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?
Friday, 18 January 2019
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!
Saturday, 29 December 2018
Flat Out!
I read on social media this morning that someone had referred to these days between Christmas and the New Year as 'a flat time'. The writer claimed - and I'm inclined to agree with him - that these days of relaxation are as much part of Christmas as the hectic run-up to Christmas Eve. They do indeed provide some sort of balance to life.
I found myself nodding off over the keyboard and realised that there was no need to fight fatigue any longer. Laying aside my mouse, I settled down in the chair and fell asleep. Emerging from a 'power nap' almost a new man (I wish!), I now find myself inspired to write this blog.
It's amazing how many people succumb to a cold over the holiday period. Whether medically correct or not, I share a commonly held belief that the body's immune system normally runs at 'high' in order to protect us to meet the demands of daily life but, once those requirements are relaxed, it too takes a holiday and we are thus exposed to bugs and infections that would otherwise be repelled.
Certainly this seems to have been the case for me this week. In my retired state, normal pressure at this time of year has comprised a number of social and church engagements, including taking part in choral pieces at the annual carol service, ringing bells for an extra service, and completing the transcription of the latest batch of census entries. I returned from a communal Christmas day lunch for people living alone and within hours I was aware of the first symptoms of a cold; by the evening of Boxing Day I was streaming.
After securing my cousin's acquiescence, I gathered together all my medication, along with other necessaries, and travelled yesterday to fulfil the plans we had made for me to spend the New Year weekend with her and her husband as I usually do. In return for a few hours of conversation and a little light household assistance, I'm being well looked after and entertained with television programmes that my screen-limited home doesn't offer.
It's interesting to see how other people are spending their 'flat time'. Some have travelled to foreign parts, some are exploring other parts of this realm, and others are simply content to relax and have a weekend doing very little. One wife (and I suspect one out of a goodly number!) has prepared a list of 'jobs around the house that we need to attend to'.
Whatever you're going to be doing in the coming days, I wish all my readers a very good New Year!
I found myself nodding off over the keyboard and realised that there was no need to fight fatigue any longer. Laying aside my mouse, I settled down in the chair and fell asleep. Emerging from a 'power nap' almost a new man (I wish!), I now find myself inspired to write this blog.
It's amazing how many people succumb to a cold over the holiday period. Whether medically correct or not, I share a commonly held belief that the body's immune system normally runs at 'high' in order to protect us to meet the demands of daily life but, once those requirements are relaxed, it too takes a holiday and we are thus exposed to bugs and infections that would otherwise be repelled.
Certainly this seems to have been the case for me this week. In my retired state, normal pressure at this time of year has comprised a number of social and church engagements, including taking part in choral pieces at the annual carol service, ringing bells for an extra service, and completing the transcription of the latest batch of census entries. I returned from a communal Christmas day lunch for people living alone and within hours I was aware of the first symptoms of a cold; by the evening of Boxing Day I was streaming.
After securing my cousin's acquiescence, I gathered together all my medication, along with other necessaries, and travelled yesterday to fulfil the plans we had made for me to spend the New Year weekend with her and her husband as I usually do. In return for a few hours of conversation and a little light household assistance, I'm being well looked after and entertained with television programmes that my screen-limited home doesn't offer.
It's interesting to see how other people are spending their 'flat time'. Some have travelled to foreign parts, some are exploring other parts of this realm, and others are simply content to relax and have a weekend doing very little. One wife (and I suspect one out of a goodly number!) has prepared a list of 'jobs around the house that we need to attend to'.
Whatever you're going to be doing in the coming days, I wish all my readers a very good New Year!
Friday, 21 December 2018
What Christmas is All About
At lunch today, after finishing my half-day shift, I looked from my seat at the table down the length of the sorting room and said, "In just three months, this place has become like home." As my colleague agreed with the sentiment expressed, I thought, 'Isn't this what Christmas is all about?'.
