Oliver Twist and My Third Great Uncle Henry.

Using Nineteenth Century Novels as Genealogy Resources

Oliver Twist Image Creative Commons

Recently, on a trip to the USA to visit my new grand daughter, I was reminded of the importance of an often undervalued genealogical resource. As a genealogist, I am never content to simply add names and dates to a family tree. It is important for me to understand the historical context in which my ancestors lived. Researching the the social, economic and political circumstances in which our forebears lived is an extraordinary path to understanding what their lives were like.

There exists a wide and varied range of historical resources available for such research. Most of these resources are written by historians looking back on the past. They are extremely valuable secondary sources of information. Primary documents such as census records and land valuations, military records,  occupational records , court and criminal records, school records, asylum records, ships passenger records  and so many more, also help us to build up a picture of our ancestors' lives.

Importantly, a sometimes overlooked  and first hand glimpse into the past and the real world in which our ancestors lived can be found in the writings of novelists whose roles as authors was that of social commentators. Social commentary was one of the most significant themes of the influential novelists of  the nineteenth century and cannot be overlooked as a valuable resource for genealogists. Social discourse was not restricted to the nineteenth century nor to America and England, however I am focusing on this period since most of us can trace our family trees at least to the 1800's. This period of history is particularly relevant for many family historians, and most recently, I was reminded of the vital role which nineteenth century novelists can play in understanding the historical context of my own English ancestors.

 The writings, opinions and first hand commentaries of authors such as Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Anne Bronte, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Henry James and George Elliot allow us to relate to the lives of our ancestors in a way which is explicit but more importantly, easily understood. Nineteenth century novels  are possibly a significantly  under appreciated primary source of historical information for genealogists.

Whilst in New York only a few weeks ago, I planned a trip to Hyde Park which is a town located in the north west area of Duchess County, NY, north of the city of Poughkeepsie.

My trip involved a three hour bus ride leaving from the Port of Authority Terminal near Times Square in New York.

[ That I left on the wrong bus, one which terminated at the Woodbury Shopping Outlet an hour out of New York( a place which I am certain would have been a most pleasant, if not expensive day, had I not an had exceptional reason to visit Hyde Park) and have another Bus radioed to come out of its way to pick me up and take me ( a big thank you to Shortline Coaches) to Hyde Park, is a story for another time! Our genealogical journeys are often fraught with detours although, usually my detours are of the internet kind and do not leave me stranded in a strange place on my own. But, I did make it safely, in the end, to Hyde Park.] 

Hyde Park is best known as the home town of President Franklin D Roosevelt and began its life known as Stoutenburgh. My journey to this destination was for the purpose of visiting the Vanderbilt Mansion, built by Frederick Vanderbilt (1856-1938) on the bank of the Hudson River, as a 'summer retreat'. The mansion was built between the years 1895 and 1898 in what has become known in American history, as the Gilded Age. I have no family connections with the wealthy Vanderbilt family, however, my great Uncle Rex Morley Hoyes, purchased  a large steam yacht in the mid 1930's, which Frederick Vanderbilt had commissioned to be built at Troon in 1901. Somewhere, I had read that there was a marble model of the yacht in the vestibule of the Vanderbilt home at Hyde Park and I was eager to see it.  I had been researching the Warrior's history for some years alongside several researchers in England. During WW11, the Warrior had been recommissioned by the Royal British Navy whilst under the ownership of my great uncle, renamed Warrior 11, and was subsequently sunk in the English Channel, off Portsmouth, on July 11, 1940 by German bombers.

 One of the people researching the grand yacht was Alan Dunster, a professional diver who had discovered the wreck of the Warrior lying at a depth of about 57 metres beneath the Channel. For several years Alan and I researched Warrior's history together with a regular exchange of information. Sadly, last year Alan passed away diving on the wreck of the Warrior. I felt that to visit the place where the opulent steam yacht began its journey was a fitting tribute to my friend Alan.

Warrior Image Flickr Commons project

The Vanderbilt Mansion, Hyde Park Image S White ©

Prior to my visit to the Vanderbilt mansion, I had only a scant knowledge of  nineteenth century American history. I knew a little of  the Civil War and some history of migration through Ellis Island. Whilst in the gift shop awaiting my group tour of the house, I came across a copy of Mark Twain's novel "The Gilded Age".  Reading the forward of this book, I discovered that Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner were the creators of the term "Gilded Age', referring to the years after the Civil War in America (1861-1865) when America's economy flourished. This flourish generated  unparalleled wealth and a divided society in which existed a distinct contrast between a wealthy industrial and financial aristocracy and the poor. The wealthy built palatial homes such as the 'small' holiday home belonging to Frederick Vanderbilt, pictured above, and indulged in opulent amusements.  The Warrior, one of the largest steam yachts of its kind ever built, was one such amusement being the plaything of the Vanderbilts when they took long pleasure cruises. Mark Twain's 1873 novel, gave me an unrivalled insight into the way in which the Vanderbilt family lived and although this family was not my own, they were the builders and first owners of the large and very opulent yacht which later belonged to my great uncle Rex. 

Image S White ©©

As I sat reading, a National Parks Ranger, named Mike, to whom I had been earlier chatting about the model of the Warrior, came to me and invited me on an unprecedented private visit to the bedroom of Frederick Vanderbilt. The public is never permitted inside the rooms of this mansion, all of which which are roped off from the hallways,  however there was considerable interest in my knowledge of the the yacht and where it had gone after Frederick Vanderbilt's cousin, who inherited it, sold it. I was escorted into the room and allowed to take photographs of the model by torchlight. (There was no electricity in the room as it was undergoing renovations.)

