More observations around the pool

I find it fascinating that cultural differences cause such consternation amongst Americans. What I mean by that, is that people from all different cultures in our world now travel widely, and when they bring their particular culture (let's say, for argument's sake German culture), they bring with them their own set of behaviours and cultural traits. Whether or not these behaviours cause affront or delight, depends upon how different the people are from the inhabitants of the country they are visiting.

The other day at the pool here in Florida, some new arrivals appeared poolside. They were immediately "tagged" as Europeans by the locals, because he was wearing a Speedo-type swimsuit, which all the American ladies professed immediately to be disgusted by. The wife was wearing a bikini - and because she was over 50, this also gave cause to comments by the locals. However, the piece de resistance was that when this nice German man (for so he was), finished his swim, he went back to his chaise longue, sat down on his towel, and with his back turned to the pool, stripped off his swimsuit and donned a dry one. Well, you would have thought that he had run naked around the pool from the reactions of the other people there! Everyone (except the other Europeans) was horrified and believe it or not, the next morning, the management company was asked to go out and "sanitize" the chair the poor German man was using! The management was also asked to speak to this man and warn him that he could not change his swimsuit in the open but must go to the mens' washroom.

Now, I am not a prude, and I so was not shocked at his swimsuit because those kinds of swimsuits for men were all I ever saw in England when I was growing up and went to the beach with my parents or friends. The only proviso I would add here is that - perhaps - the German gentleman could have put on a robe when he took off his swimsuit just in case there were children around at the time. (There were no children there as it turned out). But the reaction of the Americans was overboard to my mind. Their culture is certainly not devoid of its share of prurient material, either on TV or anywhere else, but another country's mode of dress shocks their tender feelings!

Another topic of great interest to the pool crowd came from a German-Swiss couple who stayed for 2 weeks. They arrived at the pool every day with long, white bathrobes on and large, brimmed hats. They were tall, slim and very proper. They never sat in the sun, and rarely swam. The local pool crowd was fascinated by their "style" and talked about them continually. It brought home to me the fact that most Americans (and particulary Floridians) have not travelled anywhere outside either their state or their country, and so when they see people from different cultures they are amazed at the differences, and cannot understand why these people are not more "American"!

All I can say is thank goodness I came from a culture where "Vive la difference" was the cornerstone of your thinking, and individuality, uniqueness and non-conformism flourished.

Legacy of Conscience

Inspired by my daughter and son-in-law, who spent a weekend away on Long Beach, Vancouver Island, and were dismayed at the amount of plastic they found all over the beaches there, dutifully picking up three buckets full the stuff before leaving the beach, I realized that we all need to do our "eco duty" more often.

I have learned that travelling the world is a great teacher - culturally, historically, and informationally. Some of the most beautiful landscapes in the world are in the third world countries, and yet those countries are some of the worst offenders of strewing garbage everywhere and polluting the environment with carbon emissions. My train journey through the Carpathian Mountains to the Ukraine nearly 5 years ago was an eye-opener in more ways than one. The streams and rivers were clogged with plastic bags hanging from the shrubs and trees along the banks, strewn on the banks and caught up on rocks in the water. The garbage piles along the train tracks were proof that there was no garbage pickup in most towns and villages and that folks just burned their rubbish or tossed it where it could not be seen from the town. The air pollution in places like Tunisia, Mexico City and parts of Eastern Europe were horrific - great banks of yellowish-grey smog lying over the towns. I equated that kind of pollution with industrial first world cities like Detroit and Hamilton...not so. The Third World is actually a great culprit of pollution world-wide - i.e. the slash burning in the forests of Indonesia pulluting the mainland of China, the nuclear accidents in Russia sending clouds of radioactive gases across Northern Europe. On the other side of the coin, I was amazed at the clean air and the impeccably tidy landscapes in New Zealand - one of the most environmentally aware countries I have ever been in. New Zealanders treasure their environment and make sure that it stays that way by instituting stringent rules about imports of any kind which might affect their natural environment in any way.
If our next generation is taught to understand what a precious legacy we all have inherited, and how fragile it is, perhaps we may look forward to a future for them and their children's children which is brighter and cleaner than ours is today. Just picking up the plastic from the beaches is a great start!

