Autumn Cottage Diarist

At the Eleventh Hour...

Grandpa off to the Boer War, 1901

At the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, 1911...My grandfather, George Arthur Silcox, and my grandmother. Lilian Mary Nankivell were married.

1915 - Three years married...three children.

Little did they know then that within three years, Grandpa would be away to the Great War, becoming such a stranger to my mother - a little tot born in 1915 - that when he came home on leave, she would hide behind the sofa.
 My grandparents Marriage Certificate, The date can be seen more clearly in the Witness Signature, bottom left hand.
 

Thankfully, he returned and became another reason why I am here today....but countless others did not. So as the eleventh hour strikes this morning, exactly one hundred years after they were wed, I will bow my head and give thanks - privately, for my grandparents, and with the nation for all those who have lain down their lives in conflict  - either to secure our freedom, or believing that they fought to do so.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old....
Age shall not weary them, or the years condemn
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning -

We Will Remember Them.

(Image from interesting article...Remembrance Sunday and the symbolic red poppy)

My Long Ago Happy Land

Working today on one of the personal memoir writing workshops I am offering in 2011, I was taken aback by discovering this photograph of the interior of my first apartment fourteen floors up in a tower block in South Wales - my first venture into independent living, back in 1974. How much a photograph can hold - so many of those items carry their own story.

There is the white 'swivel chair' that I saved up for over many, many months, convinced that was essential to give my apartment  an air of of elegance and sophistication :-).  There's the little TV - only black and white pictures, but oh, how much of a companion it was in the first weeks there, when I wondered if I had not also launched myself into eternal loneliness alongside liberating independence!

There are the cushions (pillows), that I patchworked, crocheted and Bargello embroidered with my early passion for textiles which still abides. There's my record player, with all my collection of (vinyl) discs stacked beside it....The Eagles, Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel  (sigh) - and there is my great grandmother's oil lamp, temporarily converted then for electricity, but still with me today with its glass shade and put to use when we have a power cut.

There's the desk at which I sat to study for a zoology exam, and always, the books, the stacks and piles of books. There, on the walls, a Japanese woodcut, given to me by my boyfriend at the time. And there, in front of my trendy chair, the little occasional table which my Mother proudly bought for her own mother with her first week's wages as a 'clippie' bus conductress during WW2.

Such ordinary artefacts - such particular histories. Have you got any reminders like this of your own special "stuff" and the stories that the items carry? If you have, why not get them out soon and write down the stories  of the things that have made us who we are - you may be amazed at what you remember - and what other memories that story-telling evokes.

Los Angelitos, Little Esther - and Me.

Child's grave, Overton, Hampshire

November 1st, All Saints Day - and in Mexico, the day on which Los Angelitos, the souls of little children are honoured. So today, I want to honour an Angelito in my own family...one I never knew, and only heard about in fragments - but one who's death, I know, affected my mother until her own dying day.

I don't even know her proper name - Mam always referred to her as 'Little Esther' - my interpretation of the name, but it could quite easily have been Hester or even, I suppose, Hesta - its something I need to speak about to the sisters who still survive, one more thing on the list of family history research to be carried out.

But today I will call her Esther, and I will honour her as an aunt who I never had the chance to know, and an emblem of all those who make faint but indelible marks on our own histories. For in writing about her, I also write about some components of the past which have made me who I am.

Esther was only two years old when she died - in around 1922 from my mothers recollections. Mam found it profoundly difficult to speak about her, and when she did, it was always with a deep sadness in her voice. The only fragments that I retain were her memories that "She was playing hide-and-seek under the tablecloth in the morning - by the evening, she was dead...of meningitis". In the days before antibiotics, this was even more lethal and rapid an infection than it remains today -  though it is still an illness which strikes fear into the hearts of any parent.

(Image from Horsefield Funerals)

 Mam also remembered that "we had the black horses for her...the carriage with the glass sides and the horses with black feathers on their heads". This indeed must have meant that a very special effort had been made to pay for a more costly funeral than might otherwise have been held for an older member of the family, in a family where money was more than tight. As the hearse-horses hooves clattered on the (still existing) cobbles outside the back entrance to Mam's old home, waiting to collect its tiny burden, it must have made quite an impact on the mind of my mother, still then only a child herself.