A room in the Vanderbilt's mansion - The Gilded Age   Image S White©

Even after reading only several chapters of Mark Twain's novel, 'The Gilded Age', my breath was taken away by the sheer opulence inside the house. When I entered Frederick's bedroom, I was amazed to find that the model was not made of marble as I had read. It was a skilfully crafted timber replica of the Warrior. It sat in pride of place, in a large glass case, at the foot of Frederick Vanderbilt's bed.

Model of the Warrior Image S White ©

I intend to write in more detail about the Warrior in another blog, however, I must add that Mark Twain's first hand insightful commentary on the period of American history known as the Gilded Age permitted me a glimpse into the opulent world of the Vanderbilts and handed me the first chapter of the Warrior's story.

Charles Dickens Image Wikimedia Creative Commons Licence

I have mentioned other novelists of the nineteenth century whose writing focused on social commentary. If one wishes to understand the way in which nineteenth century English aristocracy lived, one only needs to read the literary works of Jane Austen, although they are perhaps a touch romantically enhanced.  Perhaps one of the most widely read of these authors who possessed a deep social conscience was Charles Dickens. Dickens' novels  "Hard Times" and "Oliver Twist" amongst many others are well known and well loved. Dickens was not the first novelist to attempt to provoke a public social conscience through his writing but perhaps one of the most successful.  His abhorrence of the terrible living conditions of the poor in Victorian England was vividly apparent through his descriptions of  poverty, cruelty, madness, the injustices of the legal system, poor laws and deeply flawed health and mental institutions.

I have read, over the years, quite a number of novels written by Charles Dickens, the most recent, a re read of "Great Expectations". Just this week, while researching the life of my third great uncle Henry Charles Weston I discovered an unexpected connection to Charles Dickens' novel "Oliver Twist" and was once again reminded of the great value in reading nineteenth century novels as a source of information about the lives of ancestors.

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens Image S White ©©

Henry Charles Weston was born in Venezuela, South America in 1838 to English parents Edward Manton Weston and Harriet Leach. Edward Weston was a surgeon and I have yet to discover what took him and his family to South America where he died some time before 1851. On the 1851 English census,  Harriet was a widow living back in England in St Clement Danes, Middlesex, with young 13 year old son Henry Charles Weston, son Edward aged 20, ( my three times great grandfather) and son Manton, 24 years. Daughter Harriet Bella was married and also living in Middlesex. The 1871 census shows Henry Charles Weston to be 'out of work'. At this time he was living with his mother  harriet and older sister Ann, a dressmaker. By 1881 Henry Charles Weston had lost his mother and both brothers Edward and Manton. Edward's wife Mary Ann had left England for Maryborough, Queensland, in Australia in 1871 along with her son, my two times great grandfather Edward Joseph Weston. Henry's only other living relative, his sister Harriet Bella had emigrated with her husband to Paraguay in South America as part of the Lincolnshire Farmers Scheme. Henry Charles Weston was alone in the world, save for his sister Ann Manton Weston. At the age of 42 years was unemployed and forced to live and work as a general labourer in the St Marylebone Workhouse. He appears on both the 1881 and 1891 censuses living at this workhouse. At some time after 1891, Henry moved to the Strand Union Workhouse where he lived as an inmate until he died in 1902.

As I traced the sad life of poverty of my third great uncle Henry Charles Weston I researched the history of  the workhouses in which he resided. I felt saddened that the son of a surgeon  had spent so many years of  their lives living and working in workhouses for the poor. I set out to discover as much as possible about what his life would have been like.  As I gathered information about workhouses - daily routines, work, medical help,  punishment,  rules, and clothing worn by inmates, I began to build up a sad picture of great Uncle Henry's life.

The workshop in a London Workhouse Image Wikimedia Commons

Whilst researching the Strand Union Workhouse where great (x3) uncle Henry Charles Weston died, I discovered several interesting facts. This workhouse, also known as the Cleveland Street Workhouse was originally built in 1778 for the care of London's sick and poor under the Old Poor Law. When I googled the Strand Union, or Cleveland Street Workhouse, I came upon a BBC news item dated March 14, 2011, entitled  "Oliver Twist" Strand Union Workhouse gets listing. The Georgian building had been saved from demolition and given a grade 11 heritage listing because of a super sleuth historian's research. The next item of interest I found was a book entitled, "Dickens and the Workhouse: Oliver Twist and the London Poor" written by Ruth Richardson. From this I learned that as a young man, Charles Dickens had lived but a few doors from the Strand Union Workhouse. This fact when discovered,  fuelled speculation and then determination that Oliver Twist's workhouse had been discovered. Ruth Richardson was the historian who began the campaign to save the workhouse which inspired Charles Dickens famous novel "Oliver Twist".  The building was saved from destruction for its social and cultural heritage more than for its architectural heritage.

The Cleveland Street Workhouse where Henry Weston Died in 1902 Image Wikimedia Commons

What was exciting for me was that although Charles Dickens published his novel "Oliver Twist" in 1838, and although it was a comment on the 1834 New Poor Law which Dickens believed failed to alleviate the depraved living conditions of London's poor, the novel still represented the system of workhouses designed to deal with London's problems of unemployment and poverty. Both of these factors had forced my great uncle Henry Charles Weston into residing for more than two decades  in workhouses for the poor.  That he died in the Strand Union Workhouse was for me at the same time, both sad and exciting. Because of  this particular workhouses' connection to Charles Dickens I have at my disposal a wealth of information both from historians and from Charles Dickens' own first hand social commentary  in his novel "Oliver Twist". The unforgettable images which Dickens painted in his novel " Oliver Twist" have offered me a window into my own family's past and enabled me to reconstruct a realistic picture of my third great uncle Henry Charles Weston's  life.

