1 Sep 2009 5:39 AM

Checking on my Family Tree.

Last year, my wife and I began to check back on my wife's 'family tree' and, as you might expect, we churned up some surprising results.

This year, we are now trying to get to grips with my 'family tree.'

I do not know what you have gone through, with your parents, but my parents did not speak about the past so, now that we have the chance, we are trying to get to grips with the family history that has been denied us all these years. 

On Friday, we received my mum's birth certificate and were very surprised to note that she was born about fifteen minutes drive away from where my own family now live. 

I would say mum lived about an hour's drive from the town I was brought up in so what was going on, why did they move and how did they get there?

What I do know, from seeing my wife's 'family tree,' is that many farm hands, as mechanisation came in, were no longer needed on the lands and began to look for alternative work and moved up and down the country to try and find it. 

For the past 150 years, although there are none in use now, the main industry, in and around the area I live, has been the mines.  There were other jobs, many of which made implements for the mines, but these posts were not as well paid as the mine work.  I suppose, if there had been better-paid work, outside of the mines, then there would be no one left to 'hew' the coal.

When the work force came, from all quarters of he country, to work in the mines, they had to eat and many local industries sprang up, round the mines, to cater for the needs of the minors and their families.

It transpires that my mum's family, in the main, were business people and their tailoring business was to employ 23 people.  Other family members ran grocery stores and other stores in the community. 

My mother's father elected to go to the pit to make his living.  He became a 'pit deputy' and although he would not have been liked by many of the minors, he came into contact with, due to his title, he would have held great respect in the local community.  I suppose the title of deputy would probably be the same as a manager today.

Anyway, full of trepidation, my wife and I set out to see if we could find the address on mum's birth certificate.  The address was Club Terrace and because it was no longer on the 'up to date' maps, we knew we were not going to get to know what we wanted without a struggle.

Sometimes, luck takes place and we were able to find an area where there was a 'working men's club.'  (W.M.C.)  The club was still in use and I have to say that it was the largest, of it's kind, I have ever seen.  The outside brickwork was ornate and there seemed to be a statement, when viewing the building, to say look and see how we are looking after you!

I ventured in the front door of the club but, because I have not been in a W.M's club since my father 'passed away,'I felt the need to quickly walk out before someone came to see who I was. 

W.M.club's were, when I was a young man, very strict on who they let in through the door.  It was members only and my affiliation cards have long since become obsolete.

Before walking out of the club house, where I could here men's voices and the sound of a 'one armed bandit' being used, it struck me that there was something very different about this club that I had not know before.  I could not 'put my finger' on what was going on until I went back to the car and talked it through with my wife. 

It was the smell, the smell of the club-since I had been going into them-they had  changed.  There was now no smell of cigarette smoke.  The air was clean and only the smell was of furniture spray that hung in the air.  What a difference it made!  I remember, when I used to visit the W.M.C, that I had to throw all my clothes into the wash for I could not stand the stale smell of tobacco on my clothes. 

In the part of the village we were visiting, there was a train station-something we would love in our own village-and a small mettle structure depicting that the village once supported a mine.  This part of the village, even though it had the station, was isolated from the rest of the village and looked like a 'one horse town.' 

There were two lines of terrace houses going to the left and to the right of the main street, some of which were occupied, and an old large building that, from the architecture, could have been a Co-operative.  The Co-op had long since closed. 

We moved round the area, for I was taking photos, and we were soon regarded with suspicion by local people.  One man, until he saw my wife, let loose his shaggy looking Alsatian dog. I wonder what he though I was doing! 

Eventually, I saw three people alight from a car and I went to see if they could give me the information I wanted.

'Excuse me.' I said to one of the local women.  'Could you tell me if 'Club Terrace' is around here?'

A lady, with a look of suspicion in her eyes, told me that she did not know but the other lady, in the car, would probably be able to help me.  Before I could get to speak to the other lady, she dodged me and made a 'bee line' for her front door and went inside. 