All the religious fundamentals aside, Christmas is at heart a time for family. I'm not sure whether that limitation is actually possible: after all, what's the Jesus, Mary and Joseph thing, if not a family ... but let that pass. Some years ago, my daughter said to me, referring to her step-father, "I can't call you 'dad'; he's been much more of a dad to me than you ever were!" Yes, that hurt. And I could have argued the point, citing certain things many years ago to plead my cause but I had to admit that, from where she was looking at the time, truth was on her side.
Family isn't just flesh and blood; it's a matter of love and behaviour. And when it comes to Christmas, those things are even more important. Unusually for this blog, I offer you two pictures. This envelope landed on my doormat yesterday morning. It had come all the way from Canada, sent by a woman I've never met, and with whom my only contact, apart from a burst of e-mails in the last couple of months, has been a single similar exchange about five years ago. It's her theory that we are something like ninth or tenth cousins, going back to a potential common ancestor in Tudor times. Whether we will be able to prove this link is somewhat doubtful, to say the least, but on the strength of this, she was willing to prepare and send to me a whole package of papers relating to the family and descendants of this putative n-times-great grandparent. If nothing at all develops from it, it will provide some interesting holiday reading!
My second picture is also recent, but the story behind it started just before last Christmas. After some thought and discussion, the CO of our local Salvation Army corps decided to go ahead with a plan to open a weekly drop-in for people in our town who are either homeless or vulnerable in some other way. There they can get a cooked breakfast and bread, pastries or other foodstuffs, clothing and toiletries, when available and according to their needs. Along with a dozen or so others from different churches in the town and beyond, it is my privilege to be one of the helpers at this operation, called the Ark (standing for Always Room for Kindness).
One day during the spring, I was talking to one of the other volunteers about the amount of spare time on my hands now my retired life had settled into a regular pattern. She explained how, in addition to the Ark, she had also volunteered to help at our local hospice, where she had joined a scheme called Compassionate Neighbours. These people are paired up with 'clients' (an awfully professional-sounding word, but it serves the purpose) who have a relative suffering from a terminal condition, or who have recently been bereaved. They operate on a one-to-one basis to offer a small amount of time on a regular basis to someone who may be feeling isolated or lonely, perhaps for something as simple as a cup of tea and a chat.
The picture is of Becky and some other Neighbours at their Christmas party last week. The hospice is a charity funded to a large extent by a small of retail shops in local towns. These shops are supported in their operation by a central warehouse and distribution centre, and my friend suggested that it might be appropriate if I were to offer my time to help there. After a few other problems had been resolved during the summer months, I followed up her suggestion, and have been working there a day and a half a week since the beginning of October. The atmosphere is very relaxed and congenial. They are, indeed, like a second family.
People ask from time to time what I shall 'be doing for Christmas'. What they mean is, 'will you be alone on this overtly family occasion?' In the absence of a family, my answer is usually 'Nothing.' meaning, 'Yes, I shall be alone, but I'm used to it now, and I don't mind.' From time to time one family or another have invited me to their table ... invitations I've gladly accepted in preference to cooking my own dinner but, despite the warmth and sincerity of their welcome, they're not my family. This year, as a result of helping at the Ark, I have accepted the invitation to join other people who would otherwise be alone for Christmas lunch at the Salvation Army.
Whatever table will be welcoming you next Tuesday, I wish all my readers a very Happy Christmas!
All the religious fundamentals aside, Christmas is at heart a time for family. I'm not sure whether that limitation is actually possible: after all, what's the Jesus, Mary and Joseph thing, if not a family ... but let that pass. Some years ago, my daughter said to me, referring to her step-father, "I can't call you 'dad'; he's been much more of a dad to me than you ever were!" Yes, that hurt. And I could have argued the point, citing certain things many years ago to plead my cause but I had to admit that, from where she was looking at the time, truth was on her side.
