legitimately claim the occasion to be their first. This Sunday to my delight - and that of about half of a record crowd of 527 - they achieved perhaps their greatest first so far in their short existence. For the first time, they reached the fifth round of the FA Vase competition. Last season they reached the fourth round, when they succumbed to the team that eventually lifted the trophy. This year, as a result of an 87th minute goal, they have gone one stage further, making it to the last sixteen teams in this national contest. To be fair, this would have been a first time honour for whichever team had won the match but, considering that their opponents, Stowmarket Town, have had since 1883 to make their mark, this has to have been of greater value to 'my' team.
Early next morning, came the next 'first-time' shock of the week. For three years and more a handful of us have been gathering at church on Monday mornings for a simple breakfast, Bible-reading and prayer. One of our number has difficulty getting up, and often arrives just as we're getting under way. We all value his company and are grateful for his efforts, and he joins in the amusement, often joking about his late arrival as coffee is poured for him and a plate is passed. This Monday, to our surprise and pleasure - and possibly to his as well - he arrived before we began!
On Wednesday, it could well have been me who was the embarrassed one. Our church home group meets alternately at my home and another one. This week saw the first gathering of the new year, and as I planned my week, I remembered that I should need to get my room ready as usual after lunch on Wednesday. At 2.0, therefore, with the scene set in readiness, I was patiently reading a book when, glancing at the clock, I had a moment's panic and, upon research, discovered that I should by then be knocking on a door on the other side of town. It wasn't a 'diary malfunction'; the diary hadn't even been consulted! For whatever reason, I was absolutely certain that the meeting was at mine ... but it wasn't. One thing we decided later was that, in a few weeks' time, we shall experiment with a video-assisted study, following a suggestion from our vicar of a particular course we might like to follow. This will be a first for us all.
This morning at breakfast, I fumed, "I've had enough!" I've lost count of the times I've had to explore the innards of my toaster with a narrow knife to recover the remains of a slice that has not managed to navigate its way out of the top of the 'operation zone'. Some years ago, when I had a motorhome, I obtained a toaster on freecycle to put in it and discovered, to my great pleasure, that it was big enough to take a full-size slice of bread.
Sadly, I had it only a short while before it decided it had toasted its last slice and it passed to that eternal kitchen cupboard from which there is no return (aka the council tip). I replaced it with a cheap one from the local supermarket and ever since then I've been scouring the shelves of Morrisons in a suspicious manner, looking for the loaf with the lowest profile, in an effort to make sure that this cheap toaster will accommodate my breakfast slice.
Now the worm has turned. After prolonged investigation on line, I have gained fluency in toaster-speak, learned the euphemisms used to disguise the fact that particular models - despite having 'wide slots, so you can toast crumpets' - will only accept 'square' bread, and also discovered one particular model whose unique selling point is that it will 'toast the whole slice'. Sadly this one is also priced in line with the rarity of its qualification. At last, I've settled for one with a 248mm slot to take four slices or four buns! It's cheaper than the 'toast the whole slice' luxury but, with that capacity, it ought to be able to meet my limited requirements with room to spare!
Watch this space ...!
Friday 4 January 2019
But What is Normal?
With the paraphernalia of Christmas packed away for next year, or else filling the bins awaiting the attention of the refuse collection operatives (let's be PC!), the New Year has dawned, we've recovered from what ever celebrations that invoked, and life is beginning to get back to normal.
But just what is normal? We can say simply that, because we're no longer 'on holiday', normal life has resumed. Some people, though, won't start back to work until next Monday; many production lines will have closed down for the whole fortnight. Others, however - in the financial world for example - will have suffered three days' normal working between the bank holidays and this will be their third working day of the new year. And those unfortunate enough to work in large stores will have been called in to man the checkouts on Boxing Day, and possibly New Year's Day as well.
What of us, the so-called 'lucky' ones, who no longer work for a living? If we have entertained family for the festival, they have all gone home again; if we were the ones who visited, then it's we who are back home now. We're all picking up the threads of whatever pattern 'normal life' has for us. For some every day is basically the same routine: getting up, having meals, providing for everyday needs such as washing, shopping and walking the dog, and going to bed.
I consider myself one of the more fortunate ones for whom each day is different. I won't bore you with the details (if you're a regular reader, you will already know them anyway). Suffice to say that the regular activities of some days have resumed this week, and others won't until next week. I've returned from my first shift on the van for the local hospice, helping with the collection of donations from a very generous public, so, now that I'm home on a Friday afternoon, it's time to write this blog.
One thing I fitted in before turning to the keyboard is the removal of something that has been annoying me for some weeks. I had noticed a little blob of scale on my kitchen tap and this typical male has been saying, 'when I get round to it, I'll get that off'. Well, now I can say instead, 'that tap looks better now!' and feel appreciated ... by myself if by no one else.
Now to see what other post-holiday mischief I can get up to!
But just what is normal? We can say simply that, because we're no longer 'on holiday', normal life has resumed. Some people, though, won't start back to work until next Monday; many production lines will have closed down for the whole fortnight. Others, however - in the financial world for example - will have suffered three days' normal working between the bank holidays and this will be their third working day of the new year. And those unfortunate enough to work in large stores will have been called in to man the checkouts on Boxing Day, and possibly New Year's Day as well.
What of us, the so-called 'lucky' ones, who no longer work for a living? If we have entertained family for the festival, they have all gone home again; if we were the ones who visited, then it's we who are back home now. We're all picking up the threads of whatever pattern 'normal life' has for us. For some every day is basically the same routine: getting up, having meals, providing for everyday needs such as washing, shopping and walking the dog, and going to bed.
I consider myself one of the more fortunate ones for whom each day is different. I won't bore you with the details (if you're a regular reader, you will already know them anyway). Suffice to say that the regular activities of some days have resumed this week, and others won't until next week. I've returned from my first shift on the van for the local hospice, helping with the collection of donations from a very generous public, so, now that I'm home on a Friday afternoon, it's time to write this blog.
One thing I fitted in before turning to the keyboard is the removal of something that has been annoying me for some weeks. I had noticed a little blob of scale on my kitchen tap and this typical male has been saying, 'when I get round to it, I'll get that off'. Well, now I can say instead, 'that tap looks better now!' and feel appreciated ... by myself if by no one else.
Now to see what other post-holiday mischief I can get up to!
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