As I write this, I realise there are still so many things I do not know - or only half remember from my mother's telling. No photographs of her exist, that I know of...and where is she buried? I have a recollection of being told that she was placed in the plot which later held my grandmother (her mother), grandfather, and her brother - my uncle. Four in a grave, where only three was the 'official' limit? Yet again, I seem to remember Mam saying that 'officialdom' turned a blind eye to the fact - but we will never know.

And indeed, the death of this two year old did, I believe, make me partially who I am - for as the years went by, I could see the profound affect that her death had on my mother, who was acutely sensitive to the way that small children were treated. Even before my own children were born, hearing the most mildly rebuking word to any little child would cause her extreme pain - and when my own boys were born, 'little Esther' would often be on her lips - especially when the boys were around the age that she was when she died - and especially when boisterous two year old boys needed to be (gently - I assure you!) themselves rebuked, simply to be taught where boundaries lie.

So today, I remember Little Esther - but I also notice myself. I notice how much I have written - about other parts of the story, the facts, but also the opinions...and then cut, and edited, and removed, and how I am still sensitive to my Mother's words and feelings. Feelings which, in turn were shaped by the very existence of her sister....and which in turn also shaped me....all for the sake of sensibilities of others who may read this, sensibilities which could still be wounded by the fuller telling of the tale. A later telling will be different - but all tellings are, in some way, true.

Little Esther is gone...but her memory...and its impact, still filter down through the generations. So many people touch our lives....and make us who we are - the fact that we may never have met them, in many ways, makes no difference.

Addendum: New additions to the marvellous Free BMD (Births, Marriages and Deaths) site mean that for the first time, only minutes ago, I discovered this information. 

DEATHS - June 1929 - Silcox, Esther M - 2 (yrs old) Newport Mon

Studium into Punctum.

Blessed be, Little Angelito Esther.

Bounty for the Birthday Girl

I seem to have been particularly blessed with wonderful gifts for my
birthday today. Some of which I have requested, some of which have been
pure bounty.

The requested gifts were given by Alec. I had hoped for one
- I got two....

The series DVD that you see here includes all
12 programmes covering a year in the life of a group of historians and
archaeologists who lived in the manner of cottagers and farmers of the
1620's at a renovated farmstead in Wales. The whole project has been
running for 17 years before the TV series was made....)

Since I live myself in a 17th Century cottage, I was glued to the few
programmes that I managed to watch myself, for an insight into how the
original inhabitants of Autumn Cottage might indeed have lived. When I
discovered that a DVD was available (and also discovered that my blog-
friend Rowan had actually visited the site!) onto the gift-request-list
it went!

The second generous gift was an Italian language course, produced
by Rosetta Stone. Their "immersion" courses are used by Embassies,
Government establishments and schools all over the world, and after
trying an example lesson, I felt that it would be very valuable for me.
My heart, as well as my ancestry is in Italy - and after my recent visit
to Venice, I am longing to become more fluent, to enable me to enjoy
future visits even more.

A third, unexpected "gift" was the arrival in the post of a journal I
had bought on eBay, the record of two cruises taken to Europe (I think
by an American author) in 1905 and 1909. Of course, I knew it would
arrive sometime, but Fortune brought it today. And by an extraordinary
co-incidence, the entries for August 14th-16th 1905 show that the writer
stayed in exactly the SAME hotel as "the 1906" ladies whose footsteps we
followed just two months ago. I am still stunned by the discovery, and
of course, cannot wait now to transcribe the journal. The first visit,
in 1905, includes many places in the UK - so there will be some more re-
tracing of steps to do with this book in hand, in the coming year.

And the other gifts? Well, even before my birthday started, I was taken
to London yesterday to see a production of Mel Brooke's "The Producers"
at the Drury Lane Theatre. Alec was once again the generous benefactor,
Tim travelled up with us, and Hugh met us in Covent Garden "At the
Golden Carousel".

It was an afternoon of freezing fog, hot mulled wine, minced pies,
street performers, the smell of the greasepaint and the chortle of the
crowd, outrageous performances and wonderful almost-pantomime, extremely
gay costumes, an old English pub, Italian food and good wine - but most
important of all, the most precious gift of all, was having my family
around me.

