New and interesting

"Home again, home again... something, something..."

I've been busy with werk for the museum. We're putting together a presentation to give to University of Wollongong marketing students so they can develop a, well, marketing plan. I have so many ideas for it, but it's not my job, it's theirs. How much info to give them?

I've created a slide-show to give them an idea of the museum and two team leaders will be given a tour... I'll muddle on, I suppose; it's taking me away from editing, which, I have to say, I resent. Just a little. I fear it shall be me to make the actual presentation, since I have a media background, but public speaking stresses me out to near speechlessness. I can only hope the lights hide the audience.

* * *

While in Canberra, my brother-in-law set up his six-inch mirror telescope to peer at the heavens with. It was definitely a 'wow' moment; up close and personal with the craters of the moon, the clear lines between shadow and light, with the slight shimmer of Earth's atmosphere. And Saturn. OMG! Sure, it was a white dot with a line through it, but I've never seen it with my own beady eye. It was all to easy to see why the night sky inspires so many people.

He says he might be able to lay hands on a twelve-inch mirror telescope and if he does, I'm taking photos!

* * *

I've also been catching up with the family tree. Another cousin X-times removed has sent me buckets of info from a side we, here in Aus, know little about.

And I have a couple of DVDs to watch, new books to dive into and a trilogy to edit...

So many things to do, so little time.

Connected

I think it's time the Government announced that Christmas shopping two weeks from the day, be declared a contact sport.

Fortunately, I'm done. Now for the wrap and prezzo run to deliver.

* * *

I've been climbing the family tree again, and woe, discovered an alleged criminal. Why alleged? Because Abraham died in jail before fronting court of 'natural decay'. His son, Jesse, was acquitted of the crime of sheep stealing, of which they were both accused. However, Jesse got himself nicked by the plods the following year and transported to Australia for life. That was in 1832. He'd already spent six months in the pokey for stealing a shovel (six months - for a shovel).

By 1855, when Jesse died, he had land near the Lachlan River, cattle and horses. Back in England, Jesse's remaining sibling, Matthew was too old for a journey to the colony and sent his son instead to sort out the problem of Jesse dying without out a will.

Edwin arrived in 1860 with his wife and the few children who hadn't married - including my great grandmother. He decided to stay and so one connection to how we arrived is made. All because of a coupla dudes who couldn't keep their hands off a neighbour's sheep.

Now I'm going to hunt down the connections with the other side of the family. Will there be as much drama or simply a need for change?

A major distraction

Just when I think I'm free of distractions for the month... J.D. Robb's new book, Salvation in Death is due out in a week.

sigh

What am I gonna do? I can't have Eve and Roarke and whomever running around in my head while I'm writing, I only have space for one author and that's me. But to wait?

Oh, 'the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune'! I'm just going not look in the bookstores. Yeah. If I don't see it, it's not there, right? Right??

* * *

Anyway. I had an interesting e-mail today from a cousin. A cousin, I might add, who I haven't seen nor heard in a good twenty-five years. Yes, that long. My side of the family didn't really get along with them and when you leave home, there's no reason to contact people with whom you had a less than cordial relationship.

She's interested in my genealogical search, that was it. No 'hail, fellow, well met', no familial updates, just 'watcha got?' I think it's a cultural flaw in the family not to consider how much time has passed. Is that good or bad? In this instance, I think good... as long as no invitations come along. I hated being forced to be nice when all I wanted was to be somewhere else.

And that is the great thing about the internet and e-mail: you can chat about anything without meeting. You can be as formal or informal as you like.

Man. Twenty-five years. Well, I guess it's been a month for it given the couple of school friends getting in contact. I wonder if Karma has something to do with it?

Aussie Spirit

Today commemorates all those Australians who fell during the conflicts this world has seen.

It is: ANZAC Day, born out of the landing of Aussie soldiers on the inhospitable shores of Gallipoli on this day, 1914.

Once, young people saw it as a day off school, as a day where old people marched down the street wearing shiney medals and holding flags designating their armed forces unit, as a day when those marchers went to the pub, played two-up (illegal except for this one day), shed a tear or two in remembrance and got absolutely trashed.

But a new generation of Australians are determined to remember those fallen. Today, tens of thousands of Aussies - young and old - travel to those distant shores to remember and pay homage to the courage and indomitable spirit of the young men who fought and died there.

For the first time in ninety years, a similar memorial service is being held at Villiers-Bretonneaux in France. Here, Australian troops turned back the advance of German soldiers. Every year since, the French have held a memorial service, and yet this year is the first, official commemoration ceremony by Australia.