I was not going to be put off easily and asked other locals for their help.  The people, that wanted to speak, gave me mixed information talking about anything other than what I wanted to know about. 

Eventually, and it was only a minute's walk from where I was asking, a lady told me that the land behind the W.M.C was where 'Club Terrace' used to be. The houses had been pulled down some time ago. 

I went to the site and noted that the house debris was still there.  The spoil, from the pulled down houses, had been left where it fell.  It had been abandoned and nature had taken over creating an area of weeds and tall grass that was impossible to walk on for it was uneven and dangerous under foot.  It looked like an old bombsite where an explosion had occurred.

Inside all the rubble area, there were still some unbroken paths and when I saw them it reminded me that mum may have played 'hop scotch' on them as a child.  It was a moving and emotional time and even my wife was 'caught up' with the nostalgic reference to my past.                 

To say that the place was 'run down' would be an understatement and we were pleased to collect as much pictorial information as quickly as possible.  Surprisingly, outside of the area, where there were only a few streets, beautiful countryside went as far as the eye could see. 

Until I received mum's birth certificate, we assumed she had been Christened in the town near to where I lived because that is where she lived when she met my father.

From the run down village, we had just visited, to the area where I knew mum lived when she met my father, a car journey would have been at least one hour.

Of course, there were no cars in those days so how did mum and her family get to live close to the town I travel to when I wish to shop for something and why.?

Close to where mum moved to, there was another pit and I assume mum's father, my grandfather, moved to the new pit for promotion and to move into one of the brand new houses built by the council.  I think there were five children so the criteria, for moving, may have been overcrowding. 

That sounds reasonable but how did they get to the new home? 

I checked an old map and the rail link, from the village they were moving from, to the new location, and it went from the small village, they were leaving, to the town they were going to would have got them to their new location without much fuss and was a straight through run.  Their new home, now old, can still to be seen today although it is now a small and aging council estate. 

The new town dwelling, by the standards of their old village living conditions, must have been very pleasant and blissful too from what they were supposed to have grown used to.  That said, I wonder if they ever really settled there because, when my mum's parents  'passed away' they wanted to be buried where they had originally come from.

In the old place, there would have been constant movement of trains (taking land locked coal from the mines to other parts of the country) and there would have been black belching smoke.  The smoke would have made washing a pointless exercise.  If there was a 'sickly child,''in the household, the filthy and sometimes choking air would be a constant threat to their health.  There would have been lots of noise, from train movement and industry, to put up with, which must have been hard to bear, for the colliery was very close to where they had once lived. 

When I was a small boy, my mum's sister was living in the same area of the town, their parents had move to all those years ago, but she eventually moved to Australia as  a '£10.00 pom.' 

I remember the excitement, while my aunt, uncle and their two sons prepared to live at the other side of the world.  My mum wanted to go with them but my father, like me in the sense that he too did not like travel, did not want to go with them. 

Sometimes, although I do not regret it, I wonder how my life would have turned out had I gone to live in Australia.

So far, and we have only just started to search, I have found things to be very interesting and surprising and I wonder if there are any more surprises waiting for me as I delve deeper into my family's lives.

By for now,

John.       

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28 Aug 2009 9:33 PM

On Wednesday, the weather was awful not only was it wet it was cold too.  I mention the weather because my wife and I were hoping to go to a nature outing on Thursday and, due to the experience gained over the years, I did not want to go if the weather was going to be bad.

On Wednesday night, I found myself trying to make up excuses, to my wife, to get out of going to the latest U3A outing.  How silly of me for, on Thursday morning, there wasn't a cloud in the sky and the temperatures were in the 20's. 

The site we were going to was one I used to visit when I first started out birding and if I did not go to the area on my motorcycle I had three buses to catch to get there. No wonder then that I always went on my bike. 

Since those days, when I was a young man, things have changed for the better all way round, for we are now the proud owner of a decent car and there are road bypasses to the site. From a journey that would have taken me, on the us, all morning to get there, todayâ's journey time, due to the wonderful roads, was now as little as twenty minutes. 