All of us having a wonderful time, good conversation, fun, laughter and
gratitude for our good fortune. We all know what really matters, apart
from wonderful material gifts..it is the fact that we all have each
other. Through trials and tribulations, good times and not so good, we
are all there for each other, and we do our best to offer each other
support.

And that is a gift beyond price.

A Wet Weekend in Warwick

A week ago today I was braving the downpouring rain in Warwick, where I was
staying for a few days in pursuit of some family history background
information. The rain has continued to pour this week - but for now, I
prefer to remember some of the more pleasant parts of last weekend, when
I was able to visit some of the same places in which I imagine my great-
grandfather Thomas Latham, and his wife, Mary Amici, lived, walked and
worshipped with their 6 children.

Will you come ome for a walk with me around the town?

The first building on my route into town - and the first picture above - the Lord Leycester's Hospital, which still houses "brethren" - retired gentlemen from her Majesty's Army. Founded by Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, and favourite of Queen Elizabeth 1.

I took tea later in the delightful Brethren's Kitchen - look out through the window to the timber framed buidings of the courtyard beyond.......

But first, up into the Market Square and the Saturday Market in full swing - this is where I sat, taking the opportunity to enjoy the sun outside the Tilted Wig hostelry, with a glass of wine, watching the world go by.....

Next, a stroll around the market, and a visit (of course!) to the Antiques Centre in the Square, in which this cabinet of coloured glass caught my eye. How I would have liked some of these pieces to come home with me - particularly those of blue milk glass.

Then on to visit the beautiful collegiate church of St Mary's.(to which I returned, on Sunday evening, for Choral Evensong ) The effigy on the tomb in the chancel, of Thomas Beauchamp (guardian of the Black Prince, Victor of the Battle of Crecy in 1346) and his wife Katherine is one I find very moving - for they seem to have been holding hands for six and a half centuries.

The church also houses the spectacular Beauchamp Chapel, in which are three magnificent tombs, of the aforementioned Robert Dudley himself, but also of  Ambrose Dudley, and, in the centre, still gilded and glorious, that of Richard Beauchamp, the founder of the Chapel.

Here he is - and notice his hands - not together in prayer - but apart - and missing, perhaps, his Earl's coronet that was once, long ago, held there?

Sunday was a dismal day. I drove out to Tudor Charlecote House - home of the Lucy family for the last 700 years - but photographs outside were disappointing - and inside were forbidden (one of the more annoying rules decreed by the National Trust which now owns the building). There were wonderful Jacobean portraits to see - but you, dear readers, are not allowed to see them.

The gardens and park - the other glory of Charlcote - were literally a wash out. So back to Warwick for lunch and an afternoon wander around the town - but this time, always dodging the raindrops. And back to church for an uplifiting Evensong with magnificent organ accompaniment to a choral rendition of "Abide with Me" - which, as ever, left me in floods of tears - torrents both inside and outside the church!

I left the church on Sunday evening in the pouring rain which had become a feature of the weekend - but walking back to my hotel, feeling ever more like a drowned rat, my spirits were at least lifted by walking past such beautiful buidings as this one - one of many still in existance in this ancient town

And finally, not long before leaving, and as the result of a conversation with some locals, I discovered one of the places that I had come to find - the place of my great-grandfathers first recorded house in Warwick. They had told me that the street still existed - but that one side had been knocked down - they did not know which one.

I prayed that it was not "my" side - and when I arrived, I could see Number 1 - hurrah!! - great grandfather had lived in Number 51 - and the odd numbers were still there.! I had discovered the row of houses - and here are all those up to No. 47....but, yes, you've guessed it - the ones I was hoping to find had been demolished to make way for the modern one there on the right. But this is what it would have looked like - if it had still been there!

With a Full Heart

It has taken me two weeks to get around to posting this memoir – you can imagine just how full my heart has been. I am ready to share my memories with you all now.

Wednesday 23^rd November 2005

A day full of deep emotions – not all of them expected, and not all of them turning up in the place where I did expect them. I went back to Wales yesterday - to Newport, to visit my old school, Brynglas Primary, for their 50^th Anniversary celebrations.

