An Ever-rolling Stream

I'd like to say that this week's title is as a result of an exciting journey in a picturesque landscape.  A few years ago there would have been little doubt about that but, since retirement, such journeys are few and far between.  Instead, the words come from a hymn often sung at Remembrance services: "Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away / They fly, forgotten, as a dream dies at the opening day."

This week's journey has certainly been exciting, but not in the sense of travel.  Nevertheless, those lines are relevant in more senses than one.  I thought of the effect of a river on the rocks and boulders in its path.  What seems so hard and permanent is proved to be quite changeable as the river passes constantly over it and gradually wears it away.  In the same way, something that seems insurmountable in life can melt away or take on a completely different shape.

When I joined the Liberal Democrats a couple of years ago, it was just before a leadership election.  Because their constitution accords a vote on such matters to every member, however new, I received a phone call one day from Norman Lamb, asking for my support.  Seeing from his notes that I was a new member, he asked why I'd joined the party and I gave him the same two reasons that I've told other people.  One was the 'heritage factor', a passing comment by my father that his father (who died within a year of my birth, so I have no memory of him) "always spoke well of the 'little Welshman'" i.e. David Lloyd George.  The other was a long-held observation that their way of politics was co-operational, rather than confrontational, which seems a very common-sense approach to so much in life.

Once I was proudly wearing the yellow dove, came the big question, 'what could I now do to further the cause?'  I went to meetings, to a regional conference, to the launch of the general election campaign, but this was all 'taking in'; what could I 'give out'?  I felt - and still do - a great reluctance to get involved in political discussion; it's one thing to hear a speech and feel in agreement with it ... it's entirely another to come up with the right answer to a question on the hoof (or the doorstep!).  So far, I have contented myself with office help in election campaigns, folding leaflets and so on.

Unsurprisingly, therefore, when an e-mail arrived last week - part of an all-member circulation - asking if I'd like to stand as a candidate in next May's local elections, it was quickly on its way to the 'deleted' folder.  A follow-up this week almost joined it ... until I noticed a phrase at the bottom, 'or an election agent'.  Curious, I decided to find out what this might involve and, discovering that it sounds very much like being the accountant for the campaign, I'm now considering whether I want to be involved in a way I had never imagined before.

My other excitement is more personal.  A particular problem had been occupying my thoughts for the last few weeks and I'd been finding more difficulty than usual in sleeping.  Often I'd woken after a couple of hours' sound sleep and then lost an hour or two in a vain struggle to regain Morpheus' embrace.  Over and over in my mind, I would replay potential conversations, alternative attempts to overcome this difficulty: if I were to say so-and-so, would that lead to ... or would it make things worse?  I'm sure many others have played the same unproductive mind games before me.

This week, what I had anticipated with some apprehension as being the encounter that would herald the denouement of the matter, was suddenly precipitated into a business meeting.  The parties assembled in readiness for this but, before the serious discussions began, conversation revealed that the problem that had confronted me was not precisely what I'd thought it to be.  The sharing of views and an understanding of each other's situation quickly led to a solution that will, it seems, be beneficial to all parties and certainly one that I'm looking forward to seeing in action.

Some dreams, as in the hymn, die at the opening day ... others linger, turn into nightmares, and need tranquillity and common sense to dispel them.

The Families of Nash and Fern

I’ve been digging into the family history again.  Tissues at the ready?

When the census was taken on 3rd April, 1881, there was living in the south Derbyshire village of Egginton, a household comprising Henry Nash, 37, his wife Ann, 32, Priscilla, 8, William, 6 and Elizabeth, 5.  At first glance they were a normal family, but this was far from the truth.

Henry was born in 1842, the eldest son and third child of  William, a labourer in Thurvaston, a hamlet of Marston Montgomery on the western edge of the county, and his wife Alice.  By the age of 28, he had become a farm servant at a large farm in Doveridge, where he was the eldest of a team of eight servants altogether.

In nearby Church Broughton, on 14th September, 1845, Elizabeth, daughter of William and Harriet Gotheridge, was baptised.  In 1871, she was a domestic servant, but still living at home, so presumably working close by.  She and Henry were married at Church Broughton on 27th January, 1874.  No doubt all were pleased for the couple, but the following winter tragedy struck.  At the end of January, or possibly the first days of February, she died during or soon after giving birth to their son.  She was buried on 4th February.  Her son was given the names William Gotheridge Nash, and was baptised on 21st March, 1875.