I now have a personal interest in World War I. I always knew my grandfather fought in Europe, but it was a vague kind of thought. Having researched the tree, his courage and determination is ever more real. He was one of two surviving brothers - four brothers and three sisters having died in early childhood - and his parents must have been alternatively proud and scared silly at his enlistment.

On my mother's side, her father and six of his brothers returned wounded; my grandfather, without a leg at the age of 19.

In two weeks, I'll be searching the WWI memorials for two names: a great uncle and his cousin; one at Thievpal, the other on the Menin Gate.

And when I step onto those long past battlefields, walk where my grandfather once marched, I shall step lightly and respectfully, for here lie the brave and the unforgotten of both sides who fought and died for their country.

Shaking the tree

I've been trying to hunt down more ancestors before I take off; nothing has changed except my frustration levels.

My search has reached beyond the atypical databases, that is 1800 and earlier. Yeah, I know, if my ancestors knew I would be hunting them down, they'd be more attentive in their record keeping. And the powers-that-be would have everything I need accessible and free of charge on online.

But that's okay, I'll hunt them down the old fashioned way: going there and looking up the records.

I have two more sessions at the local family history centre for a final search of online records. Then I'm set. Hopefully, something will shake loose and I'll find the key to the rest of 'em. I think Ireland is the clue; shame I have to go there, really...

The camera and rechargeable batteries are ready, so I'll have some photos of antiquities to post - maybe while I'm touring and maybe when I return. I'm also hunting up some books. It will take two days to get to Denmark, and thirty-six hours to get back - without an overnight stay anywhere. I'm gonna need a few books to keep me occupied and my record with in-flight movies sucks like a drain. Jennifer Fallon and Kylie Chan are at the top of my list.

sigh It's the little things you've got to watch out for.

Step lightly

Carbon footprint is the new catchphrase of the world; everyone is aware of it and there is a certain amount of shame attached to a large footprint.

Mine is going to jump significantly since I'm flying to Europe in May, but I can sheepishly say I offset that by having a low footprint anyway. Yes, I said that while covered in smug.

If you want a more accurate estimate of your household, go here and follow the links to the calculator. The best thing about this site is that it's BP. Yes, that's right, a petrol company. Finally, the petroleum industry and the car industry are seeing the light on emissions reduction - not that I can afford a hybrid car, but I use petrol with ethanol in it.

***

Writers Digest have a nifty article on blogging for those wanting to maintain or start. 20 Tips for Good Blogging gives you some handy ideas and guidelines for keeping that counter ticking over.

Also in Writers Digest is an interview with Tess Gerritsen for those interested. Follow the link. Amazingly, Tess doesn't plot her books which makes them all the more intriguing and well-crafted.

***

I'm back hanging around the family tree, seeing what drops out. My brother in Denmark is making headway, but still rattling the same branches I've already shaken. Still, he has some interesting extra information to follow up.

The more difficult being the corruption of names. Look for a Longstaff and not much happens; look for Langstaffe/Langstaff and out they pop. But where, in the miasma of different spelling, lie those belonging to the family? This is why secondary and tertiary confirmation is essential. I've already erred when it came to ancestors. I'm more cautious.

And it looks like that caution has been reward, with a maybe connected to David Tennant (BBC's Dr Who) and to a pauper Langstaff. David is the first famous person and John Langstaff the first pauper who maybe in the tree, albeit on a branch way back. Thrilling stuff, you know, if you find history as fascinating as I do.

The Great Slaughter

For the past three days, I've been reading Les Carlyon's epic history of The Great War - at least, the Australian side of it.

Australians grow up venerating the tragic sacrifices of Gallipoli - our first major test in battle; and we all know who to blame for that disaster. Through poor planning and arrogance, the boats landed at the wrong end of the Gallipoli peninsular.

But it wasn't just the Australians who were slaughtered, in fact, the Brits and Canadians lost more. It was, however, our 'baptism of fire' in a war just beginning. Winston Churchill - yes, that one - lost his job over it and rightly so.

What happened in Europe - which this book deals with - beggars belief. If Gallipoli was a defeat, then the Western Front was an unmitigated disaster for the Aussies; and for the same reason. British generals who quiet literally fucked up in major ways. Worse, they were never called to account for that wholesale murder of troops.

Carlyon, in parts, tries to ease off on the criticism of the generals: Haig, Gough, Haking, Birdwood, McCay were the worst offenders. Haig, for example, never saw the ground the troops had to fight across. He and Gough searched throughout the war for the ultimate cavalry charge through the gap. Nor did the generals appreciate the advantage artillery gave them. Carlyon fails in trying to present a less critical picture because the facts, casualty figures, personal diary entries, dispatches contradict virtually every attempt to lessen the blame.