Finding your roots

At about age 50, I started to be intrigued with my family and their ancestors. I wanted to know where I came from. I therefore started investigating and researching my family background as much as I could with what resources I had at my fingertips. My Father, a font of wisdom, had died in l992 and so therefore I could not use him as my resource. My Mother knew a little bit about my Father's side of the family, but I needed to do some more work on my own to find out what I could about his family. My Mother had already given me as much as she knew about her lineage and ancestors, and so I then began what turned out to be a 10 year mission to try and meet all the living relatives on my Father's side and to travel to their homes (wherever in the world that took me) and also to visit my Grandfather's gravesite in Northern France.

The first "mission" was to travel to the small town of Arras in Northern France, near the Belgian border, where my Grandfather was buried. He had been killed in l9l8 during the First World War at the Battle of Arras, and buried in a very small cemetary in the middle of a farmer's field. Through the National War Graves Commission, I was able to find out the cemetary name - Aubignby - and directions. It was difficult to find the exact grave, and without realizing it, I could have found the book with plots and names at the front gate, but being too keen to find my Grandfather and plant the flowers on his grave, I overlooked that! Eventually, I stood before the grave, with its plain and simple cross with his details enscribed thereon. Beside him, was - ironically - a Canadian - about the same age - 33 years old. The emotions were multiple - here lay a Grandfather I never met, never knew, but felt a connection to. He was my Father's Father - someone my Father himself did not remember, but who had left letters and photographs which made him live in our memories as a real and vital person. I planted my white Crysanthemum on his grave, and wrote a message to him on the card saying that I was his grand-daughter and I wish I had known him, and then I took some photographs. It was a haunting and deeply emotional experience, but a satisfying one too. I am so glad that I went.
During the following years, I looked up all my Father's living relatives, and one by one, I connected with them. Some were in New Zealand, to which Doug and I travelled 2 years ago. We met them all and found them to be lovely people, who were so delighted and thrilled that I had made that journey to see them. My Father's cousin, Margot, was still alive and approaching her 90th birthday at the time. She had been a special favourite of my Father's - they had played together as young children and been very close. Then her Mother, recently widowed, had taken her young family of four off to New Zealand to start a new life. They never returned except on holidays from time to time, but my Father always spoke of Margot and how much he missed her. She and I had a wonderful meeting, bonding together over photographs of the family and telling each other stories from our memories of my Father. She gave me some important photos of the family during the early years before she had left England, and I treasure these. Her four children were all there in North Island New Zealand, and apart from her only son, Terry, I was able to meet up with the three daughters, Pat, Jill and Wendy, and have a great time with all of them.
On that same trip "down under" I also looked up my own first cousin, Meriel, the daugher of my Father's only brother. She had married an Australian and was living in Canberra. We visited she and her husband on their farm outside Canberra and again, spent many hours talking about our family and the connections. Then we went to Sydney, and met her only natural daughter (she adopted 3 children from Sri Lanka) Sophie and husband, Andre, and again, had a wonderful time together and a great visit. She is now expecting their first child in September. Another relative to visit one day!
Last year, on a visit to see my Mother, I looked up yet another of my Father's relations - one of the other cousins who used to play together with Margot. She is now 93, still driving her new BMW, still living completely alone, and still with "all her marbles". What an amazing group of women these relatives turned out to be. Long lived, vibrant, interesting, and fun! I hope I have inherited some of those genes. Mary and I got along famously, and her daughter, Marney and son David were also introduced to me. I had not seen them since I was aboaut 7 years old when they came down to see my Father for a visit.
The following week, I arranged to meet my second cousin, Thomas Wyatt (the structural engineer of bridges from a previous blog) - his wife, and my first cousin, Meriel, at a pub in the lovely little town of Arundel, where my family used to live before moving out to the big house near Chichester in l959. Thomas, his wife Eileen, and Meriel and her husband, Lance, all met for a pub lunch, and the requisite photographs. Once again, I realized the importance of connecting with one's roots. It was so rewarding to sit together and look at each person around the table and realize that they were connected through my Father, by blood and ancestry.
I believe that I have now met up with almost all of the relatives on my Father's side. I was not able to connect with Thomas and Eileen's daughter, Marie-Claire, but I have met her in my life, and so I did not feel that I had failed to close the circle.
With a great sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, I returned to Canada and set about putting together some notes and papers for my children and their families, so that when they eventually reach the point where they, too, feel the need to "find their roots" they will have something to start with and may not need to take 10 years or more to accomplish it!