Not far away, in Egginton, Ann Brittan was born in the summer of 1848, the fourth child and second daughter of John and Elizabeth, another labouring family.  At 12, she was housemaid at Park Hill, a large house in the village, the home of Thomas Radford, a small farmer and grocer.  Ten years later, she had spread her wings, and was found in Market Street, Heckmondwike, near Dewsbury, Yorkshire.  Here she was a general (i.e. the only) servant to Edmund Dent, an iron and metal agent, where she met the needs of Mr & Mrs Dent, their three sons, aged 17, 8 and 4, Mrs Dent’s mother and two sisters. Ann was only 22.

Were things too much for her?  Did she give way to temptation, or was she taken advantage of?  We'll never know the circumstances but, during the spring of the following year, she gave birth to a daughter, whom she called Priscilla.  At that point, her career at an end, and possibly with a degree of shame, she returned to Egginton.  Not long afterwards, other unknown circumstances brought Henry Nash and his son to Egginton, and Henry and Ann were married there on 22nd June, 1876.  In addition to their own respective children, they took into their household the illegitimate daughter of one of Ann’s sisters; she was Elizabeth, the fifth member of the ‘family’ recorded in 1881.

The fact that they stayed together for almost 30 years, until Henry’s death in 1905 would suggest that things were rosy for them and, indeed, this may have been so for the most part.  There was sorrow, too, though, not least that Ann outlived her daughter by over five years, before her own death early in 1933.

Yorkshire-born Priscilla had the same exploratory gene as her mother and, at the age of 18, she was the general servant to 25-year-old Oliver Car, his wife and one-year-old son.  Oliver was the harbour master at Morecambe in Lancashire.  She later returned to Egginton, however, where she married George Edward Fern on 11th September, 1897.  In 1891, George was shown as a Brewer’s labourer, living with his family in Stapenhill (then in Derbyshire, but now part of Burton-upon-Trent), where he had been born in 1874. In 1901, they were living in Egginton, with one child, William Arthur, aged 1 year.  Priscilla junior arrived later that year.  Then things went awfully wrong, although the records don't reveal any details.

On 12th April 1903, at All Saints’ Church, Coventry, seventeen-year-old Emily Rose Holloway, daughter of Walter and Rose, married George Fern, said to be the son of Edward, a farmer, now deceased.  The 1911 census shows them living at 118 Nicholls St, Coventry, with Annie Rose, 7 and George Herbert, 6.  If Emily had been pregnant when she married a man nearly twelve years her senior, and at such a young age, then it’s likely she miscarried, since no records of any other children have been found and she described herself as ‘married 8 years with two children both still living’. 

In 1901, Walter was a ‘filer up’ in a cycle works; Emily (then 15) was a plater, and her brother a wheel maker.  In 1911, Walter was still in the same business, along with four of his children.  It would appear that George had been welcomed into the family, for on his census form he was described as ‘stores clerk, cycle industry’.  He died in Coventry in 1955, Emily in Warwick in 1968.

We cannot guess what Priscilla had been told of all this.  In 1911, she was living with her widowed mother, Ann, and her own two children, William and Priscilla.  Both she and her mother were working for Burton-upon-Trent Corporation as osier peelers (they peeled the bark from willow stems for basket weaving).  The most intriguing detail, however, was that in those ‘fertility columns’ of the census, she had described herself as ‘Married 13 years, with two children, both still living’.  There is no sign of another George Edward Fern in the 1911 census, and no ‘convenient’ birth of another George Fern of that age, farmer’s son or not.  We must suspect bigamy.

You may well ask, what is my interest in this family?  Ann (1848-1933) was the great-aunt of my aunt by marriage: the wife of Charles, my father’s eldest brother.  He used to visit us on an annual basis in my childhood, but I never knew Mary; she had died in the early 1950s.

Doesn't it Just Feel Good ... ?

