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!

Spring in England

I telephoned my Mother in the UK yesterday morning, and she sounded rather "blue". When I enquired about her state of mind, she said, "well, this winter has been unusually long, cold and dark, and I am getting tired of looking out my living-room window at the dripping trees and the dark, cloudy skies." I commiserated with her, and asked her if there were no signs in the garden yet of Spring. She responded quickly, and with the first hint of vibrancy in her voice, that - indeed, there was a sign. Under the apple tree outside her window, she had seen that morning, what she thought was a pile of snow left over from the last snowfall a week or so ago. Upon closer examination, though, she realized that it was not snow at all, but a great drift of Snowdrops! She was so excited to tell me all about these harbingers of Spring, and to remind me that every year, they increase and that this year, maybe because of the cold winter, there were more than ever!

While I enjoy being in Florida for the winters now, it was brought home to me yesterday as I spoke with my Mother, how important the seasons are to our appreciation of the constancy of nature. Without Winter, how would we appreciate and long for Spring? Without the "dog days" of Summer, how would we otherwise revel in those beautiful cool mornings and evenings of a Fall day? Having lived most of my life in the northern part of the northern hemisphere, I am programmed to respond to the changing length of days and of the different weathers which accompany the seasons as they turn everlastingly. I know that I could never live in a one-season location, like Florida and I am always very happy to return North and have the pleasure of arriving home in time to see my bulbs poke through the ground, and the leaves unfurl in their bright green colours. So, while I will continue to soak up the sunshine here in Florida until mid-April, it will be with great excitement and anticipation that I will head North and run to my garden to see how many spring bulbs are showing above ground.

"When I'm old and grey"

"When I'm old and grey" - a well-worn phrase known to everyone, but not taken seriously by everyone! Suddenly, in my life, "when I'm old and grey" has become ..."Now, I'm old and grey", and it is quite a shock to my system! I actually have refused to accept it.

All my life (and I am in my mid-sixties now) I have considered myself relatively "young" or at least, "young at heart", and never really considered the day when, to my surprise, age has caught up with me, and although I may feel young, my body tells me otherwise. I have struggled in a big way with the fact that I have to actually admit there are certain things I used to do, that I cannot do anymore; skiing, playing competitive tennis, mountain hiking, and a few other strenuous sports/activities that I used to really enjoy. I am not giving up, not at all; I am just being realistic in my expectations.

My knees are "shot" as they say - from a ski accident many years ago, and from general wear and tear, plus inherited genes. My most strenuous activity nowadays is walking 2 miles in the mornings, here in Florida, and exercising in the swimming pool. I am not by any means lazy or prone to giving up - no, quite the opposite in fact. I am determined that my body and my brain are going to continue being fully functional until I am well into my 90's. I have longevity in my genes - my Mother (90) and my maternal grandmother (96 at her death) are proof that genetically, I am programmed to be around for at least another 25 years! Those 25 years are going to be years of productivity - not decline. I have a great, great many plans for my next 25 years. My husband and I have a dream of a large country house in the Okanagan Valley where we intend to grow an apple orchard and a small vinyard; have a house that will take as many grandchildren as we may be lucky enough to acquire, and for me, a garden that I can use all my powers of imagination on. I intend to be as mentally bright as my Mother is today at 90 years of age, as physically active as I can possibly be (no walkers, no canes, no aides of any kind) and as interesting and humourous as it is possible to be at an advanced age. I never want my grandchildren to dismiss me as the grandmother who is "just my Nana". I want them to talk about me the way my children talk about my Mother - interesting, fun, vibrant, full of life, in touch, cool. What a testimony from one's grandchildren!

"Senior citizen", "geriatric", "ageing person", are words that will not be in MY lexicon for a long, long time to come, even though I am now "old and grey".

A Rose by any other name......

I love observing people. Sometimes I make up stories about their lives, just to amuse myself. I also give them "names" which suit their personalities or looks, and over the course of a few months here in Florida, sitting at the swimming pool, I have privately, and quietly, given many of the residents names.

Such as "Ritalin Man" - the retired firefighter from Ohio who talks so fast that I defy anyone to understand a full sentence. When he moves it is at light speed with jerky movements of his arms and legs, and he seems unable to sit still for any length of time. His poor wife never says a word!

Then, there is "The Terrorist" - a rather large lady, Russian emigre, retired, from Chicago, who talks non-stop on her cell phone and sounds like a spy! She has flaming red hair, lips to match, smokes with a cigarette holder and portable ash-tray, and generally completely confuses the Americans. They mostly distrust her.

"The Mole" is the president of our condo board and, as most here would agree, is a generally bad-tempered person who rarely comes out of his dwelling. He walks with a cane, if and when he does come outside, and blinks rapidly into the sunlight, just like a mole emerging from its tunnel.

"The Webbed One" is sight to behold. She is a very large, white (i.e. not tanned) lady from Boston, who comes to the pool daily and "exercises" in the water with large, blue, rubber dumbells and brightly coloured, webbed gloves on her hands to help her swim! She is very bossy, and tries (without success) to organize everyone into doing things they don't want to do. Her husband, retired Boston cop, is the most bigoted person I have every met.

"Dracula" is a nice, retired trucker from New Jersey, who eschews sunlight at all costs. He comes to the pool with his wife, but sits under an umbrella in the darkest corner of the pool reading his New York Times. He is evidently happiest when darkness falls and he can walk around the complex without dodging into the shadows of the palm trees all the time to avoid the sunlight.

"Prince Philip" is a rather sad, old Italian man, who walks 10 paces behind his much younger wife, and sits alone, contemplating his navel. His wife, also Italian, has a sharp tongue, no sympathy for her "prince" whatsoever, and is not terribly friendly to anyone.

Last, but not least, we have "Thelma and Louise" - two very old ladies who both live here full-time. One is 92, swims every single day and rules the pool with an iron fist. She has also been named the "pool Gestapo", but together, she and her friend, the sweet Jewish lady of 88 from New York, make up the team of Thelma and Louise. Today, their conversation went like this...
Ruth: "Paula, you need to come in the pool"
Paula: " I don't want to come in the pool, I have things to do"
Ruth: "You are not listening to me"
Paula: "I listened to you all day yesterday. I am not coming in the pool"......

I am sure there will be more names to hand out in the next weeks as the place fills up with "Snowbirds" - the name given to the Northerners who seek the sunshine in Florida every winter.