Postscript:

After writing this blog I discovered that Henry Charles Weston's older sister, Ann Manton Weston was also living and working at the St Marylebone Workhouse at the time of the 1891 census. Sadly, both sister and brother were there at the same time. The 1901 census shows my third great aunt to be an inmate at the St Joseph's House for the aged and poor in Portabello Road, Nottinghill.  She died at St Joseph's workhouse in 1916. I cannot help but wonder why Henry and Ann did not emigrate with their sister in law Mary Ann Weston on board the Flying Cloud which took her to a new and better life in Australia in 1871.

The Flying Cloud  Image Creative Commons

Sources:

London Metropolitan Archives  

www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/Ima

www.workhouses.org.uk/Strand/

1881 census:residents of St Marylebone Union Workhouse, Middlesex.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-12730356

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dickens-and-the-workhouse-ruth-richardson/11066

"Oliver Twist" Charles Dickens

"The Gilded Age" Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner

'Ere I Wander' an update on New York

Before I left Sydney on April 22, bound for the great city of New York, I set up a new blog named 'Ere I Wander' with the intention of recording a daily journal of my trip to America to visit my new granddaughter, Indiana. I had grand plans to include anecdotes of historical and genealogical interest. My 'grandmother' time has been much enjoyed, however my blog has not been as successful. My IPad and jet lag, alas, have had other plans for me. I am resolved to write again, now that I have overcome tiredness, stopped getting up far too early to wander the streets of Manhattan before heading to spend the day with my beautiful granddaughter, Indiana, and finally worked out how to load photos on my blog from my IPad. Well, I'm not so sure I have that last problem overcome yet! So possibly no photos....

This is my first visit to the USA. I have been to the UK, Europe and Asia but i have never before stepped onto the shores of America. I usually try to incorporate some Family History in my wanderings, so a visit to Ellis Island was high on my list of things to do whilst in New York. When I arrived and discovered that my apartment in the Upper Westside of Manhattan was on the same block as the New York Historical Society, only one block from the New York Genealogy Society and very close to an LDS Family History centre, I felt right at home immediately. Well, until I found that I had to relearn how to order coffee (in Starbucks, it is advisable not to give your name using an Australian accent, if like mine, it has the letter 'R' in it.... 'Its spelled SHAR... No Not 'AH' ... Not 'AH'.... 'R' .. Oh forget it. My name is Lee! So at my local coffee shop, I am known as Lee! It's not just me either. My son in law Mark has found it easier to be Steve! I gave up ordering corn in a salad because of the dreaded 'R'. When it came to the corn, my lettuce had wilted before anyone understood what I wanted.( I am becoming better at rolling those 'r's' now though.)

So before I touch on my family history.. Here are just a few tips I have picked up in New York. ( not nearly as many 'tips' as I've given - but for those not used to the tipping 'system' - there is a website which clearly explains tipping etiquette in America). Catching a 'cab' in Manhattan is quite an experience. At first I couldn't get one at all. Silly me! I was standing on the pavement ( I've picked up the lingo quickly) with my hand outstretched, wondering why hundreds of empty yellow taxis completely ignored me as they sped past. Now, I know better. I have mastered the art of stepping out onto the road DIRECTLY in the path of a speeding cab... It works! So far I haven't been run down.....

Taxis are very inexpensive in New York. Possibly it's because the drivers save so much on wear and tear on things like - indicators and breaks. I can only describe my taxi ride to Battery Park to catch the ferry to Ellis Island, as akin to a high speed roller coaster ride! I admit that whilst driving one handed, at high speed, and talking on a cell phone at the same time is genuine multi tasking, it does make using an indicator impossible and I found that just a touch scary, when the norm is for cabs to constantly weave in and out of lanes.... Fast and furious lane changing is definitely a New York driving talent! And, despite the newly introduced $300 fine for 'honking' in New York, the horn still seems the best way to maneuver through Manhattan traffic. But a cab WILL get you anywhere in New York FAST! And cheaply. So I'm not complaining. After three weeks in New York, I have fallen in love with the city, it's colorful history and in particular the bagels! So, a diet may be on my agenda when I return! Now, with my brief introduction to New York life, dispensed with..... On to the family history.

I had quite a number of family members who immigrated to America. HABERLING relatives arrived from Switzerland in the 1800's as did NERGER aunts and uncles from Prussia. At least one GAIR from Northumberland, England, made the journey in the 1860's as did my SIEGLER great great great grandparents, Johannes and Anna, from Weurttemberg in Germany. My great great grandmother, Christiana Siegler journeyed to Australia with her 17 year old brother Gottlieb, in 1863, only months before the remainder of her large family left Germany for America. Immigration records show that the Siegler family had been applying to emigrate to America for some time. Their application became approved after they had sent two of their nine children to Australia, including my great great grandmother.

My great Aunt Maggie McDade ( married name SMITH) arrived in America in 1926. Margaret Bonner McDade born 24 September, 1896 in Glasgow, Scotland, was estranged from the rest of the McDade family. Her parents and siblings had all emigrated to Brisbane, Australia in 1923. The unfortunate Maggie had become caught up in a family scandal involving her husband Andrew Smith and her younger, 14 year old sister, Mary in 1921.... One of those scandals that was rumour until this family historian proved it true! Mary gave birth to a son in Glasgow, 1922, named Alexander Gilmour McDade. Her parents, John and Elizabeth Gibson McDade took the family and baby Alexander to Australia. Immigration records named him as their own child. It was quite a common practice in past times for grandparents to raise a child as their own so as not to 'spoil' the chance of marriage for a young daughter.

Sadly, when the McDade family arrived in Australia, Mary ran away and was not heard from again. Maggie remained with her husband Andrew, and they left Glasgow, Scotland, bound for America and a new life, with their three daughters, Margaret, Elizabeth and Mary.