Time and again, Gough oversaw ill-planned attacks and wasted thousands of lives - not just Australians, but British, New Zealanders, Indian, Sengalese, Canadians... and never thought it a bad thing. He and Haking were of the opinion that 'character' would see the troops to the enemy trenches. If not, well then...

This book is a best seller here - in hardback - which is surprising for an almost 900 page tome on a part of history 90 years past. But Carlyon mixes dry recitations with excerpts from soldiers diaries and from Australia's official war historian C.E.W. Bean. Bean spent his time in the trenches with the men and with the commanders further back once he'd understood what was going on.

I used Bean for my History thesis at University; if Carlyon had written this book then, it would have been invaluable to me. Within it's pages, I found a clue to my grandfather's own diary. He'd been wounded, but, in transcribing the diary, I had to guess at where he was. Turns out he was wounded at Fromelles - one of Gough's disasters. The diary doesn't say, but from Carlyon's book, I can fit the pieces of the puzzle together and say Pa had his legs shot up bad enough to spend two months in England recuperating before returning in time for the ugliness of the Somme.

In another curious twist, I also discovered that a previously unknown great uncle, on my mother's side, was killed at Theipval, on the Somme while my grandfather - from my father's side was less than three miles away. My grandfather's diary entry for the day? B., C., and D. came out of line this morning covered with mud. Must be terrible in the line. He was big on the understatement.

It's unfortunate I only had one of his diaries for a month before handing it back to my grandmother; there were six in all and I would have loved to have read them. Sadly, she gave them away to people who weren't family.

When I'm done with this book, I'll get back to writing. For now, though, this stuff is as riveting as it is tragic.

Old Times

Researching the family tree can lead to distractions.

One is from the Lincolnshire Family History Society where they have extracts from newspapers dating back to 1780.

The papers read like classfieds and have an unusual style to say the least. Where the coroner reports on unattended deaths, verdict phrases, while serious then, have a certain element of humour. 'Death by a Visitation from God', is one from 1817 where a man 'having returned from his daily labour at six o´clock in the evening before, ate a hearty supper, retired to rest, fell in into a sleep, and was a corpse by eight o´dock the same evening'. 'Death by Lunacy' and 'Death by Mental Derangement' are used for suicide.

There is also a report of the death of a ship's Captain who was presumed lost... until he turned up to surprise his wife! She had a fit and died on seeing him! And the birth announcement of twins to a wife and husband married for 21 years without having any other children - makes you wonder who fathered the aforementioned twins.

Interestingly, the pages also list some of those killed during the wars Britain fought at the time, especially if they were the offspring of prominent citizens.

It's disturbing to note that those found guilty of what we might call minor crimes, 'the prisoner was found Guilty and left for execution on Saturday the 15th, and afterwards to be dissected.' One such case was of a young woman who, she says, was asked to take prosecutor's mare for 'services upon my person'. The prosecutor denied the accusation, the woman was found guilty and sentenced to death and dissection. Nasty.

There are also public apologies for insulting someone. Maybe we should bring those back. But it's not all doom and gloom, there are a number of marriage announcements of people who have acquired a fifth or even sixth spouse, sometimes after two hours courtship, sometimes the day after a spouse has died. Some of them make great reading. The later extractions are more about wedding anniversaries.

Still, after an hour or so of reading all this, I found nothing of any of my ancestors. But that's the way of research - at least for me - I'm easily distracted by things that are interesting rather than relevant.

Parents of a nation

Most little girls like to think of themselves as a princess – well, not me – usually when they’re playing. Fairy tales are littered with them. The reality is unlikely.

Except… my sister-in-law is actually descended from a Danish king, according to my brother’s research. Well, wow, I thought, genealogy turns up the most amazing things.

It’s not as special as you might think. Apparently the Danish royals had a lot of children born, shall we say, on the wrong side of the blanket? Yep, lots of kids born illegitimately to the king and just about every Dane has a royal in their background. Not such a burden then, but in doing the research, the mothers were paid off and kept their identities secret.

So, while we can trace the Danish royal family back, there’s no hope of researching the mother. That part of the tree comes to a full and complete stop, back in 1835, which is a shame. The best we can do is research the circumstances surrounding her coming to the attention of the King. That might be fun…

Skeletons, scandals and secrets make up every family tree, I think, if only you look hard enough. No one likes to think of themselves as ordinary, and no family is ordinary; there’s always something deliciously wicked somewhere.