The Family Home

When I was 15 years old, my family moved from our modest but unique home in a small picturesque town in Sussex, England, called Arundel, to a very large and very old (parts of it are over 400 years old) manor farm and acreage, just outside a Roman city called Chichester, where my sister and I were at high school. The main reason for moving was that my brother, Jonathan, was born in May that year and we needed a larger home. My grandmother lived with us, and we only had 3 bedrooms in our Arundel home. Hence the exciting move to this rural and beautiful place my Father and Mother had found on one of their driving excursions in the Sussex countryside.
The house had everything a young family could want - fields of our own for ponies, barns to explore, a huge house with 2 staircases, old servants' quarters (which my Father turned into his workshop and greenhouse) and endless fields of crops and sheep surrounding us. We soon learned that the house had a great history - not only was it mentioned in the Doomsday Book as the property of a family called St. John, but it had undergone many structural changes in its long life. The original 2 farm cottages dated in the 1600's were added onto during the Napoleonic Wars in the early 1800's and a full, Georgian Manor House was created with the French prisoners from the War brought in to do the heavy masonry work. Local flint stones from the Sussex Downs (hills to the North of the house) were used to face the house and heavy slate tiles were quarried locally and put on the roof. Then, during The Battle of Britain in WW2, the house was used as an Officers' Mess for the Polish Squadron of Battle of Britain Pilots. It is situated very close to Tangmere Airfield, one of the Battle of Britain airfields along the South Coast of England, and therefore was strategically placed for use by the Air Force for their personnel.
When we moved in as a family, my Father took all of us down to the cellars underneath the house - scary place for us youngsters at the time - full of different rooms, dark and dank, and really not much use to us because of its dampness, and we were shown the ceiling of the main room where all the Polish officers based there had written their names. They had also drawn some pictures of almost-naked ladies which my Father joked about and said he may whitewash over one day!
So...last weekend when I phoned my Mother - who still lives in a part of the same house - she told me that a gentleman had turned up that week asking if he could see the house and the cellars as he was writing a book about the pilots of the Polish Squadron who were based there. He had photographs which nobody in my family had ever seen, of the house during the War, and he gave copies to my Mother. She was quite excited about this event, and in chatting with her, I remembered all the fun we had had as youngsters growing up in that house, and feeling very special that we had "inherited" all the history that went with it.

