Ancient Cities -- Bedrock

Thinking of ancient cities and my lack of personal experience in the real world, took me back to childhood and my love for the cartooned world of the Flintstones. They lived in the suburban area of a stone age city called Bedrock. I would have moved in with them, anytime. I was fascinated by their household appliances and gadgets which amused me more than the storylines. I would be spellbound for the entire twenty minutes or so of each episode. This wasn’t confined to childhood. In my early 30s, I would get up at some crazy time to watch an early morning episode before travelling out of town to work. I lived alone, so no raised eyebrows or questions. Somewhere, I have a DVD. I’m shocked that my grandchildren are not the least bit interested.

I planned to visit the Holy Land in my mid-twenties. It was an organised trip, like a pilgrimage, with a group of people from the church I belonged to at the time. I looked forward to setting foot in the ancient cities and places I had heard about and grown up with from the Bible stories of Sunday School and my Christian upbringing. It couldn’t happen. My father had always been supportive and encouraging, taking an interest in my endeavours, but he was clearly unhappy about this. There was conflict in the Middle East. Israel had invaded Lebanon and the thought of me going into potential danger ‘on holiday’ was something he really didn’t want. I couldn’t let him worry himself sick, so I didn’t go.

My travels abroad haven’t taken me anywhere ancient, more modern history, like being in Virginia, USA and learning about the American Civil War. I was staying with my family who live there. Their home was close to an area where battles had taken place, which ignited my interest. One of my cousins had studied The Battle of Bull Run and we spent time in Manassas, another battlefield and home to a museum. Not an ancient city, though.

Born in Manchester, lived in Lancaster, visited Colchester and many Roman cities in the UK. Stonehenge, not a city, but ancient, as is Calanais standing stones on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides. Not far from there is the village or township of Garenin, which is a collection of black houses, restored as an historical monument. No one lives there now, but some of the buildings are habitable and open for paying guests to stay for the experience. I haven’t stayed overnight, but I wouldn’t mind.

I’ve chosen Lemn Sissay’s poem about Canterbury, which I think qualifies as an ancient city.

Cantuarian

I ha’ant the time to rest at night
I hold the moon and satellite
I am the librarian of light
For Canterbury for all its might

And I roll beneath I roll
And I hold I hold I hold
And I swirl and I swirl
And waves uncurl

This Cantuarian
This latitudinarian
Carried the stones
Of the Trinitarian

In the river of the broken sword
(The failure of the knighted hoard)
In that winter – sheath unseen –
I washed it clean I washed it clean

Time and river entwine a ripple of twine
A shiver of rhyme this rhythm of mine
I carry the story out to the sea
The west wind addresses me

By bank and by bed, red and deeper
The city head the secret keeper
I bathed the uncivilised scream
I washed it clean I washed it clean

And I roll beneath I roll
And I hold I hold I hold
And I swirl and I swirl
And waves uncurl

I am the librarian of light
For Canterbury for all its might.

                               Lemn Sissay, OBE FRSL

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Answers - Who Am I?

Over the last few evenings I’ve been searching my ancestry for possible answers. I was able to confirm to another family member that the details he’d passed on to me of a young man killed in action during WW1 was one of us, but I couldn’t leave it there. My ancestors had massive families and there are many brothers and cousins likely to have been involved in the conflict.  It is on-going and taking me in many directions, enough to give me a headache and a fear of forgetting what my hand-written notes mean. And, to keep me on my toes, eldest sons are often named after their father.

With the use of websites I started to research my family tree in 2004 when I was housebound, recovering from illness.  It gave me something to focus on and took me on a fascinating journey of discovery. I’ve learnt a lot about my background through the lives of past generations.  I wish such information could have been so readily available thirty-plus years ago when my father was alive.

Dad knew very little about his mother’s family. My Nanna Hetty was orphaned when she was a baby. I’m still unsure if she was formally adopted or just taken in by the people who raised her, it was 1896, but I have found details of her birth family and obtained marriage and death certificates for her parents. I have the answers my father always wanted.

Up to now I’ve been able to track my ancestry back to around 1810, some of which is backed up with birth, marriage and death certificates and information from census records. I know who they were, where they lived, what they did and how they died. If only I could find out what their personalities were like or what made them tick.

 

I found this poem by Sandra Osborne:

Answers

How many souls
Have come and gone
Before me?

How many had
The same questions?
How many
Found the answers?

And if they found them,
Then why does my soul
Long for the reasons
For their deaths,
For their lives,
The reasons for mine.

And if I should find them,
Will I have the wisdom
To know them as answers,
Or will I lack the understanding,
And see them as questions.

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Building Bridges

My history skills aren’t quite polished, so when I was given the theme of Building Bridges, my mind immediately jumped to the expression, the idea where two different people compromise to create something new. When I think of actual, physical bridges, I imagine structures which are valued on their flexibility. Some are stubborn, uncompromising and can withstand practically anything. Others, which you often see in chase scenes set in a jungle are less stable, more adventurous and the worst nightmare for those afraid of heights.

 

                                                                                                                                                 While two people can definitely reconcile and build a bridge between them, to me I normally see the term associated with larger collectives or organisations, working together to qualm a conflict in ideology. But as good as the idea is, you don’t really see it happen that often. When I was at university, there was a battle being waged between the chancellor and the rest of the academic staff. Now, instead of mutually working to build a bridge, the chancellor simply continued to raise her own wage while not really spending the university budget on issues that affected the wider community. And then after her damage had been done, she resigned. But this is an issue you’ll see in many places, in various academic institutions, in workplaces, politics (once a blue moon!) and in friendship groups.

                                                                                                                                                     
 The poem I include here today focuses on the bridges, but also on their effect on the people around them. The act of compromise between two otherwise different groups is something extraordinary in itself. But when you begin to apply its effects on the individuals around them, then imagining its scale becomes impossible. I hope the poem does the topic justice!

The Bridge

Two hands shake,

the fingers spin and weave a silky

wooden metal

A structure

that allows silhouettes to glide

across the water

A road in the sky

for the traffic jams to spread

through toasted heat like butter

A meeting spot

for birds to catch

the gentle wind and waves

And a shelter for the creatures

light had tucked away

Dean Tsang

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