Maggie McDade was a widow when she married Andrew Smith on April 13, 1921, according to the banns of the Church of Scotland. On September 17, 1914, aged only 17 years, Maggie had obtained permission to marry her 18 year old sweetheart, William Shaw Thompson. William was a Private in the Gordon Highlanders, Regiment number 3963. He was leaving for active duty in France and the couple married before he left. I have no way of knowing whether Maggie and William saw each other again before he was killed in action in Flanders, on September 25, 1915, just a year after their marriage ceremony. Maggie was a widow at the age of 18 years.

I have the passenger records for my Smith family who arrived in New York on October 31, 1926, on board the 'Cameronia'. Their intended address was 5545 North Water Street, Philadelphia, PA. The NY Passenger Lists (1820-1957) for the Cameronia describes Maggie as having fair hair and blue eyes.

The 1930 census finds the Smith family in Foster, Shuylkill, PA. Although the 1940 USA census has been released I have been unable to locate the family on it as yet.

Maggie wrote a letter in the 1980's to Robert MacDade in Brisbane Australia, believing him to be her younger brother. Robert was, in fact, her nephew, the son of her deceased brother Robert ( Bert). Maggie wanted to be in contact with her siblings however she was too late. She died in August of 1984 in New Castle, Delaware according to the Social Security Death index. Nothing is known about Maggie and Andrew's daughters, Margaret, Elizabeth and Mary Smith.

Andrew Smith's real name was Antonas USTILA. He, along with his parents were Lithuanian refugees who arrived in Glasgow on route to America. Andrew's parents remained in Scotland. As with many European refugees who crowded the Gorbals in Glasgow, this family's name was anglicized to Smith. Smith is today, one of the most common surnames in Scotland.

While I am in the USA I am attempting to find out what happened to the family of my great aunt Maggie Smith née McDade. As a genealogist, I am realistic but ever optimistic! Wish me luck!

Exceptional Talk by Paul O'Keefe - 'The Girl Who Loved Ned Kelly'

All The Elements of a Great Story - Randwick Branch Library 12/04/12

Paul O'Keefe

There is no escaping the fact that bushranger Ned Kelly is an iconic part of the Australian historical narrative. Whether you think of him as a criminal or a victim of the times in which he lived, his story occupies an important place in Australian history.  Edward (Ned) Kelly, holds an undeniable fascination for every Australian and his story never fails to touch people in some way.

Paul O'Keefe, great great nephew of Steve Hart, (a member of the notorious Kelly gang), delivered an enthralling family story, which encompassed a tantalizing twist to the story of Ned Kelly's life, today at the Randwick Branch Library, in Sydney.

Some years ago, after finding papers and a scrapbook which belonged to his great great grandmother, Ettie (Esther) Hart, sister of bushranger, Steve Hart, Paul O'Keefe embarked on a research journey to discover truth in family anecdotes, and significantly, to provide the answer to a question which has long confused historians. Who was the real love of Ned Kelly's life? Paul O'Keefe's research offers convincing evidence that he has unearthed an illuminating new chapter in the real story of Ned Kelly.

Although it has long been known that Ned Kelly had a close female friend, wife or lover, the actual identity of this woman has been the subject of much controversy.

 Paul O'Keefe's narration had all the elements of a great story. It had a 'killer title' (no reflection on Ned) and without doubt, some of the most vivid characters in the history of Australia. The most exceptional element to this family and historically significant story, is the tremendous amount of thoroughly researched and documented evidence, which Paul presented orally and visually to illustrate his compelling proposal as to who really was the 'mystery' woman who loved Ned Kelly.

 Paul's engaging and passionate talk captured and held the attention of the entire audience.  Paul told his story in a most entertaining manner with contagious enthusiasm, humour and passion. The extraordinary and dynamic visual images in the powerpoint display meaningfully illustrated the previously unknown story of Ned Kelly's lover. As Paul O'Keefe's intriguing  personal, but historically significant, story unfolded, the potency of his research along with the startling revelations he divulged, created a new and entirely plausible narrative regarding the love of Ned Kelly's life. 

I am most grateful to Cassie and Ben Mercer of Inside History Magazine for the invitation to hear Paul O'Keefe's talk, entitled, 'The Girl Who Loved Ned Kelly'.  I am certain that fellow geneabloggers and family historians, Shauna Hicks and Jill Ball, who I sat with, as well as members of the Randwick Historical Society, will agree when I say that I felt as though we were all witnessing history! 

This is a story of great substance and one which I am certain will attract much positive attention. 

Paul O'Keefe with myself at the Randwick Branch Library

Cover of the latest Inside History Magazine

'Memory is the Diary that we all carry about with us' - Oscar Wilde : "The Importance of being Ernest"

'When thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies' - William Wordsworth 1798

Temple Hill - the original house.

There is nothing so likely to retrieve memories of the past than a visit to the places of our past. A trip to Temple Hill, Laggan, near Crookwell, NSW, rekindles fond memories for my husband, of carefree childhood holidays on the MacDonald family farm. Far from his busy life in Sydney, he and his brothers, discovered a new world of weeping willow lined creeks, horse riding, old family graves and life on the sheep farm on which their paternal grandmother spent her childhood.

 In addition to being a significant element of our family history, past places are an integral part of our identity. The places of our past are the keepers of a wealth of memories of our own lives and life stories. Our memories and stories are important sources of our history.

Temple Hill - 2012

I have made a point of returning to as many significant places of my past as possible to record them photographically for family history purposes. Each time I retrace my steps through life, I am astonished at how many memories are recaptured. 

Myself aged 22 months sitting on the gatepost of my first home at 24 Crescent Avenue.

I returned to the home in Brisbane, where I was born and where I lived until aged seven, a few years ago to find it much changed from the days of my childhood. Seeing the house after many years of absence, brought back memories I had long forgotten, but memories which afforded me a wealth of anecdotes to record for my children, grandchildren and future generations of family historians. Photographs from the past graphically record our visual history, however, our personal anecdotes delve profoundly into the fabric of our lives and enrich our own biographies significantly. It is important to record our own history, the events which we witness and experience,  as reliable first hand or primary sources.