Family isn't just flesh and blood; it's a matter of love and behaviour. And when it comes to Christmas, those things are even more important. Unusually for this blog, I offer you two pictures. This envelope landed on my doormat yesterday morning. It had come all the way from Canada, sent by a woman I've never met, and with whom my only contact, apart from a burst of e-mails in the last couple of months, has been a single similar exchange about five years ago. It's her theory that we are something like ninth or tenth cousins, going back to a potential common ancestor in Tudor times. Whether we will be able to prove this link is somewhat doubtful, to say the least, but on the strength of this, she was willing to prepare and send to me a whole package of papers relating to the family and descendants of this putative n-times-great grandparent. If nothing at all develops from it, it will provide some interesting holiday reading!My second picture is also recent, but the story behind it started just before last Christmas. After some thought and discussion, the CO of our local Salvation Army corps decided to go ahead with a plan to open a weekly drop-in for people in our town who are either homeless or vulnerable in some other way. There they can get a cooked breakfast and bread, pastries or other foodstuffs, clothing and toiletries, when available and according to their needs. Along with a dozen or so others from different churches in the town and beyond, it is my privilege to be one of the helpers at this operation, called the Ark (standing for Always Room for Kindness).
One day during the spring, I was talking to one of the other volunteers about the amount of spare time on my hands now my retired life had settled into a regular pattern. She explained how, in addition to the Ark, she had also volunteered to help at our local hospice, where she had joined a scheme called Compassionate Neighbours. These people are paired up with 'clients' (an awfully professional-sounding word, but it serves the purpose) who have a relative suffering from a terminal condition, or who have recently been bereaved. They operate on a one-to-one basis to offer a small amount of time on a regular basis to someone who may be feeling isolated or lonely, perhaps for something as simple as a cup of tea and a chat.
The picture is of Becky and some other Neighbours at their Christmas party last week. The hospice is a charity funded to a large extent by a small of retail shops in local towns. These shops are supported in their operation by a central warehouse and distribution centre, and my friend suggested that it might be appropriate if I were to offer my time to help there. After a few other problems had been resolved during the summer months, I followed up her suggestion, and have been working there a day and a half a week since the beginning of October. The atmosphere is very relaxed and congenial. They are, indeed, like a second family.People ask from time to time what I shall 'be doing for Christmas'. What they mean is, 'will you be alone on this overtly family occasion?' In the absence of a family, my answer is usually 'Nothing.' meaning, 'Yes, I shall be alone, but I'm used to it now, and I don't mind.' From time to time one family or another have invited me to their table ... invitations I've gladly accepted in preference to cooking my own dinner but, despite the warmth and sincerity of their welcome, they're not my family. This year, as a result of helping at the Ark, I have accepted the invitation to join other people who would otherwise be alone for Christmas lunch at the Salvation Army.
Whatever table will be welcoming you next Tuesday, I wish all my readers a very Happy Christmas!
Friday, 14 December 2018
"Dull Days Afore Christmas"
Some while ago in this medium, I wrote about the fact of my father having left me a wealth of wisdom. Unlike the literati of this world, he didn't do so in the form of a shelf of writings - not even a single slim volume - but in a variety of wise sayings, some of which I heard countless times, uttered in his irreplaceable north Suffolk dialect. Many a time as I grow older I recall something he'd said and mutter to myself, 'I see now what Dad meant by that'.
And so to my title today, another of his sayings. It seems obvious. With Christmas just around the corner, we would be in December, or at least late November, when days of warm wall-to-wall sunshine were most definitely not the norm. So they were 'dull days' occurring before - or in his word 'afore' - the festival. But I question whether there might not be a deeper meaning to this.
This week passed, as have many lately, very quickly. In fact, last night I wrote an e-mail asking if someone would be around 'tomorrow lunchtime', only to get a swift correcting reply informing me that I meant Saturday! My mind had surpassed itself in trying to cope with the speed of one day following another. But the fullness of time that always makes the days pass quickly has comprised a sequence of things that are, of themselves, just routine. For several weeks now, there has been a single pattern to my week, that has repeated over and over again, with no specific highlight.