A 'Senior Moment,' as it is now referred to if something goes wrong, caused us to go back home, after travelling for about ten minutes to meet our friends, for I had forgotten my membership pass to the reserve.  Never the less, we eventually arrived at the car park, of the reserve, and noted that some other U3A  members had not arrived. 

The usual greeting exchanges too place and I introduced myself to two or three new members before setting off round to the booking office where we all had to go before entering this particular site. 

Instead of going to the bird watching hides, like the rest of the visitors, our members wanted to take another rout and we all took it in turns to line up, as if we were cueing for a bus, before setting off on narrow grass lined footpaths.  Footpaths, on reserves, for they take a lot of digging in and surfacing, are put in place to guide people around a site.  If there is a footpath, people will follow and stick to it.  If there is no footpath, people tend to walk the shortest route to get to their destination and this may entail walking straight over a Skylark's nest or any other nest site.

Usually, on walks like ours, there is a sudden stop where someone sees a wild plant and feels the need to find out what it is.  The back markers, of the queue, have to slow down before the 'domino effect' comes into play.  The domino effect causes the same problems, on a footpath, as does a queue on a motorway. 

Out came the books and the cameras and, when everybody was happy by what they had seen, the walkers moved on.

Since we last went to this site, extensive work had been undertaken and the improvements were good for family members and for anyone that wanted to use them.

To our left and right, there were several new shallow ponds where large leaved water  lilies grew on them.  Some of the water covering leaves, sitting on calm shallow water, collecting as much sunlight as possible, had the most wonderful large white flowers on them and were a sight to behold.  Coot and Moorhens could easily have walked on the large leaves without sinking into the water. 

At this time of year, I did not expect to see many birds for they were either in the process of looking after a second brood or may have gone to ground to rest and build up their energy levels before moulting.  Some may also be preparing their bodies for the shortening day light and harder foraging methods as the vegetation and seeds decline in numbers.  No matter, I was in good company and there were several species of dragonflies to be seen. 

One of my friends, who sometimes likes to go off on his own, left the pack and I thought I aught to see if he was all right.  The two of us engaged into conversation and soon, although we did not know it at the time, the rest of the group had left us behind. 

While listening to my very interesting friend, and talking back to him, I took stock of the wild grasses and sucked in the smells coming from the plant life and undergrowth. 

To my left, on a large lake about a field away from where we were leaning on a bridge made from a material that looked like plastic but was actually re constituted car tyres, a large flock of Canada Geese rose to the air and circled a couple of times, close to where we were standing.  There were other geese with them but I could not see what types they were. 

My friend and I stood, in silence, to watch the geese and listen to them calling before they decided to settle again on a steep embankment at the side of the lake they had just come from.  As soon as the birds were settled on the water, our conversation started up again from where we had left off.

My friend, a well spoken articulate, man with no traces of a local accent, suddenly stopped in mid sentence and nudged my arm.  I looked in the direction he pointed, and saw a Stoat hugging the side of the footpath, trying not to come out of the longer tufts of grass, as it quickly ran away from where we were standing.  In the next few minutes, while we continued our conversation, the Stoat came back and forth several times.  I had a feeling that the animal was foraging for food and may have had a brood near to where we were.

Time passed quickly and my friend felt we aught to move on and try to catch up with the rest of the group but, by the time we reached our friends, some had already left.  Some were having a well deserved drink and were sitting on a balcony, over looking the reserve, outside a cafeteria that supplied good food to hungry people that had been enjoying the sights and sounds of the reserve in good clean fresh air.

No matter what your ability of knowledge, about the great outdoors, any kind of sighting can be turned into a wonderful happening and, for me at least, the Stoat sighting made my day.

By for now,

John.

John..

                   

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22 Aug 2009 4:47 AM

The Hey Fever season is making life difficult for a lot of people, in England-me included-and although I wanted to travel to my art class last Tuesday, I did not feel up to going.  The virus my wife and I have had, a few weeks ago now, is still lingering and we are finding if difficult to get around in our usual energetic way.