My father and myself at my first home at 24 Crescent Avenue Enoggera, Brisbane

24 Crescent Avenue in 2011- and a new generation of father and child..

24 Crescent Avenue, Enoggera in Brisbane, was the home of my earliest childhood memories until the age of seven years. I can remember my sister being born there, the large sandpit my grandfather built for me and the cubby house complete with coloured timber louvre windows which my father lovingly constructed. The house was a green colour and my cubby house was painted to match it. This was where I, as a determined four year old, dragged a wobbly bench to the fence, to climb upon so that I could chat to the neighbours. I did this, of course despite my mother's warnings and fell backwards hitting my head on the concrete exactly as she had predicted. The memory of the pain has long since vanished but my mother's patience and concern as I was rushed to hospital to have my head stitched, remains with me. It was in this home that my father made a table and two small chairs for my sister and myself. In the kitchen of this home I laughed until my sides ached, as my mother sang the song 'On top of Spagetti' to me. In this wonderful family garden I picked grapes from a home grown vine and bananas from the trees which shaded my sandpit. I ate fresh tomato sandwiches on backyard picnics with my mother. I peered through my backyard fence to watch in wonderment, the military drills at the Enoggera Army Barracks onto which my yard backed. Every Saturday I watched  marching girls who competed at an oval near my home and dreamed longingly of joining them in their shining buttons, white boots and tall hats. I climbed trees and played happily on my twin swing. Our first television arrived in the home at Crescent Avenue, amidst great excitement and took pride of place in the lounge room; the room at the top of the steps behind my father in the picture above. My memory tells me that these were good days. I was afforded great freedom to roam the street in which I lived. The baker delivered fresh bread and delicious fat cream buns, the Soft Drink Truck delivered Creaming Soda and Sarsparilla and children raced noisily into the street in response to the sound of the icecream van's bell. 

Swinging with my sister, left and cousin, right. My bedroom window pictured.

Those were the halcyon days when children were 'safe'. I often walked alone to the local shops aged only five years, to buy items for my mother. I recall clearly a day on which I purchased sweets with the money my mother had given my to buy something else. Punishment was 'dealt' by my father who chased me round and around the house in Crescent Avenue, never once catching me although looking back now, I have no doubt that he could easily have done so. The past, often holds memories which are not so happy, and this is a part of who we are, equally as much as those which are sanguine. Crescent Avenue was the place where I first encountered danger. Afternoons were spent playing with local children, in a park at the end of the street, until a tragedy occurred. A council trench in which we were excitedly digging a 'cave' collapsed, burying and killing one of the local boys I was playing with. I was five years of age. When I was six years old,  my best friend was hit by a car and killed crossing a road on her way to play at my home at Crescent Avenue.. As I gazed at my old home, on my visit, I could almost see myself aged six, standing at the gate awaiting my friend's arrival and hearing from a neighbour of her accident.

My Fourth Birthday at 24 Crescent Avenue Enoggera.

I have far too many memories to relate them all. Many childhood memories have only re-established themselves since my visit to my old home. Some of the momentous events of my childhood occurred when I lived at Crescent Avenue. I began my education at the Ashgrove Memorial Pre-School at the age of three years. When I revisited my old Pre-School, I suddenly recalled that the treacher's name was Miss Lightner. Memories flooded back, of jumping on the jumping board, of the smell of home made glue and of sitting at small tables and chairs for lunch - always a choice of Vegemite or Peanut Paste (outside Queensland called peanut butter). I started Primary School from this home, walking the very long walk which took me past the tennis courts where I began tennis lessons at the age of four years, to Oakleigh State School. This was the same school my father had attended until he went to Brisbane Boy's Grammar School. I re-visited Oakleigh State School on the same day that I went back to Crescent Avenue. 

Oakleigh State School

Walking around the grounds of the Oakleigh State School some long forgotten memories returned. I had won an art competition at the age of six years and my prize was a much treasured stamp album which I have to this day. I remembered the swimming lessons which I dreaded in the school swimming pool. Not because I hated swimming. I loved it but my mother loved to sew, and I was the only child in the class wearing a particularly floral and very frilly two piece swimsuit rather than the standard blue school swimsuit. As I stood looking at the swimming pool I could remember the feelings of that small five year old wanting desperately to stay in the change rooms. As I reached the play area, I could physically feel the same sense of humiliation which had long ago gripped me whilst playing on the see-saw in the playground when I was in grade 1. On that particular day, I had taken to school, my precious walkie-talkie doll. She was named Florence, for my paternal grandmother, (even at the tender age of 5 I was introduced to the traditional Scottish naming patterns!). Florence's hair had previously fallen out, (no doubt from excess brushing), and my mother had replaced her long blonde hair (to my disappointment) with a short curly (completely unbrushable) orange wig. As I soared gloriously high into the air, on the see-saw, Florence's wig detached itself from her head and flew across the playground. I may as well have lost my own hair, such was the complete embarrassment I felt as I was lowered to the ground, a very bald doll clutched to my heaving bosom and sobbing loudly while a  group of older boys ran around the playground laughing and waving Florence's flaming curls wildly. The awkwardness of some moments seem to have a perturbing way of rebounding to disturb our tranquil memories!

 [Postscrip: Florence's wig was firmly adhered with super glue that very night and I still have her, complete with orange hair.]

Oakleigh State School.

At the age of 7 years, my family built a house in a newer suburb of Brisbane, called The Gap. While our home was under construction, we lived with my paternal grandparents at 16 Garfield Drive, Paddington Heights. From this lovely old home high on a hill with a view all over the city, I entered a new world of catching trams to the Bardon State School where I was one year ahead of well known Genealogist Shauna Hicks. 

My Grandparent's Home at 16 Garfield Drive, Paddington 2011.