Milestones in life

Today, I received an e-mail from the daughter of one of my oldest friends here in Canada. My friend is about to celebrate her 60th birthday, a milestone some of us have already celebrated, and her daughter is throwing her a surprise party. She is inviting all her Mother's "girlfriends" to a pyjama party overnight. I wish I could attend, but unfortunately I will not be in the Province at the time. Her daughter asked me to send a note to be read out at the party and so I started putting together something that I hoped would be memorable for her of our times together since l974, when we first met.
As I wrote down some of the funny and memorable things that we had done together with out children, who were all very close in age, (both of us had an elder daugher and a younger son, both sons born within 6 weeks of each other in the same hospital!), I realized that I was dredging up memories not only for my friend, but for myself; memories which were were long forgotten or put aside in the daily life I lead. It was a heart-warming experience and I laughed as I remembered some of the funniest things we had done together. We wallpapered her bathroom with yellow and silver foil paper one night - and did not finish until about 2a.m. The children were sleeping together in the spare room. We watched in delight on other days as the girls dressed up from the "Tickle Trunk" in endless costumes and paraphernalia and pranced around in front of us to music from an old record player - usually Jim Croce's "Leroy Brown". One night, my friend and I and 2 other ladies drove the 40 miles to Dawson Creek to see Raveen perform on stage - and hopefully get hypnotized! It was 25 degrees below zero and her car (an old Dodge Dart) had no floorboards in the front. I sat in the front passenger seat over a view of the road flying by underneath me, and froze me feet! (By the way, none of us was able to be hypnotized - we must have all been sceptics!)
These memories made me realize how important it is to relate stories to your children - tell them about your life and your experiences and let them hear about the funny things which happened to you when you were young and inexperienced. Perhaps for my generation, it is more important than ever to relate or story-tell, because we did not have digital photography and video recordings. Our photos from those days are faded and dog-eared now, but the memories are still vibrant and alive!

Bridges

The other day, I was thinking about some of the travelling we have done in the past 7 or 8 years. I thought about Australia, New Zealand, Denmark, Prince Edward Island, and other exciting locations and I realized that everywhere we have been, there have been the most memorable bridges! Because I love architecture, I always photograph structures wherever I go, and bridges are front and centre.
Of course, certain icons - such as the Sydney Harbour Bridge - stand out simply because they ARE icons, but then there are the less well-known structures, like, for instance, the Auckland Harbour Bridge in New Zealand, which was structurally designed by my cousin, Thomas Wyatt. I always knew, growing up, that "Tom" (as he was affectionately known in our family) was a bit of an "egg head". He was a structural engineer and became renowned world-wide by his small group of peers, as a font of wisdom and knowledge in his field of bridge structure and engineering.
Last year, on a visit to the UK to celebrate my Mother's 90th birthday, I arranged to meet up with Thomas and his wife, Eileen, at a hotel in Arundel. By chance, my other first cousin, Meriel and her husband Lance, were visiting from Australia, where they had settled after a life abroad in the diplomatic service. It was a family reunion of the miniscule kind! There were only 3 of us there who were related via the Baker/Milward families, but it was a noteworthy meeting of family, since we were all either celebrating or had just celebrated our entry into the "60's" decade - although I have to admit that cousin Thomas was likely just entering his 70's at the time!
But I digress - other bridges - yes, the wonderful bridge between Copenhagen, Denmark and Malmo, Sweden, which crosses the water from one country to the other and then, suddenly - disappears under water! Flying into Copenhagen airport and looking out the window one sees this extraordinary sight...a bridge that disappears under water! Of course, we decided that we had to cross over to Sweden to be able to drive through this amazing piece of engineering. It is entered just outside the Copenhagen Airport - and it goes underground for a fairly long distance - i.e. it is a tunnel! Then...no warning, it climbs above the water and becomes a bridge! What a novelty. It is somewhat akin to the Confederation Bridge from PEI to New Brunswick in that it is extremely long and crosses a large expanse of water, howerver the Confederation Bridge, although a modern marvel of at least 9 miles in length, stays above the water at all times!
Other bridges I have photographed, and have no time to describe, include the Firth of Forth Bridge near Edinburgh Scotland, the Sunshine Bridge, St. Petersburg Florida, the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco California, the Lion's Gate Bridge, Vancouver BC, the Pont Neuf Bridge in Paris, the Tower Bridge in London, the Charles Bridge, Prague Czech Republic, the Chain Bridge in Budapest, Pons Aelius spanning the River Tiber in Rome, and many others. Perhaps my next project should be a collage of bridges of the world...but not before I have finished all my photo albums, and I am currently about 2 years behind!