No matter, for I was up early and lingered in the shower trying to give myself an extra soaking hoping the water, as with a broody hen, would pull me out of my lethargic mood.

Has it turned out, once the car boot was full of all the art gear, a man came to our home and needed to know several things from me and although I did not mind answering the questions, I was delayed in setting off on my journey.

If that was not enough, while I was travelling, I was held up by a couple of road works and was about half an hour late to my class.

Normally, I would have been a little upset at ariving late but, once in the large hall, where the self help group meets, there were lots of people missing from the class.

Although I am very serious about the work I do, for I usually work until 9 p.m. every night,.. when I am in class, I also like a good laugh.  Art, when done on its own, can be a lonesome affair.  So, when in class, I like to mingle and have a good laugh. 

In fact, and I was not the only one to say so, the hall, where we do our art work, was as quiet as a Dr's surgery.  I tried to lighten the mood by singing, in a quiet voice, in the hope that someone else may join in, but that did not work.

I tried telling a light hearted story and the laughter zone was none plussed so, when tea break came, I decided to mingle more than usual.  A couple of my friends wanted to talk but many of them, who were usually very chatty, caried on painting and could not be bothered to go to the counter for a freshly made cup of tea or coffee.

I do not know what the problem was but, on this occassion, I was pleased when it was time to come away from the class.

All was not lost though for one of my new singing partners, who asked me to call in on him if ever I was in the area where he lived, was waiting for me to go see him.

After the art class was over, I pulled up in one of the side streets, had a few sandwiches and then made my way to where my friend lived.

My friend, who is a good reader of music, gave me lots of tips and while I was sitting in his conservetory, overlooking a long and well maintained lawn with flower borders bursting at the seams, my friend introduced me to Molly who was soon to become my new girl friend. 

Molly, an 18 month old border collie, had a beautiful personality but there were ground rules to observe for it was Molly's job to make strangers tow the line.  Molly barked at me and would not let me near the back garden until she was told to do so. 

Before long though, with my hand trailing down by my side while I stroked her belly, she was soon snuggled onto my feet and sleeping with a contented sigh when she exhailed her shallow breathing.

Learing what my friend wanted me to know was an intense lerning curve for me and when I had enough, I called an end to the session. 

My friend, who, before retirement, was an electrical engineer in mining and because I had spent a short time in the mines-on top of the pit due to not liking confined spaces-we were able to engage into a language that is only common to people who have mining in their blood. 

Four hours later, almost at the blinking of an eye, we were interupted by the phone.  My friend's wife was at the other end of the call and she dropped the hint that there were things to do before she came home to prepare the evening meal.

On cue, I took my leave but not as quickly as I thought for we kept going back into a bygone age of pit talk.  By pit talk, I do not mean swearing, I mean using a common bond language that men used in the pit so that they could be there for one another when things went wrong.

Working in a seam of coal, only 2 meters high (just over two feet high) in conditions that would not be allowed in a factory, sweating all the time, covered from head to foot in coal dust and working under a hundred foot of stratified ceiling, only held up by a couple of pit props, is not something men did without conviction for their friend's wellfare.

By the way, I feel I should point out, when I was a small boy, that miners, when they were in the company of women and children, had a code of speaking.  It was courtious not to swear and that may surprise many readers.

The first time I met my new singing friend, he answered a question for me and called me love.  As far as I recal, only miners called men love-that is in the part of Engaland where I still live-but I feel sure there must be other areas of the World where love is used when talking to other men.  It is just a way of speaking and does not have any meaning.

Although I wanted to, for I am very proud of the following fact, my friend's chatter did not give me the chance; I wanted to tell my friend that I was the technician, in college, to set up the very last gas testing exam before the test was moved to another college.  To make the test as authentic as possible, I had to mix various gasses and quantities of gas, in plastic marked controlled containers.

