Threads - A Stitch In Time

 

My paternal grandmother was a professional tailoress. She objected to being referred to as a dressmaker as she made clothes for everyone. Most of my childhood clothes were made by her and also, a beautiful, pink satin eiderdown for my first ‘big girl’ bed. It was beautiful and I wish I still had it. My mum and I had summer dresses in matching fabric. My dad and granddad always had smart trousers. It is sad that Nanna Hetty passed away when I was only eight years old, but from being about four or five, she’d taught me a few skills. I could thread a needle, sew a neat running stitch and sew buttons on to a piece of spare fabric. These small things sowed the seed for my future sewing abilities. At secondary school, I excelled in needlework. Over the years I’ve made clothes for myself and my daughter and made items of soft furnishings. As my eyesight worsened, it became a difficult task and these days I just sew buttons back on, mend things and sew name labels on school uniforms. From Nanna Hetty’s background, I learnt about a different type of thread than anything she had on her bobbins. It was family and the invisible thread that fastens us together, which I came to appreciate more when I started to research my family tree.

When our maternal aunt died, my sister and I, as next of kin, were tasked with dealing with everything. Amongst her belongings was a large envelope with my name on. It wasn’t private, it was open and over-filled, containing old family papers, certificates and important letters, directed to me because of my interest in family history.  Eventually, I got round to going through the contents, being very careful with delicate items. Most was self-explanatory but there was the running thread of a surname that was unfamiliar to me. Clearly, this name belonged in the family, somewhere. I needed to discover more and solve the mystery. Looking into my ancestry gave me the answers.

This year marks twenty years since I began to search online, piecing my family tree together. I have followed my paternal line to Southern Cemetery in Manchester, where upon finding a clerical error in their data input, I was able to help them to correct it and find the grave I wanted. I knew that my Nanna Hetty was orphaned as a baby as she’d told me, but I don’t know if she knew anything about her parents, in particular that her father was employed as a tailor’s assistant. That thread was definitely in her bloodline. The unfamiliar name in my maternal family turned out to be my great-grandmother’s maiden name. I’m grateful to Cheshire Births, Marriages and Deaths website for that discovery, long before I started on Ancestry.co.uk. My family tree, even now, is a work in progress. Now and again I pick up a known thread, which is often more than one person and see where it leads. These are the threads of life in my family, which will weave on into future generations.

I found this poem,

 

The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

William Stafford   1914 – 1993

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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For the Record - Put It Straight

 One glorious summer afternoon, a few years ago, my husband and I were on my ancestry trail in Manchester's Southern Cemetery. I had done some groundwork online and had a print-out map of the burial grounds with my family members plot details marking locations.

There can be lots to learn from headstone inscriptions, things not recorded elsewhere. I took time to make notes, take photographs and have a silent word with my dear departed ones. There are some interesting folk in my bloodline and this cemetery has four if not five generations of my paternal line. How handy for me that they are all in the same place. It makes adding branches to the family tree so much easier. All was going well until I couldn't find my four-greats grandfather, Benjamin. The number for his resting place was a multiple burial pauper's grave with a list of names which didn't include him. This couldn't be it. From my genealogy discoveries, I knew Benjamin to be a successful,  wealthy man with no suggestion of hard times at the end of his life. It looked like the end of my journey - until we realised that the cemetery records office was still open. I went to ask for help.

If ever I had a lucky day, this was it. Someone checked online and got the same information I had, which was clearly wrong. Within minutes, I was sitting at a desk with a huge register in front of me, in awe of the beautifully hand-written burial records in magnificent copperplate. With Benjamin's full name, date of birth, date of death and interment, I found his grave number straight away. Online details end with an E, in the register with a K. I could see what must have happened when the details were transferred to digital. The style of writing had a flourish on the capital K which could easily be mistaken for an E. I mentioned my possible discovery to a staff member.

With the revised details, I found Benjamin's resting place, complete with a headstone befitting the gentleman I considered him to be. I went back to thank the office staff and tell them my findings. They thanked me - had I not queried Benjamin's grave, the error might never have come to light.

My poem:

I'm really having fun in here,
Line after line it seems quite clear,
Data input made a mistake.
Let's put it right for all our sakes.

Please can we put the record straight?
It's all gone wrong on column eight
And what's been listed as an E
Is actu'lly a K, you see.

I wish I had all afternoon,
Sadly, I have to go home soon,
But now you know what has gone wrong,
You can put Ks where they belong.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, keep safe, Pam x

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Flower-Pot - Things We Love

There is a special flower-pot in my garden. It hasn’t always been a flower-pot and it is a fairly recent addition to my green-fingered efforts. It’s a huge, heavy ceramic bowl that my late mother-in-law marinated dried fruit in ready for homemade Christmas puddings, Christmas cakes and mince pies. The results were always delicious and we looked forward to being given our share. There would be lots to go round. I don’t know how she managed to lift it, even when empty. When it came into our possession, I struggled to move it, wanted to keep it and there was only one practical thing to do. It would make a fabulous flower-pot, if my husband could drill drainage holes in the base of it without it breaking. Success.

I never knew my father’s sister, my Auntie Peggy. She died years before I was born, but I have stood by her grave in Southern Cemetery, Manchester and wept, a grave now shared with her parents. The tears were not for a relative I didn’t know, they were for the shattered, vandalised flower-pot that my father had discovered on his visit and lovingly piled the pieces in front of the headstone which had escaped serious damage. It was leaning back, but still in situ, unlike many others that had recently been attacked. This was in the early 1980s. Peggy had died around 1946/7 aged 21. They were not a rich family; they were ordinary people making ends meet. Dad had told me how his mother, my Nanna Hetty, saved a few pennies each week to enable her to buy a special flower-pot and have Peggy’s name inscribed on it. He was saddened by the mindless violence which destroyed so much and caused upset to the bereaved.

I’m currently looking after two special flower-pots. These are really disposable cups being recycled to nurture sunflower seeds on the kitchen window-sill until they start to grow and get strong enough to plant outside. They are the work of my two elder grandchildren, with my limited assistance, of course, though I came in handy for the cleaning up afterwards. We had such a fun time together. There was a moment of disappointment when I explained that the seeds wouldn’t start to show immediately, so no need to watch over them. Distraction tactics usually work, or failing that, chocolate buttons. ‘Nanna Time’ is the best.

 

 

I found this poem,

 

The Flower by Barbara Miles Jackson

All spring and summer,
One thing after another.
No time for gardening,
And summer's ending.

Checked the mail everyday,
That much needed letter,
Drowned out by bills,
Junk mail and books.

Family out of tune,
Other plans and people.
Holding their interest,
No easy as before.

Looking out my window,
At four flower pots.
Dirt dried and cracked,
For lack of water.

There in a big pot,
Green leaves sprouting.
New wonder to see,
A lone flower growing.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 









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