We arrived at about 2.45 – already the light was dropping, so I nipped out of the car to take some photographs, and was able to see that the school is virtually unchanged after 50 years.

There, still, is the sports field on which I ran the egg and spoon race – (no good for anything else – how I have always hated "sports" and "games"!) – there was the front entrance, with the steps leading into to the administration area, steps I was allowed to descend to wait for Miss Peacock to give me a lift home from school when both my legs were encased in plaster. (Did you ever discover, Miss Peacock, that it was me and not a mouse that had nibbled your loaf of bread, from the shopping in the back of your car, while I was waiting for you?)

There was the school gate, outside which I swore that my mother waited, from 9 am to lunchtime, and from afternoon return until "home time" – only changing my mind when I moved to a front-of-school classroom and could see the gate all day – with no waiting mother there?

  And there was the rank of garages alongside the school – behind which, at the gift of Susan Hughes I took my one and only puff of a cigarette, aged about ten, and at the same time learned the word F**k – though completely innocent of its meaning. (Returning home to Mam, I announced the word to her and came as close as I ever did to having my ears boxed, before she, too realised that I did not have a clue as to what it meant. She did not, at that moment, enlighten me!).

The years fell away – but the hour was still too soon – school was not open to visitors until 3.30 – so we drove away and did a lightning tour of the area. Down Brynglas Road, which was still as steep as I ever remember it to be, around left, past the house in which Gail Morgan lived, and opposite which the prefabs used to stand. Those post-war "temporary" structures, which lasted 50 years, are there no longer, razed to the ground now. Only rough ground left, which was once a little recreation ground – now barricaded off, derelict and unused, until, no doubt, some developer comes along to capitalise on the stunning views across the city. The little "rec". where I used to have "picnics" of a jam sandwich and pop in a bottle, with my friends Margaret or Kathryn, and very paradise it was indeed.

Descending by Brynglas Avenue, down Crindau Road, and down toward No.9 Spring Street, at the bottom – where I spent my first 24 years. The door has a little porch over it now, matching one at the other end of the street – apart from that, nothing much has changed. I could not bear to stop to photograph it. Perhaps another time.

Down Redland Street, to Malpas Road. Again, so much looks the same – until you look towards the town and spot the massive flyover to the dual carriageway that now runs along the old railway track towards Cwmbran. Immense, out of human scale, alien. Isolating the Old Rising Sun pub (where my Grandfather used to drink), which is now merely a cowering edifice rather than an imposing building. So sad.

Palmers the grocers (with the wonderful flying money containers) is now a Victoria Wine shop, dear little "Wendy’s" the gift (tat) shop is now the "Indian Cottage" Tandoori Takeaway. But the Post office where Douggie Barker the postmaster reigned is still there –and now it declares itself in both the Welsh and English language.

Still time to kill – so we found our way to Power Street – and that was where my heart really did crack in two. Firstly to Lower Power Street, where my great grandmother, Granny "Nankie" lived and died before I was born. So narrow it was almost impossible to turn around to find our way to Upper Power Street by way of Lambert Street. Upper Power Street, where my Nana raised seven children in a "two up, two down" terraced house. Where my darling mother was born and lived in the same sort of deprivation that still seems to abide there today. Run down, decrepit, the steeply plummeting "front" gardens now overgrown and derelict, the garden down which, Mam recounted, she had tumbled as they ran for the air raid shelters during a bombing raid in World War 2.

The back lane seems not to have changed since I was photographed there at 2 years old – apart from some modifications to the walls, extensions added on to the backs of some of the houses, and the ubiquitous plastic windows, nothing was very different. But oh, the air of poverty which hangs there, it’s tangible.

It’s what I give thanks for myself on this day before Thanksgiving day...that I, at least, managed to escape from that world of awful, soul grinding poverty, not the poverty of starvation, because I never starved, I never went without essentials. But the poverty of the mind – the chill wind that silently blows through the soul from earliest days, that kills off enterprise, and adventure and the desire to be the best that one can be.

The chill that nails lack of ambition to the heart and never sets it free – not unless you escape – and then...and then, what do you do with it? What have I done with that precious freedom myself? It’s a question that accompanied me all the way home, and a question I will carry with me for a long while yet.