... when things come together?  I have to say that, in my experience, it's rare that lots of 'stuff' goes right all at once without there being something big and festering in the middle to sour the whole shebang.  Looking back through the past week, since I wrote about old age, funerals and lovers not returning from war, I have to say that this has been one of those rare occasions ... and I'll try to summarise why.

It had occurred to me earlier that, by the final week in September, I ought to have received a new lease for my flat, but so far it hadn't arrived.  Not wishing to be turned out onto the street (although, I'm sure, it wouldn't have come to that), I was getting a bit anxious.  On Saturday, it arrived in a Royal Mail 'damaged post' package.  Deciding not to trust the post with its return, I walked into the agent's office with it that morning and was assured that all was well.

That afternoon, I watched my favourite football team start its adventure in the FA Vase competition.  After taking a 2-0 lead, they left fans a bit worried as they were set back as far as 2-3 before finally winning their qualifying tie 5-3 to progress to the First Round Proper in three weeks' time.

Replica Hawker Hurricane
fighter at Wimpole Hall

Sunday afternoon found me in a long queue of traffic.  Usually I find this a stressful situation, being unable to do anything to forward my cause.  This time, however, with no pressures and the sunshine around me, I was nicely relaxed as I inched ever closer to the car park at a local attraction, Wimpole Hall, where a World War II themed event was in progress.  It may be that my demeanour was helped by events earlier in the day.  I'd had a brief encounter that morning with someone whom I feared I had offended, but I'd been reassured that this wasn't the case and so was, in a sense, 'floating on air' as a result.  We met up later in the week and enjoyed a relaxed and wide-ranging conversation over a drink.

On Wednesday morning I had the opportunity to erase another blot on my escutcheon.  Some months ago, I had been invited to a coffee morning that had had to be rearranged at fairly short notice.  I failed to change my diary, though, and didn't turn up.  I'd been instantly forgiven, of course, but still felt uneasy about it.  This week another such gathering had been arranged, and I was able to redeem myself.  As well as the coffee and chatter, I had the privilege of briefly holding my host's baby daughter on my lap; it was the first time since Christmas time about thirteen years ago that I had enjoyed such an experience.  The older one gets, the rarer - and therefore more significant - such events become.

I wrote here a few weeks ago about prowling the streets with a notebook in connection with the planned distribution of church Christmas cards.  Another project recently came my way, that has had the same consequences.  I've once more been seen making surreptitious notes, this time about the industrial areas of our town.  Thanks to the welcome fine weather, this project, too, is nearing completion and, although this won't stop me walking, it will remove the obligation to do so, and the restrictions on my choice of routes.

And finally, a good experience to which I can't put a date and time, which may sound strange.  A couple of weeks ago, I 'attended' (if that's the right word) a webinar - an internet-based lecture or conference - for which I had to download a small program to enable the transmission to be received.  In the event, I don't think it was very helpful, and shan't need the program again.  However, the downloaded file was still sitting on my computer.  Try as I would, I couldn't delete it because - although I own the computer and am the only one who uses it - I didn't have 'administrator privileges'.  I tried to move it to another location, so I didn't have to keep seeing it there: this needed authority I didn't possess.  I employed the indirect strategy of re-naming the file so it no longer looked like a program: this could only be done by an administrator!  Annoyed, I gave up and resolved one day to seek my son's help (he had set the computer up for me when I bought it).  Yesterday, having done nothing further about it, I noticed that the offending item had vanished!  Grateful, I didn't go hunting for it, but I do wonder how, where, when ...?

Today is 'Old Michaelmas' day; the fine weather continues and, although there is no longer golden corn to wave fairly in the summer breeze, this is our church's Harvest Festival weekend.  More blessings for which to be grateful.

When it's Time to Say 'Goodbye'

I doubt the names Will D. Cobb and Paul Barnes will mean anything to you, but bear with me, and I'll try to explain.  As I reflected upon this Janus* of a week, a song came to mind that was published in New York some 119 years ago.  Cobb wrote the words while Barnes was responsible for the melody.  It first gained popularity in the Spanish-American War but, within a couple of years, slight changes were made to the lyrics.  The words "'Tis the tramp of solders true, In their uniforms so blue, I must say goodbye to you" were replaced by "'Tis the tramp of solders' feet In their uniforms so neat, So goodbye until we meet".  British red uniforms took the place of the American blue (although they were soon to be exchanged for khaki to blend with the veldt) and "Goodbye Dolly Gray" became a song of national support for our boys fighting the Boers in South Africa.  I wonder how many people thought to question the spelling of the lady's name.