 I cannot possibly recount all of my childhood memories here, as there are so many, however, I do record them. Each time I revisit my past homes and other places from my past, more memories are triggered and I write them down. By recording my stories, I am ensuring their reliability as a primary source. If my stories are passed on orally to my children and they later recount my anecdotes, they become secondary sources and will be less reliable.

When I visited the Garfield Drive house pictured above, it was undergoing a renovation and was vacant. I took the liberty of taking a cutting from the large Frangipani tree which I remembered my grandmother planting and it is now growing in my garden in Sydney. Every time I look at the  pink and white flowers on my Frangipani tree, I think of childhood days spent playing hide and seek amongst the plentiful purple Hydrangeas in my grandmother's wonderful garden, swinging in the big old hammock, picking rosellas and persimmons to make jam, and climbing the huge mango tree growing in my grandparent's garden.

Standing outside the Paddington house, I recalled an event which I had long forgotten. Next door to my grandparents, lived a policeman by the name of Terry Lewis. Late one night a burglary occurred across the street from my grandparent's home. My grandfather heard much yelling and  screaming and he took it upon himself to chase the burglar right down the hill and around the block with no thought to his own safety. The next morning I accompanied my grandfather as he knocked on the door of Constable Lewis's house to report the incident, believing that his neighbour must have slept through the event. The policeman laughed and told us that he had a policy 'never to get involved in such things'. Some years later the same policeman, Terry Lewis became Police Commissioner of Queensland. I only recalled this memory though when revisiting the house in Garfield Drive. 

The garden now, that my mother planted at our home in Marrall Street, The Gap, in  the 1960's.

Another garden which my mother planted at our home in Kenmore.

My last family home,at Jindalee, Brisbane during the 1974 Brisbane Floods.

Last year I wrote a blog post about the memories which the 2011 Queensland Floods evoked for me when I revisited my old home in the badly flood effected suburb of Jindalee (in both 2011 and 1974). Sights, sounds and even smells from the past have the ability to awaken sleeping memories of the past. Family History is our search into the past so recording our memories of our own past is an important way of preserving the past for the future. Visiting our home at The Gap conjured for me, memories of threatening bushfires, red-bellied black snakes, ticks, stinging nettles and happy days swimming in the creek which ran through our property. A visit to the home in which I lived from the age of 11-14 years on 12 1/2 acres at Pullenvale, ( we moved a few times!) rekindled memories of exploring the bush, horse riding, snakes, picking fruit from our orchard, making rafts in the lagoon behind our house and cracking macadamia (Queensland) nuts picked straight from our trees. I have taken my children to all of my past places and told them the stories from my childhood - some humourous, others moving, some painful but all so much of my past and my own identity. For me, personally, revisiting the places in my own past, is a fascinating way to make memories come to life.

Riding my tricycle at 24 Crescent Avenue.

Brick Wall Blunder... Cognomen Erratum!

Cognomen Erratum - Understanding Records and Avoiding Mistakes. 

Photograph Sharn White ©Copyright 

Loosely speaking, my inexperienced Latin translates (I hope) as 'A mistake of name'.  It is not often that knocking down a stubborn genealogical brick wall results in anything other than elation. Depending on the age of the brick wall or the length of time it has been blocking the tantalizing path  to the next generation, elation can range from a broad smile to shrieks of merriment. But beware - there are pitfalls to premature excitement. It is wise not to jump to conclusions hastily and VERY important to understand the records that you find.

Photograph Sharn White ©Copyright

Whilst tracing my family tree, I have demolished quite a few brick walls. In the midst of the thrill of razing a previously steadfast brick barrier in Lincolnshire, England and whilst adding several generations of family to my tree, I  learned that no matter how many years experience one has researching family history, there is always something to learn. 

On my maternal side of the family tree I had traced my Morley family line back to  John Morley (1756-1824) and his wife Esther Hardy. Tracing Esther Hardy's ancestors presented no obstacle. I quickly found her father Richard Hardy, born on March 6, 1717 in Lincolnshire, England and her grandfather William Hardy, my 7th great grandfather, who was born in about 1680 also in Lincolnshire. It was while searching for the family of  Esther Hardy's mother Alice Collingwood that I came up against a solid genealogical Brick Wall blocking my path to the past.

Photograph Sharn White ©Copyright

Often, I find that it is advisable to leave a Brick Wall alone for a period of time, and when I return to my research, I hope that new records might have been released or that I might find a clue that I missed when searching previously. For my Collingwood ancestors, I had a marriage record for Alice Collingwood to Richard Hardy on March 6, 1743 in Long Bennington, Lincolnshire, located in the Lincolnshire, England Extracted Parish Records  on Ancestry.com as well as in the England Marriages 1538-1973 on the FamilySearch website.  A family member had confirmed this record as well, whilst in England. 

Late one night, I finally burst through my brick wall and found the birth of Alice Collingwood as well as her siblings born to parents Gulielmi and Maria Collingwood in Claxby (near Alford), Lincolnshire. The birth records for these children showed their names to be Alicia, Maria, Elizabetha and Lucia. It appeared that Alice Collingwood's real name was Alicia and that this was the reason for the trouble I had encountered when searching for her birth. Looking at the names of my ancestors, I felt a rush of elation as I suspected I may have found the origin of my olive skin which tans very easily.  In Summer when very brown I have been asked by many people if I have Italian ancestry. Seeing such names of my ancestors  as Alicia, Lucia and Gulielmi, excited me into believing that I had made an exciting discovery. Surely I had found Italian or Spanish or some other unanticipated and exotic ancestry?

Marriage record for Gulielmi Collingwood and Maria Richardson

I became even more animated as I read the names of children from two earlier marriages of Gulielmi Collingwood. By wife Isabella he had a son Johannes and by his first wife Anna, Gulielmi had two daughters named Maria and Sara. Collingwood was obviously not an Italian surname, however, I became convinced that somewhere in the ancestry of this family was an intriguing lineage.