In comparison, the visit to the school on our return there at 3.30 was pure delight. After forty-three years, I got to read the school logbooks and what the Head Mistress, Miss Peaker, had thought was important enough to be recorded. My beloved Pantomime, authored completely by myself and performed with much ceremony by the whole class was not recorded – but a visit to Newport, for which the whole school was closed, by the Princess Alexandra got a mention – the injustice of it rankles even now!

There was the Assembly Hall – the same climbing bars on the same walls. I got to walk each classroom again – alongside the ghosts of all the teachers that are no longer present there. Miss Jones, the dear tyrant, who ruled with a rod of iron and probably taught me most of what I knew.

Miss Peacock, Reception class teacher after Mrs Hayman (the first teacher to spank my bottom, for opening my locker when I should not have done!). Mr. Tyldesley, Mr. Roberts, Mr. Aston Morgan – all guides and sentinels on my pathway to the final trial by ordeal – the "Eleven Plus" examination, by which our future schools were allocated to us on the basis of our test results. I did well in the test I was selected to go on to the local Grammar school – and you can bet your life that those successes were recorded in the old school log – with an annotation that my year gave "a particularly pleasing result!"

I would be delighted to return to the school next year. I was greeted with such warmth and love, and an invitation has been issued to me to go back to talk to the children and answer questions about my time at the school "in the olden days". But for all my enthusiasm for telling and recording our own stories, it still feels very strange - I am not sure yet if I am altogether ready to become a piece of Living History!

And Who Knows....Where the Time Goes?

This is my beloved son........
Hugh was born twenty one years ago today. He has brought nothing but sunshine and joy into my life  and continues to do so for everyone that he meets.

Happy Birthday Darling.

Six months old, and, unbeknown to me, just storing up the energy to bawl his way through a (rare) grown ups dinner party!

Two and a half years old - just started at Norland Nursery School

Seven years old, at Thorngrove Prep School - always smiling

Risen through the ranks at school - Deputy Head Boy at nearly fourteen years old

Sixteen years old - practising to be a Rock Star - off to a Korn concert

Living the Dream - receiving his Diploma in Music (Vocals)  three weeks ago - Stage One in becoming the Rock Star.

Though stardom would be fun, Hugh is wise enough to know that it's mostly a dream. This guy only wants to sing, write songs and play sax. Music is his passion - any chance he gets to perform, it is a passion he can share. So, until stardom comes..... the love of music is enough for him.

Continue to have a wonderful life, my son.

Travels in a Time Machine

My friend Fran has postulated a fascinating question on her blog today - if you could travel in a time machine, where would you go - and who would you take with you? Well, Fran, I'm  the same place as you right now - loads to do and procrastinating, so thanks for giving me a good excuse to while away even more time!

I would, of course, LOVE to go in the time machine. Oh, goodness, how I would! Its hard to know where I would want to travel first (I couldn't
just go once, could I?) - in fact, your question has fallen serendipitously, as I have recently been contemplating past life regression. Just thinking about its validity before even thinking of doing it myself.

So I think my first trip in a time machine would have to be back to the
time of the British Raj in India, because for some reason, I have a
great fascination with that time. I have no idea why - my grandfather
was there for a short time, (see photo below) I believe, in the early 1900's, but I do not have a great historic family bond with the country as many people here in the UK do.

Not in this life, at least - it is suggested that one reason we have
fascinations with a particular time or culture is because we lived
within it in another life. Is this possible? I'm easy on the idea of
reincarnation, for the same reason as I am easy with contemplating other
parapsychological phenomena - - many, many people have had experiences
which are unexplained. I am very open to their investigation - I just
wish that it was taken seriously, sometimes - not just as it is on endless "spook
hunting" programmes, with "der-der-der-der" music and creepy lighting.
Bah!

But I digress. I would delight to hop in the time machine and travel
back to, say the 1880's? Up to the hill towns - Shimla?, Mussourie?
Kalimpong? It would be fascinating to be a fly on the wall of Alec's
Granny's tent, when she was there in the 1900's, to see her - out in the
jungle but still dressed in full evening dress for dinner. Even better,
to see her dining in magnificence with the bejewelled Maharajahs up in Shimla, as she used to recount to the boys when they were tiny. (a hundred year old lady telling true adventure stories to her four year old and six year old great grandchildren was enchanting to behold).