My last post here looked ahead to a day of 'self inspection and teaching' at our church last Saturday, which we called "At Home Together".  It began with a morning of teaching about the theme of hospitality, and after lunch came a whole variety of activities, from swimming to sewing, from walking to painting, from talking to reading the papers to just doing nothing.  I felt it was a mixture that reflected what a real family might find itself doing on a Saturday afternoon. In the evening there was dancing to use up the last dregs of our energy.

My friend summed the day up amusingly: "Boogie-woogie Bible study", but then followed up with a more thoughtful analysis, "It was about us reconnecting and getting to know each other better, through having fun together, but we still managed to open our doors wide to those who need us most.  This is why I'm so proud of being part of this church family."  It was a time of looking forward to what we might be doing in the future, both collectively and as individuals or small groups, and the service on Sunday followed the same positive theme.

On Monday, I went to the annual school reunion, where there was a brief debate about winding up the society.  The school closed in the 1980s, so there is no more 'new blood' to be introduced; attendance and interest in a formal organisation is expressed solely by the over-60s now, and the organising committee felt it was time to go out on a high, rather than reach a point where dignity and willpower simply evaporate.  There is still a lot of feeling among some of the older members towards some kind of regular get-together, but indecision about how this can be arranged without some formal structure.

The whole thing has been left in abeyance until some of them gather for a Christmas dinner in a few months' time.  Most of the others are older than me, many having left the school before I was born, or soon after!  I have been a keen follower of the society in the past but, for me, the time has come for mental self-preservation.  While I recognise that, like everyone else, I'm getting older, I feel that having so many friends that are younger than me keeps me young ... in outlook at least.  If I have to be with older folks, then I would prefer to spend time with those I know, see frequently and with whom I can have some kind of relationship, rather than make an occasional trip to see people who are virtually strangers.  I admit this is selfish, but my enjoyment of this week's gathering was dulled as I thought of all the human decay around me.

By contrast, the next day was a most uplifting occasion.  We celebrated the life of a lady who had recently died after a long battle with cancer.  In the usual funereal way, relatives and friends paid their tributes and we learned something of her life long before her path ever crossed ours.  The service had been arranged very much following her own wishes, and I was privileged to be one of a small choir - with whom she had sung until shortly before her death - to lead the hymns and close the ceremony with one of her favourite choral works.

Before you go hunting in bewilderment for that tattered song book in your cupboard, I'll confess.  The exact words of my title are not to be found in the song, but I think you'll agree that the sentiment is appropriate to the events of this week.  I've looked forward, as those solders did when they marched away; I've looked back, as folk often do when they sing songs like this, to the early lives of those around them or whom they knew in times past; and there has been a facing of death, the raw emotion of being reminded of our own mortality, as soldiers might when comrades fall, or like the fictional Dolly, as she realised that her soldier boy wasn't among the returning regiment.

I'll be looking for a lighter theme to write about next week.

*Janus - a Roman god with two faces, for looking both forward and back.

Almost Like Being at Work!

In complete contrast to last week's calm, there have been times this week when that title was scarcely sufficient to describe its intensity ... for many different reasons.  One of these was this morning, when I exclaimed, "What NOW?" as one thing and then another clamoured for my attention, while I was already engaged on a third ... all to do with the same basic activity area. I'm sure many of my readers will know this feeling: one from which I had thought retirement would bring freedom.

The week began - for the second time, now - with the welcome and buoyant start that is our men's breakfast meeting.  It was very productive, even though only five of us were able to make it, focused this week on 'confession'.  Later on, I pursued further what has almost become something of a 'parish survey', in connection with the Christmas card distribution plan that I mentioned last week.  A brief meeting on Tuesday with my collaborator ensured that we are aligned in our thinking about the tactics of this, and now, subject to any change to details resulting from more road checks to be carried out in the coming weeks, the essential planning is done.