For example, in my tree I have a number of ancestors who ‘had to’ marry – scandalous for the time – one who ran away from Scotland all the way to Australia to avoid an arranged marriage, and one who deserted during a time of war. I also think I have a convict ancestor sent to Australia. But I also have miners, farmers, innkeepers, tailors, teachers, a dairy maid – which isn’t what you think, blessed are the cheesemakers - wheelwrights, carpenters, a Household Guardsman, and others, hanging off the tree.

Some families simply stayed in one spot for a couple of hundred years, others were constantly on the move for work, a few travelled across oceans to help build a new nation, at least one who came to Australia didn’t have a choice.

So far, only Danish king is famous and rich and while there isn’t abject poverty, no one else made a significant mark – not that found yet.

It’s astonishing to think that I came from such a disparate group of people. Yet, here I am, and there you are.

One day, I might even write a book on some of them; an historical piece, but fictional and explore their time from mine.

Swinging

Through the family tree again.

Much to my surprise - and chagrin - I've found some felons. Yep. A number of the ancestors spent some time in the pokey - some more than once. One was transported as a convict to Taswegia... sorry, Tasmania. I don't know what for, he's not a direct ancestor, but I plan to find out.

I find it smirk-worthy because my ever-so staid, stiff-necked, proper and social-climbing grandmother married into the family (snicker, snicker). If she'd known about her husband's grandmother's generation, I doubt she would have touched him with a barge-pole! (Gotta be respectable; what would the neighbour's think?)

I can only imagine how tough times were in the farming communities of England. The Industrial Revolution was in full swing, depriving workers of their livelihoods and struggling to feed large families. Not that I condone their felonious ways, but it must have been bad.

I've found one family who moved from county to county selling bricks; another who, as single men, left Ireland for Scotland then down the English coast and inland to work the mines. That family landed in Lancashire and from there, to Australia. No wonder they wanted a better life. It took them a century and a half from Ireland to Australia, but here I am.

The felonious side spent two hundred years in Gloucestershire before coming here; I suppose to escape the 'tradition' of petty crime.

So now, I've found a couple of criminals, a few heroes, a deserter and an adventurer or two. With a little more information, I'll be able to sit down and the write the history of the family for future generations.

Mooch

Bit of a moocher day; didn't get a lot done, but it feels like it.

I took myself off to a genealogy fair today. It was small, but the hobby is a growing one. I picked up some magazines and some cds with information on them. I'll have to find time to go through them now. My brother, who lives in Denmark, has been doing some research as well and keeps tossing me little tidbits to look up.

While in the local town, I also picked up some font software. This is important because I've just finished surfing the gnarly waves of the internet searching for photographs for the trilogy I've just edited. I can now do the covers, covert the first three or four chapters to pdf and post them on the website - either tomorrow or Sunday.

And it's still raining. Three inches in twenty-four hours; not alot? It is for the drought-stricken countryside. The problem, normally, is that the ground is so hard from baking under the Summer sun, that too much rain runs off into the creeks rather than soaking into the ground. Not so this time. The heavy downpours are frequent, with enough space between showers for the land to suck it up. Yay!

To give you an idea, the five-year June monthly rainfall average is 41 mm, just under two inches; this month, so far, my area has had 160mm, or just over six inches - and the month is only half over. And yes, it's expected to rain into next week. It shouldn't be long before the flood warnings are in and already chapter ideas are swirling around.

All grist to the mill: bring it on La Nina!

Yo, Mama

Today is Mother’s Day here in Oz.

So, have a happy day to every mother out there.

Oh, hey, I mean that in nicest possible way! It can’t be easy to raise children, no matter how cute they are as babies. And the Goddess knows, my own mother had six children, a rarity these days.

Her mother, my grandmother, had four kids. Raising them in Lancashire during the war must have been a challenge, especially with a disabled husband – he lost a leg during the First World War.

When the bombing proved too much, my grandparents decided Australia was a safer bet. Unfortunately, my youngest uncle – a baby then - kicked up a stink and they missed the ship. That ship was later torpedoed by U-boats. On hearing the news, Patrick and Ethel decided to wait until after the war, determined to start a new life in a new place.

Tragically, Australia wouldn’t take a disabled man and it wasn’t until 1948 that Patrick died. Two years later, my widowed grandmother and four kids arrived in Western Australia. On landing, Ethel turned to the sky and said: “I kept my promise, Patrick, we’re here.”

Ethel worked hard at two, sometimes three jobs, but it wasn’t enough, so my mother – the eldest – left school to work at the telephone exchange. Unhappy with that, she joined the Navy.