When I found the marriage record for Gulielmi Collingwood and Maria, I was surprised to find that her surname was Richardson. Somewhere in their background though, I was convinced I would still discover the exotic ancestry that I was now expecting.

 After a long night of searching Lincolnshire records and quite energised by my find, I finally fell asleep amidst thoughts of possibly one of my most exciting family history finds.  In the middle of the night, awakened by a barking dog, however, a revelation struck me heavily, like a brick from my genealogical wall. Instantly and almost certainly, my optimism about my having glamorously unexpected ancestry evaporated, as it occurred to me that the records I had found could very well have been written in Latin. This would explain the English surnames of Collingwood and Richardson coupled with Italian sounding names such as Lucia and Gulielmi. 

A search first thing the next morning confirmed my devastating suspicion. The names Maria, Gulielmi/Gulielmus, Alicia, Lucia and Elizabetha were exact matches for the Latin equivalent of English names. Further research into English church practices, revealed that until 1733 most English Church baptism, marriage and burial records, including those of the Anglican Church, were written in Latin. 

In my excitement I had overlooked also, a marriage record for Alice Collingwood's parents in the Lincolnshire, England, Extracted Parish Records. This record corroborated my fading hopes of discovering romantic and foreign origins. The marriage record showed the couples' names to be William Collingwood and Mary Richardson. Their children were therefore named Alice, Mary, Lucy and Elizabeth. Definitely no Italian there!

Lincolnshire register of Marriages, 1538-1837.

So as it turns out my Collingwood family from Lincolnshire, England were English. There was not one exotic Italian or Spanish ancestor lurking in the Wolds of Lincolnshire. On the bright side I have added a 7 times great grandfather to my tree and learned something about English Church records. Of course, the puzzle of my olive skin still remains to be solved. Perhaps in my ancient Scottish ancestry there is a Roman somewhere. And I still haven't ruled out a Norman connection. I will keep searching.......

52 Weeks of Abundant Genealogy - Cemeteries

Cemeteries

Kilmuir Cemetery Isle of Skye where many MacDonald ancestors lie.

A Short History Of Burials and Cemeteries

Burial places, practises, and monuments are an important resource for family historians and historians alike. From an archaeological perspective, they provide us with a great deal of insight  into social history and the way in which our ancestors lived. Whether our ancestors were ancient Celts, Vikings, Romans, Christians, Buddhist, Hindu, or Muslim their burial customs all involved some type of religious ceremony, rituals or rites and were a memorial or tribute to the dead. Vikings, for example believed that after death they joined the gods in a life similar to the one existing. They prepared the dead for the afterlife by burying them with all of the things they would require, including the tools of their trade, food, pottery, jewellery and clothing. Stone markers were placed in a ring shaped to resemble a boat, which was believed to be the way the Vikings envisioned that the dead travelled to the afterlife. Much significant information regarding the way in which the Vikings lived has been determined from their grave sites.

A Viking Burial Site in Sweden. Stone Markers resemble a Boat.

In many cultures, the poor, who were unable to afford a proper burial, were interred in mass graves however these burials still embraced rituals such as mourning, wakes and ceremonies. Many of our modern burial customs originate from ancient and Pagan times, rites which stemmed from fear of retribution from the ancient gods. Many burial places and monuments are a testament to the position a person occupied society.  The Egyptians, for example, built great pyramids to honour their kings. These monuments are a record of cultural practises as well as changes in societal beliefs and are an invaluable record of our past. Many of the artifacts which have been discovered in ancient burial places are now housed in museums as a tangible reminder of our past. 

Egyptian Pyramid

Early Christians were buried for the most part, in unmarked graves. After the 15th century a demand emerged in England, for holy burial in Churchyard Graves. These were generally small and soon became crowded and resulted in the practise of burying the dead upon the dead. The 17th  century witnessed a shift in focus to the 'individual' as well as a trend towards the desire to preserve and protect the memory of a person deceased. In the 17th and 18th centuries, originating in Italy, France and Sweden, it became the practise to bury the dead in 'burial places', 'graveyards or as they were once known, 'bone yards'. These graveyards eventually became referred to as 'cemeteries', a word derived from a Greek word for 'sleeping place'. Early graveyards were situated in a place central to communities. In the early 19th century a move towards new and more commercial and larger burial places emerged.  Cemeteries were built in large park like locations on the periphery of towns and cities and with them emerged a trend towards more elaborate tombstones. Whilst many of the poor, still continued to be buried in unmarked graves, tombstones or headstones, began to hold inscriptions. Some were simple reminders of a person's name and the age when they died, whilst others carried extravagant inscriptions or epitaphs as well as decorative symbols such as a dove or a wreath.

Headstones in the Churchyard of St Mary's Islington where my 4 times g Grandfather is buried.

Relevance of Cemeteries Today

Humour on a Headstone.

The  cemeteries with which we are familiar today, can be regarded as  museums, which hold a wealth of information for family historians. As well as being an historical record of religious practises and  architectural and sculptural styles and trends, cemeteries are a treasure trove of information about communities and cultures. Importantly for the Family Historian, many headstones are the key to significant details about the lives of individuals. In some graves there are several generations of families buried. Inscriptions on headstones range from names and dates, to humorous stories, photographs and sometimes, detailed anecdotes about the deceased. Each and every headstone and grave in a cemetery has a story to tell, through its symbolism and inscription, its cultural significance, its simple design or elaborateness. even by its telltale absence.  It is those stories which are so poignant to family historians and which make cemeteries a compelling source of fascinating information about family members as well as the communities they were a part of.

Matthew Bowden's Tombstone in Tasmania is  a Family Historian's dream.