The first signs of excitement leading up to Christmas began on December the first, the day before the start of the church's season of Advent. For a number of years now, we have gathered in the church hall to sing carols, watch the children decorating the tree and sing carols around the piano before joining in a fish-and-chip supper. It is accepted that this will happen and, through the diligent and thorough preparation of a dedicated few, it happens. Although special of itself, it has now become commonplace.
The next regular event is the bell-ringers' Christmas dinner, another year-after-year occasion that has become routine. A few years ago we used to go to a different pub each year, but maybe with age has grown laziness, and for several years now we favour the pub across the road from the church; it's convenient and offers good food at an acceptable price. Sometimes I used not to go, either because of the unpredictability of work or simply for fear of the discomfort of a heavy meal late in the day. These days, with no work considerations, or perhaps just not caring so much, I prefer fellowship with discomfort against neither.
For me, the first unusual event this year came last Saturday when I accepted an invitation to a party. I'll admit it, I'm not naturally a party animal but there was something about this one, not least that it was an afternoon do, that attracted me. It was something to look forward to and, came the day, I really enjoyed it. There was plenty of good food, the company was of mixed ages so it was easy to find someone to talk to and, with children present, there was a good supply of non-alcoholic drink too.
So the spell of 'dull days' - whether meteorologically dull or not - comes to an end. This weekend will see the church's carol service, another annual event, but here there will be the highlight of musical challenges not hitherto attempted by our choral group, and the excitement of seeing just how our new vicar will deal with this important festival, when many who don't attend church on a weekly basis will be coming along.
And so to my title today, another of his sayings. It seems obvious. With Christmas just around the corner, we would be in December, or at least late November, when days of warm wall-to-wall sunshine were most definitely not the norm. So they were 'dull days' occurring before - or in his word 'afore' - the festival. But I question whether there might not be a deeper meaning to this.
This week passed, as have many lately, very quickly. In fact, last night I wrote an e-mail asking if someone would be around 'tomorrow lunchtime', only to get a swift correcting reply informing me that I meant Saturday! My mind had surpassed itself in trying to cope with the speed of one day following another. But the fullness of time that always makes the days pass quickly has comprised a sequence of things that are, of themselves, just routine. For several weeks now, there has been a single pattern to my week, that has repeated over and over again, with no specific highlight.
The first signs of excitement leading up to Christmas began on December the first, the day before the start of the church's season of Advent. For a number of years now, we have gathered in the church hall to sing carols, watch the children decorating the tree and sing carols around the piano before joining in a fish-and-chip supper. It is accepted that this will happen and, through the diligent and thorough preparation of a dedicated few, it happens. Although special of itself, it has now become commonplace.
The next regular event is the bell-ringers' Christmas dinner, another year-after-year occasion that has become routine. A few years ago we used to go to a different pub each year, but maybe with age has grown laziness, and for several years now we favour the pub across the road from the church; it's convenient and offers good food at an acceptable price. Sometimes I used not to go, either because of the unpredictability of work or simply for fear of the discomfort of a heavy meal late in the day. These days, with no work considerations, or perhaps just not caring so much, I prefer fellowship with discomfort against neither.
For me, the first unusual event this year came last Saturday when I accepted an invitation to a party. I'll admit it, I'm not naturally a party animal but there was something about this one, not least that it was an afternoon do, that attracted me. It was something to look forward to and, came the day, I really enjoyed it. There was plenty of good food, the company was of mixed ages so it was easy to find someone to talk to and, with children present, there was a good supply of non-alcoholic drink too.
So the spell of 'dull days' - whether meteorologically dull or not - comes to an end. This weekend will see the church's carol service, another annual event, but here there will be the highlight of musical challenges not hitherto attempted by our choral group, and the excitement of seeing just how our new vicar will deal with this important festival, when many who don't attend church on a weekly basis will be coming along.
Friday, 7 December 2018
A Puzzle Still Unresolved!