The idea of the test was to see if the "Overman" a kind of underground superviser, could read any changes in a light flame that was inside a safety Davey Lamp. 

Reading the changes properly could mean the difference between life and death of the men down the mine for there were still gas pockets underground and any spark, from the mine's cutting gear, had the potential of setting off a gas explosion of great magnitude.

No matter what the outside world may have heard about the mining comunity, the working conditions, even by today's standards, were not for the faint hearted.  Indeed, when he was only in his early 20's, my wife's father was killed in the mine from a rock fall.  The unpredictability of something falling on you, as you crawled along on your belly-some times-was always in the back of the minds of the miners.

I, for one, salute the men who farmed the coal to help keep industry going and to keep us all warm in the winter months.

Today, in the area where I live, there are no working pits to be seen and the last of the pit 'slag heaps' is about to be landscaped sometime this year.  Instead of seeing wheels turning, at the top of a mine shaft, you are now more likely to see wind farm turbines circling in the breezes and winds.

Where we once had to suffer the grime, sutty air and sulpher thick skies, we now have, in the main, air that is clear and good for the lungs.

I will stop there but if any readers wish to know any more about what it was like to live in an area where the majority work force was mining coal or inside a close nit mining comunity, I will do my best to answer any questions.

By for now.

John.   

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7 Aug 2009 4:15 AM

Hi there to you all.

I am pleased to tell you all that I am now feeling much better but not, it seems,well enough to get things right.

On Monday, I ventured out for a walk and, as I went round the site I had picked, I took photos as I went on my way.  I thought it would make a good blog.

'I will show them I have the hang of this photo lark.'  I told myself and began to search through the photos I had saved.  I wrote down the jpg numers of the 12 photos I had for you all to see and uploaded them.

So here we are then!

What!

These are not the pictures I wanted you to see!

Never mind, I seem to be stuck with the photo for I do not know how to cancel it so, while it is on the blog I thought I may as well try to explain some of the pieces for you all.

At one point, in the other house we lived in, we had so many photos that we did not have room for them so my son kindly cut them up and stuck them together in some kind of logical order.

Now comes the boaring bit.

Top left shows the day that my wife and I were getting married, top middle (black and white) was the time when we had to make our own entertainment, the picture shows me climbing out of a coal bunker under the house; I would be about 5 years of age.

The picture under the black and white photo shows me dressed as a vicar.  Getting dressed up, on New Year's Eve, used to be done, at that time, by hundreds of people and we would all parade through the streets, in costume, going from pub to pub.  It is not done now for all the pubs (Inns) are closing down.  You may imagine that I was to get lots of comments, from the drunks, and one couple asked me if I would marry them. 

The top right photo shows my uncle and aunt who were visiting England from Australia.  My aunt and uncle were "£10.00 POMs."  Sadly, they are no longer with us.

My son is the next photo and the young couple is myself and my wife to be, when we were courting, did I realy look that young once?

The black rabit, in a top hat, was my favourite pet I called Blacky.  I would be about 6 or 7 years of age and managed to train the rabbit to pop up out of the hat when I asked it to.

We could not afford a car until I was 50 years of age, it's a long story, and here, with my son sitting on the bike, is one of several bikes I had over my 20 year period of motorcycling. I hardly missed a day's riding, no matter what the weather. 

Sitting on the local park bench, at one period in our lives, was about as far as we were able to go.

The dog is our beloved Ben and although I have written blogs about him I am not sure if I have written anything on this blog site.

The next shot, again in black and white, is a rare shot of all the family.  Mum and dad in the rear, my brother, 10 years older than myself, and my sister who now lives in Perth Western Australia.

The next shot of me, a sickly boy, was taken on the prommonade at Blackpool on the West coast of England.  Later, in my life, I went to live there while my mum and I ran a Guest House for two people my mum knew. The two people purchased the place with very little experience of running the small hotel.  Another long story.

The black and white photo, underneath the one at Blackpool, was in a photo booth and was of my wife, my son and myself; I think colour photos had not come to the booths at that time.