I digress again - but I suppose that is part of the pleasure of
following a prompt, isn't it? To allow your mind to follow its own path
from a common starting place? And what it has done is to help me to
formulate a theme for a possible talk to give at next year's Lapidus
conference - in Canterbury, on the theme of travel writing - Inner ond outer journeys.

Now, I wonder what sort of time machine I could import to that event, and who I
would take with me on the ensuing journey? I would take my cousin Brenda - an adventuress, if ever there was one - and I actually think I would love to take Fran along with me as well. Another woman of infinite curiosity who lives life to the full - and who could want for better travel partners than that - to ANY time or place?

Where Are You From?

I must be the millionth person to have responded to a marvellous prompt
that is propagating on the Web at the moment. I think the original idea came
from here - my response to it follows. It has been a way back to my past
and a window to the future. I don't know quite what I think about it now
- but think about it, a lot more, I certainly will do.

Where Am I from?

I am from tinbaths, from Palmolive and Amami

I am from the tidy genteel poverty, the washed step and the cleaned
windows, the snow white lace curtains and the not outside on Sunday. I
am from the washing on Monday, the butchers on Tuesday, the leftovers on
Thursday and the fish on Friday.

I am from the making ends meet but not much going without. I am from the
struggle and the smile and the coping and the gratitude and the "always
someone less well off than ourselves".

I am from the tomatoes grown in Grampy's greenhouse, the Sweet William
in bunches for school, the hunted fox mask nailed to the tree.
I am from Father's hanging baskets, heavy lilacs at mother's bedside,
and up Twmbarlwm mountain on Good Friday.

I am from respectful closing curtains and covering mirrors for the dead,
Granny's wagging fingers and trips to hell for sinners. I'm from
Florence and Lilian and Gwyneth.

I am from the holding the sides laughing ourselves silly, from the "Oh,
no! have you
wet your pants Mam?", and the "know your place, no better than you ought
to be".

I am from chewing gum wrapping itself round my heart if I swallowed it
and not washing your hair at the "time of the month"

I am from God, keeping an eye on everything, writing it down in his
black and red books,
I am from Retribution and Jesus meek and mild, suffering the little
children.

I am from the Land of My Fathers, fanatical, dramatical and operatical.

I'm from the pleasant land of Gwent, from Glamorgan and Warwickshire,
from the Ripper's Whitechapel, from Devon and from Italy. I am from
tripe cooked with onions, stuffed hearts and home made brawn

I'm from Granny at dark of night, an outside lavatory, a cockerel
roosting down the pan and the rest to the imagination.

I'm from Taking Tea at four o clock, a bride under inspection.
I'm from tales of the British Empire and tiger hunts on elephant back
The Queen Mother's Private Chapel,
A coffin dressed in blossoms and the Eton Boating Song.

I'm from outside, and offside, and wondering where I am?
Now I'm one to one, this place, this time, still wondering who I am.

I am from family bibles and framed photographs, from tapes and stories, folders and files and burned CD's. I'm from oil lamps and prize rosettes, from cast iron pans and cake tins, from Mizpah and "Mother" brooches, handprints in plaster and baby clothes in boxes - all taken out just sometimes, always put away with tears.

I am from all those who have come before
And to all those still to come,
They are me and I am them.

Down through the years, with other, frozen sepia stares
In a  cardboard box, or on a flashing screen.
I'll be a wisp of memory, floating up and through the air,
To the hills and the valleys, the alp and the terraced street, 
Penury and  privilege  - all that is where I'm from.

Bless the Children

No computer games
No TV in the bedroom
No car lifts to school
No trendy trainers
No designer pants
No holidays abroad
No "healthy diet"
No junk food
No obesity
No anorexia
No money to spend on the
sweets in the shop window
No idea of the time
No idea that they had nothing
Because they had each other
And all the time in the world

My mother hated this photograph, taken in Newport, Monmouthshire, South Wales, in about 1922. (She is the twin on the left of her sister, when they were about 7 years old.)

All she saw was poverty. What I see is community and freedom - a time
when kids could play in the street - which they did from dawn till dusk
if they had the chance. Poverty? They were rich beyond comparison in
some ways.

Bless them all.