Yep, my mother was a Lieutenant in the Royal Australian Navy. She worked in the Signal Corps. Her job was to count the fighter planes coming back from missions in Korea and report who failed to return. Yes, she admits, she knew some of the men who didn’t return. Like most veterans, it’s something she doesn’t talk about much.

She met my dad while in uniform – he was a teacher at the Naval College in Victoria and engaged to someone else at the time. He was also in the Naval Reserve, but my mother outranked him – heh, heh.

Eventually, my dad, much to his parents’ dismay, broke off the engagement and started escorting my mother around. His mother was particular pissed off because a) my mother was the daughter of an immigrant; b) daughter of a widow and apparently c) spoke her mind, when she was supposed to agree with her future mother-in-law. Hah! As if. There’s also a suspicion that it was also because Mum was the daughter of an enlisted man, not an officer even though she was an officer herself. Simply put, my mother wasn’t good enough for my paternal grandmother’s eldest son.

As luck would have it, my dad didn’t listen, and ignored all the… more suitable women his mother paraded in front of him – good lad.

At their wedding, their Naval friends lined up outside the church, raised and crossed their ceremonial swords for my future parents to walk under. Some of those men would go on to become Captains, Commodores and Admirals and one, a Governor of New South Wales; not bad for the daughter of a poor, widowed immigrant.

I now look after my mother and I’m proud to do so. She’s full of the most amazing stories about England and the people she knows or knew. She’s extremely intelligent and sprouts all sorts of facts. I don’t think there’s one subject that she doesn’t have some fact about. If she’d had the opportunity, she could have gone to any University in Australia, or risen through the ranks (women weren’t allowed to serve if married during the fifties).

It is from both parents we kids got our love of reading, but it was she who encouraged us, read to us as children, gave us the opportunity to explore her library of books.

I know she’ll be thrilled for me to take it one step further: for her to have one of my books on her shelf – all I have to do make it happen.

No matter that sometimes, my mother can be difficult; most mother’s are in their daughters’ eyes – it’s a generational thing – but I’m at an age where I don’t lose my temper with that and work my way around the issue/s.

To every daughter out there whose mother still lives – give her your love, not only today, but for all the days ahead; she won’t be there forever and regrets can last a lifetime if not healed. If your mother has passed on, light a candle for her, buy her roses to place where she rests, or simply find a quiet spot in the garden or park where you can talk to her; guaranteed, she’s listening.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Leaves and trees

Ah, yes. "You can't see the forest for the trees." In my case, I couldn't see the leaves for the tree.

I've been researching the tree for about five years now and have been intrigued by what I found, who I found and little snippets of their lives. Sometimes, fate has had a hand in not only what I've found, but when.

As you know, I've discovered a deserter from WWI and it's hard not to sympathise. That was Sunday. The previous week, I'd requested a copy of my great-grandfather's marriage certificate, not expecting it to arrive until late March. It came today and I now know my great-great-grandfathers names on my mother's side - cool!

Using the certificate, I've found a lot more:

That who I thought were my great-grandparents weren't actually related. I couldn't work out why the 1881 census had them married when another site had them hitched six years later. Living together was most definitely frowned upon, and they were both Roman Catholic - it wouldn't have happened. But they had the same names, were born in the same areas and even had the same jobs. Only the timing was out. It's bugged me for some time, even though I knew a couple on the other side of the tree had to marry because of a wee bairn on the way.

That a family unit I'd downloaded from the 1881 census some years ago, are related. The problems? The surname was spelled different, as was my great-great-grandmother's name. Names like 'Hannah' were often abbreviated to 'Anna' or 'Ann/e'; my GGM's name was Rosannah, but every one knew her as Rose Ann and the surname ended in 'ie' not 'ey' as I was used to. Light-bulb moments are sooo useful.

That my great-grandfather might not have been born in Ireland at all, but his father and father-in-law were. I still have to track them down, and following the tree through Ireland is an exercise in frustation as a lot of the censuses were destroyed. I have to know where they were born before I can tackle the church records.

Then on Wednesday, I was contacted via Genes Reunited by a second cousin! and I've managed to secure what happened after my Mother's family came to Australia. He's promised to send me a small family tree that his cousin (and mine, I suppose) did.

It's strange how things work out. I've gleaned more information in the past week than I have in five years of looking.

Now, I have a lot more to do before I'm satisfied I have the tree done for future generations. So far, I have four hundred years of history, but it's not even. I know I can go back further, to the origin of my surname in the twelve hundreds and beyond, if only I can find those generational connections to other trees.