The bottom left photo, shows my wife to be and friends at Lands End in Cornwal England. 

The next photo, is of me holding my son and you may also note the then trendy long 'side burns.'

The small coloured photo was one of the only times I actually posed for a photo, just a joke really. 

The black and white photo, bottom centre, is of me as a volunteer life guard. On this photo, I had a hair cut known as the D.A.  If you need to know the name of the hair cut, it is a little bit rude so I have thought it best not to write it.

Along with the black and white photo, there is a cut out of me on a rare time when I had a tan.  I normaly could not stand the sun. 

Last but not least is a black and white of me when I was about ten years of age.  The clothes would probably be 'hand me downs' or may have come to me as second hand clothes I would, as they said in those days, grow into them.  I was lucky, in this photo, for some of my hair cuts were done, by a local man, and to get a straight edge, he used to place a basin on my head and cut round it.

Half shaven heads are not new but, today, they do not look out of place, in those days, I used to get laughed at when I had had the basin cut, as it was refered to.

Anyway, the photos do supply social history and because you must be yawning by now; I will close there.

By for now,

John.       

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2 Aug 2009 2:30 AM

I know I keep harking on about the weather but, today Saturday, it is 2.30 in the afternoon and rain is coming down as if it had not rained for years.  The light is very poor and the quality of light remindes me of times when it is about to get dark.

To cheer myself up, and I thought I would share it with you, I found this photo of the woodpecker, that came to our garden when it was breeding.

The good news is that I am starting to feel better and was able, on Firday, to get my first walk for what seems a long time.

An old friend of mine, now in his mid 80s, asked me if I would take him to an area where Water Voles were present for he had not seen a vole for many years.

Some people confuse the water vole with a swiming rat but the best way to tell if it is a rat or a vole is to look for an arch, while it is swimming, in its back.  If it has an arch then it will be a vole.

I have often seen voles on a local derelict canal so I set off to go there.  I do not know how long it has been since I have been able to go walking but, before long my feet were aching and I soon realised that I was getting, in the true sense, soft. 

The morning's weather had been lovely but the afternoon looked like rain so I took a rain coat with me.  I took one sleeve, of the coat, looped it under the arm pit of the coat and then slung the remainder of the sleeve over my shoulder.

I was very dissapointed to see the poor condition of the canal because, in places, it was choked with Duck Weed.  To the untrained eye, you could have been forgiven for thinking that nothing could live on the canal but I saw Coot and their young and also Moorhens with young.  Moorhens used to be seen on the Moors and I believe that is how they got their name. 

Further down the canal, now much wider and where water could swirl round on the surface, there was no duck weed and fishermen were casting their lines to see what, if anything, they could catch. 

Eventually, I came to the part of the canal, a very quiet area, where I knew voles were but there were no signs of them and I made it in my way to try and find out why I could not see any voles.

It did not take me long to find out what was the problem.  Further down the canal, I came to an area where top soil was being piled up, at the other side of the canal embankment to where I was standing. 

The site, once used for farm land, was being converted and all the top soil had been taken off and stacked.  The large field, infront of me, was divoid of top soil but I knew that it would all be put back when the development was finished. 
The voles had been disturbed, by all the noisy earth moving equipemnt, and I knew that breeding had not taken place. 

Later, in the evening, I phoned my friend, to tell him that we would not be able to see the voles and I felt the need to gently drop the information to him for he was so looking forward to going to this site with me. 

It was my hope, today-Saturday-to go to another site and see if I could find a vole for him to see but, as I have already mentioned, the weather is too bad to set out to go anywhere. 

I know from other people on line, now my friends, that the weather is changing in other parts of the World so, on this occassion, I shoud count myself lucky only to have constant rain. 

My blog, not so interesting as some of my work, is really a refelction on the bad weather for every time I look, while I am typing, out of the window, I do not seem to get any stimulus to carry on so I will stop there.

By for now,

John. 

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