Two weeks ago I wrote about a family 'secret' that I hope to unlock upon receipt of some documents from the National Archives. Whilst waiting for these, I've busied myself looking into the family of my great-aunt's ex-husband. I found one of his siblings in the 1911 Census, living in the village of Finningham, where I didn't think I'd found any relatives up to now. As I scrolled through my spreadsheet to enter the details, however, I found I was wrong. Already there was the Game family, the entry for which bore a number of anomalies. Since I couldn't remember them, I retraced my steps to find out more.
Walter Game was born in Rickinghall Superior on New Year's Eve at the end of 1866. In the spring of 1891, he married Ellen Kerridge, some three years his junior ... and many months pregnant! Ellen was one of the 'distant twigs' related to my cousin's husband - his first cousin twice removed, in fact - and she was added to my records as part of the 'great clear-up' following my mammoth Golden Wedding exercise at the start of last year ... which is why her married name meant nothing to me! I later discovered that she is also distantly related to me. Through my father's family, she is my third cousin, once removed.
Walter and Ellen settled in Rickinghall, and began to raise a family with daughters Lily, born in their first summer there, Maud Ellen, born early in 1893 and Daisy Jane, born late in 1898. Their fourth child was born in the summer of 1900 but sadly, either as a direct result of the birth or very soon afterwards, Ellen died. Walter was distraught; it appears that he didn't even think to register the child's birth ... although Ellen's death is registered. There was no way he could look after a new-born child and work to provide for his other three daughters. He engaged a housekeeper, one Sarah Haddock, to cater for their needs and in the 1901 Census, he is shown as a horseman on a farm, with the two eldest girls attending the local school. The baby, who was given the names Ellen Sparkes: the spark of life her mother left, is recorded with Ellen's parents and siblings, some 17 miles away in Old Buckenham.
The little girl didn't stand much chance without her mother, however, and lived just to the age of three, staying with her grandparents for the rest of her short life. By the end of 1905, Walter had established a new relationship and married Elizabeth Seeley. Soon his elder children left home and found work. In 1911 Maud was a servant at a hotel in Felixstowe and her father's entry - the one that prompted this reverie - shows the household moved from Rickinghall to Church Farm, Finningham. On the face of it, a normal household had emerged from the tragedy of the past. Walter was listed as a waggoner and, in addition to his new wife, were shown his younger daughter Daisy, now 12, and an 8-year-old boarder May Garner; the two girls were at school.
One of the advantages of seeing the 1911 Census on line is the fact that we can see a facsimile of the actual form completed by our ancestors. I mentioned at the start that there were some anomalies here; this particular form is the invitation to a mystery, only part of which have I solved. It appears that Walter entered his own name, that of his wife and their ages ... and signed the form at the bottom. All the other details were added by another hand and using a different ink, so possibly at a different time and/or place. The information presented for Walter and Daisy appears, if not correct (and who can judge that after 118 years?), then at least plausible, and correct as to their ages and birthplace. However, unlike the majority of women, Elizabeth declined to provide the detail of how long she had been married to Walter and the statistics regarding any children they had had, leaving all those boxes completely blank. And whoever filled in the rest of the form claimed not to know where either Elizabeth or the 8-year-old boarder May had been born.
Were these details genuinely unknown to a third party who completed the form? Or did Elizabeth fill in the form, having some reason for not admitting them? After many attempts to find out more, I discovered that Elizabeth was born Elizabeth Coe, daughter of Edward & Hannah, in Ixworth during the latter part of 1856. At the age of 14, she was kitchen maid to the vicar of Earls Colne in Essex and in 1879 she married a bricklayer, Samuel Seeley, who was a few years older. They lived in Euston, over towards Thetford, but never had any family. When Samuel died in 1899, Elizabeth stayed in the village and ran a grocery shop from her home. What brought Walter Game and her together we don't know, and nor do we know why he didn't complete the census form he'd started in 1911.
The other mystery is the boarder. I've been unable to trace the birth of a May Garner of that age - a challenge made more difficult by the absence of her birthplace. It's possible, of course, that her name was changed, or that she was known by a different name than that in which she was registered. There is no way of knowing.