Ringing practice was as informal as ever, lightened even more this week by a visit from an occasional ringer who is celebrating becoming a granddad, passing around pictures of the new arrival.  The bond amongst ringers never fails to impress me by its openness, strength and endurance.

Tuesday found me in the throes of that family history catch-up of my cousin's husband's family, which has taken me so long partly owing to my propensity for distraction.  In one of these side-tracked moments, I found the name of someone who had married into the family in the 1840s that I thought I recognised ... and couldn't resist checking it out.  It transpired that, by marriage, he was part of my great-grandfather's family.  The result was that I could piece together on a single sheet a string of descents and marriages that link together my cousin and me with her husband!  Some weeks ago, I found a similar link on my father's side that links her husband to me, but I have yet to lay it out so impressively - yet another of those 'one day' jobs!

Wednesday was its usual combination of church and domesticity.  After attendance at the midweek service came shopping and ironing and our home-group met in the afternoon for the first time in the new season.  The leader confessed that she hadn't been able to construct many questions from the allotted passage ... but managed to conduct as broad and enlightening a discussion as ever!

I followed this by a brief visit to a 'pre-planning-application' exhibition regarding a housing development only a few streets away from my home.  To many present there seemed to be a number of glaring oversights to the suggested arrangement, including the number and layout of the houses; the fact of there being only one vehicular access, and that from a narrow lane with no pavements; and the matter of the preserved open space being tucked away in a corner, while the centre of the area is devoted to the back gardens of what would be, in effect, 'back-to-back' properties.

Yesterday was a day of outstanding success.  With no external commitments at all, I spent almost twelve hours - apart from a brief interlude in the kitchen converting a piece of meat and some vegetables into an appetising stew (rewarding in itself!) - working with spreadsheets.  The stepping-off point was my weekly review of investments which, of itself, normally takes less than an hour.  But, for some while there have been a number of anomalies from one set of records to another and, coupled with the need to make amendments to accommodate some new funds, in the way that one thing leads to another, there were thoughts of 'why don't I ...?' and 'wouldn't it be better if ...?'  With nothing to stop progress, all those questions were answered positively and I went to bed contented and ready to sleep the sleep of the satisfied.

Today there has been much preparation for the morrow, which will be a day of healthy self-inspection and enjoyment within our church community, involving some teaching, along with a variety of activities, communal eating and, finally, dancing.  Of course there will be lots of things to get ready and, as one of the designated 'shift and arrange' team, I shall be exercising in that direction shortly.  As Health and Safety Officer, my morning has been diverted to examine and approve risk assessments for some of the activities as well as following a recommended course myself.

As one of my friends has said, many times, 'It's all go here!' ... but I don't think I'd swap it for being back on the road.

... and Bristol Fashion

Things are very calm and quiet chez moi at the moment.  Over the last few weeks, as I've reported here, one aspect after another of my life is being tidied up.  After the advent of the new cleaner and the re-shaping of the bedroom, this week saw something of a spring-clean of (at least part of) the kitchen.  The dresser that I so fortunately got on Freecycle a year or so ago, disguised as a small bookcase, was beginning to look dusty.

The action of unloading it onto the dining table reminded me of an occasion in my childhood, when - I suppose I was about seven or eight - I was engaged to help my mother by clearing things from the pantry onto the kitchen table for just such an exercise ... although today we seldom have a walk-in pantry, and many kitchens are far too small to accommodate a table! However, once the whole worktop on which the dresser stands had been cleared, cleaned and replaced, a number of small items were found to have taken lodging there without purpose, and have now been Freecycled away.

The desk too, metaphorically at least, is getting clear.  Earlier this year, after my completion of the twin family trees for my cousin's golden wedding present, I had some 500 new people to enter properly to my genealogy database; this number, if not in single figures, is now at least below 20, and - as I reported recently - the transcription exercise I had been working on for FreeCen was completed after eleven months.

As the new term starts at schools and universities, my decks are clear for new tasks and challenges.  Some, like the next district of the FreeCen transcription, have already started.  The men's breakfast at church began on Monday - that 6.0 alarm was familiar, but not really welcome - and there's also a plan to organise the distribution of the church Christmas cards across the parish, which I'm working on with a colleague.  To this end, I've possibly aroused some suspicion as I've been walking the streets with notebook in hand, locating an amazing quantity of missing house numbers.  I'm surprised how many numbers have not been used in our streets.  The odd 13 is often absent for superstitious reasons, but these are sequences sometimes of 20 or more, including one where no. 73 is followed by no. 111!