A Cemetery which has Personal Meaning to Me

Cooroy Cemetery 

Over the years, as a Family Historian, I have wandered through many cemeteries in search of my ancestors. I have also wandered through cemeteries just reading the headstones of other people's family members. Without exception, I always experience a quiet 'at peace' moment when I discover the grave of an ancestor. Even before I take in the information provided on a headstone, there is a moment of 'connection' and in that moment my ancestor feels very real to me. At the graveside, I feel that I am in the presence of my ancestor.  Every grave tells a story. When I found the grave sites of my  paternal great grandparents, John and Elizabeth McDade and discovered with disappointment that they had no headstone or marker of any kind, I felt saddened. Then I realised that when they both die within several years of each other in the early 1930's, that their deaths had occurred during the depression years. There was probably little money in a working class family for such luxuries as an inscribed headstone. This is something that family members are now setting about to rectify.

My favourite cemetery to visit is the Cooroy Cemetery where lies the grave of my great great grandparents John and Hannah (Gair) Morrison. John Morrison is an ancestor who I have put much effort into researching. I recently wrote about his 'wealth for toil' in the Twigs of Yore, Australia Day Blogging Challenge. In John Morrison, I had discovered a hard working man who built up great wealth and who through no fault of his own had lost almost everything. He had moved his family from Sydney where he had been a prominant builder and rail carriage contractor and after working as a rail carriage foreman for 10 years in Ipswich, had spent the last 7 years of his life quietly living in the town of Cooroy, inland from Noosa in Queensland. John and Hannah Morrison both died in 1927. I knew from a cousin who had visited Cooroy some years previously, and who had removed many weeds from their grave, that both John and Hannah were buried in the Cooroy Cemetery. 

The Cooroy Cemetery is situated on a hill on the outskirts of the town of Cooroy, in a most pretty location, surrounded by trees. The entrance to this cemetery, appears to have once been situated at the bottom of the hill and is now at the uppermost part of the hill. From what looks like the original entrance the grave certainly would have been located in a prominent position, however where it lies now, it is downhill from the present entrance to the cemetery. As I walked from grave to grave on a very hot day, I almost gave up hope of finding the Morrison grave. So many graves were missing headstones, some were unmarked and others I noticed were in such a state of disrepair that an inscription was difficult or impossible to read. Finally, I came across a very large double grave with a headstone which was almost indecipherable. Despite many years accumulation of lichen on the headstone, as I closely scrutinised it, I found I could just make out the word Hannah and Morrison. My excitement grew as I read the faint name Tait after Hannah's name. My great great grandmother's maiden name was Hannah Tait Gair. Tait was the surname of her maternal grandmother Elizabeth Tait, from Cramlington in Northumberland where Hannah was born. I knew immediately that I had found the Morrison grave. 

I could just make out the word Hannah and Morrison

There was much significance in the finding of this grave. As a Queenslander living in Sydney, I had felt little connection to the state of NSW for most of my married life. Finding that my 2 times great grandfather, John Morrison, a Scotsman by birth had immigrated to Sydney from Northumberland with his wife Hannah and settled in Strathfield, Sydney delighted me. That their daughter, Florence, my great grandmother, was born there, endowed me with, an immediate connection with the city that I  live in. I visited the beautiful buildings in Sydney that John Morrison built and has he has left as his legacy, including Chapter House at St Andrew's Cathedral,  Gothic Style Churches and Strathfield Council Chambers. To be standing before his grave and that of his wife Hannah, who's name one of my daughters bears as a middle name was quite emotional.

My husband and I spent some time quietly weeding the grave which was bigger and more substantial than I had expected. I felt pleasantly relieved that someone had afforded them such a lovely resting place. Unexpectedly, my husband, David announced that he would like to clean the headstone. With his expertise as a heritage Architect, he felt that the stone beneath the lichen was Granite. I was surprised at his suggestion as we had not arrived at the cemetery dressed suitably to undertake such a task. I quickly became enthusiastic and  undeterred by the hot weather and growing lateness of day, we drove to the local hardware store in Cooroy, in search of  the appropriate cleaning products to attempt to restore the headstone. Once back at the grave site, David set to work with my help.

As the years of grime and lichen gradually washed away from the headstone, we were truly speechless. Slowly, before us, what had appeared to be a plain dirty headstone with the appearance of grubby concrete,was transforming into a beautifully  black granite headstone engraved with the shape of a Bible or book. I cannot begin to describe my emotions as the intricately detailed tassel, pictured below, began to appear in the middle of the shape of the book.

Inscriptions appearing on the Headstone 

The Headstone with lichen removed.

Unfortunately we ran out of daylight to clean more than the front of the headstone, however, we were able to clean enough of the stone on which it rested, to ascertain that it was made of red granite.

Headstone on the Grave after cleaning.

The final touches to the grave of John and Hannah Morrison

Since my husband and I cleaned the headstone on John and Hannah Morrison's grave, I have returned three times to visit the Cooroy Cemetery in Queensland.  I feel privileged to be the keeper of the grave of my great great grandparents as there are no family members in Cooroy to care for the grave. I have come to 'know'  my ancestors not only through my research, but more significantly through lovingly taking care of their resting place, nestled on the side of a hill amongst the trees in Cooroy Cemetery.  Along with my husband David, visiting and caring for the grave on our annual holiday is now one of our favourite holiday outings.



Sources:

Cooroy-Noosa Genealogical and Family History Research Group
The Oxford Companion to Family and Local History  edited by David Hey
Gravely Tasmanian: A friendly guide to Tasmanian graveyards Vol. 11 By Joan and Buck Emberg
Monuments and Memorials edited by Beryl Henderson
www.digitalhistory.uh.edu/do_history/graveyards/index.cfm
www.lore-and-saga-.co.uk/html/vikings_buriels.html
www.wyfda.org/basics_2.html [History of Funeral Customs]