When Elizabeth died in 1934, her age was recorded as 75, consistent with what had been given in that census. Walter obviously came to terms with his earlier traumas; in 1939 he was retired and living alone in Finingham and he survived just long enough to see the end of the war.
Walter Game was born in Rickinghall Superior on New Year's Eve at the end of 1866. In the spring of 1891, he married Ellen Kerridge, some three years his junior ... and many months pregnant! Ellen was one of the 'distant twigs' related to my cousin's husband - his first cousin twice removed, in fact - and she was added to my records as part of the 'great clear-up' following my mammoth Golden Wedding exercise at the start of last year ... which is why her married name meant nothing to me! I later discovered that she is also distantly related to me. Through my father's family, she is my third cousin, once removed.
Walter and Ellen settled in Rickinghall, and began to raise a family with daughters Lily, born in their first summer there, Maud Ellen, born early in 1893 and Daisy Jane, born late in 1898. Their fourth child was born in the summer of 1900 but sadly, either as a direct result of the birth or very soon afterwards, Ellen died. Walter was distraught; it appears that he didn't even think to register the child's birth ... although Ellen's death is registered. There was no way he could look after a new-born child and work to provide for his other three daughters. He engaged a housekeeper, one Sarah Haddock, to cater for their needs and in the 1901 Census, he is shown as a horseman on a farm, with the two eldest girls attending the local school. The baby, who was given the names Ellen Sparkes: the spark of life her mother left, is recorded with Ellen's parents and siblings, some 17 miles away in Old Buckenham.
The little girl didn't stand much chance without her mother, however, and lived just to the age of three, staying with her grandparents for the rest of her short life. By the end of 1905, Walter had established a new relationship and married Elizabeth Seeley. Soon his elder children left home and found work. In 1911 Maud was a servant at a hotel in Felixstowe and her father's entry - the one that prompted this reverie - shows the household moved from Rickinghall to Church Farm, Finningham. On the face of it, a normal household had emerged from the tragedy of the past. Walter was listed as a waggoner and, in addition to his new wife, were shown his younger daughter Daisy, now 12, and an 8-year-old boarder May Garner; the two girls were at school.
One of the advantages of seeing the 1911 Census on line is the fact that we can see a facsimile of the actual form completed by our ancestors. I mentioned at the start that there were some anomalies here; this particular form is the invitation to a mystery, only part of which have I solved. It appears that Walter entered his own name, that of his wife and their ages ... and signed the form at the bottom. All the other details were added by another hand and using a different ink, so possibly at a different time and/or place. The information presented for Walter and Daisy appears, if not correct (and who can judge that after 118 years?), then at least plausible, and correct as to their ages and birthplace. However, unlike the majority of women, Elizabeth declined to provide the detail of how long she had been married to Walter and the statistics regarding any children they had had, leaving all those boxes completely blank. And whoever filled in the rest of the form claimed not to know where either Elizabeth or the 8-year-old boarder May had been born.
Were these details genuinely unknown to a third party who completed the form? Or did Elizabeth fill in the form, having some reason for not admitting them? After many attempts to find out more, I discovered that Elizabeth was born Elizabeth Coe, daughter of Edward & Hannah, in Ixworth during the latter part of 1856. At the age of 14, she was kitchen maid to the vicar of Earls Colne in Essex and in 1879 she married a bricklayer, Samuel Seeley, who was a few years older. They lived in Euston, over towards Thetford, but never had any family. When Samuel died in 1899, Elizabeth stayed in the village and ran a grocery shop from her home. What brought Walter Game and her together we don't know, and nor do we know why he didn't complete the census form he'd started in 1911.
The other mystery is the boarder. I've been unable to trace the birth of a May Garner of that age - a challenge made more difficult by the absence of her birthplace. It's possible, of course, that her name was changed, or that she was known by a different name than that in which she was registered. There is no way of knowing.
When Elizabeth died in 1934, her age was recorded as 75, consistent with what had been given in that census. Walter obviously came to terms with his earlier traumas; in 1939 he was retired and living alone in Finingham and he survived just long enough to see the end of the war.
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