I can't help thinking this week of calm is preparing me for something different, and I confess to being excited to find out what it is.

You might be puzzled by my title this week.  Like many of our sayings, it has a nautical origin, and the first part of this one is more familiar: 'Ship shape', meaning all neat and tidy.  The connection with the sea is not out of place this week.  Pictures of the devastation left by hurricane Irma look like something out of this world.  The thought of 95% of an island country wrecked is almost beyond imagining.  I looked around my 'neat and tidy' realm this morning and wondered how I would cope if such devastation were to hit my home.  In our fair and pleasant land, it's hard to think how this could happen, but ... Grenfall happened!

On the Brink

I expect you've noticed how certain dates and anniversaries are ingrained in your memory.  I remember, for example, the date on which my erstwhile girlfriend relinquished the shop that she and her husband had been running before his death.  I had a great uncle, whose birthday heralded a month to go until Boxing Day, and I know that when my dad's birthday came around yesterday it's almost back-to-school time.

So, now I've left school <pause for applause> I'm reminded of other things, such as a new term of home-group meetings at the church.  This year this calendar-mark carries a greater responsibility for me, since I shall be leading six of the studies between now and Christmas and my aim is to have them all prepared in advance, so there are no last minute panics.  That is fairly well on target, I'm pleased to report.

What else has been going on this week, then?  The bank holiday was spent as usual with my cousin.  The highlight of this one was the freedom to spend several hours ploughing through her box of family archives, making lots of notes with which to enrich the family history.  Every family acquires these, of course.  First that come to mind are the birth, marriage and death certificates, whether those issued at the time of the event, or copies obtained later for a variety of administrative requirements. Then there are the deeds and agreements that accumulate as a result of all manner of situations that involve legal arrangements and dealings with strangers ... like, for instance the purchase of a house.  Legal affairs inevitably bring letters from solicitors, and at the end of the day there is always a long invoice, in which the solicitor details exactly what he has done, down to the very last letter of that sinister closing phrase, "and to accounting to you for the same ..." followed by an unacceptably large total!

To most people these are just the nitty gritty of everyday life, or else the legal dross that is left after some great upheaval in life that now needs to be overcome or lived with, but to someone like me they are like gold dust, every last detail to be savoured, examined and tossed this way and that to see how it fits into the glorious picture that we build ... a picture that will never be completed because, even after a death, family life goes on.

I came home from my trip away to other signs of life going on.  My diary showed me one end of a chain of reminders, telling me to send an e-mail to someone giving her warning of something I shall need in a few weeks' time, so that she can fit its preparation into a busy schedule.  It's now in her diary instead.  A letter waiting on my doormat for my return told me that my flat is soon to be inspected to make sure I'm looking after it - echoes there of last week's post!

It seems incongruous that, in the midst of this fine and sunny weather, the 2018 FA Cup campaign is already into its third weekend of fixtures.  This afternoon, after scrutinising the list, I was able to fulfil an ambition of several years' standing.  Occasionally, one come across two churches in one churchyard;  I know of only one place - no doubt there are more - where two football clubs playing in the national pyramid have completely separate and independent grounds next to each other.  Today I visited Bedford Town, not to be confused with neighbouring Bedford FC, who play two steps lower down.

The visitors were a team I have seen in this area before, when they played a pre-season friendly match at Hitchin a few years ago.  Known as the 'Trawlerboys', Lowestoft Town brought with them a great footballing history, stretching back well over 100 years.  Their latest move was relegation from the National League North to play one level above today's opponents in the premier division of the Ryman League.  They scored - or rather were gifted an own goal - in the 27th minute, and matched this by scoring another in the second half.  Although the home side piled everything into their opponents' half in the last half-hour, the match was destined not to provide even one more goal, much less the three they would need for a home win, and the Suffolk team went home with a ticket into the draw for the next round.  Who knows where that will take them?

And who knows what I shall be writing about here next weekend?  We'll all have to wait and see.