Seasonal Shenanigans

The past two weeks have been taken up with family visiting and visiting family. Now I am officially hibernating and trying to reset to ‘normal’. The holiday season has been full of family fun, festivities and board games but has not been without incident. First came the ritual of pre-visitor cleaning (is there any other kind?). I had identical cabinets in the two bathrooms, one now relegated to the shed as the new bathroom (finished just in time for the visitors) has built-in cupboards. I scrubbed a bit too vigorously at the top of the one in the ensuite and took the surface off (they are just cheap melamine flat pack things). I decided that this would irritate me so we swapped it with the one in the garage. Not altogether smoothly, as the feet aren’t glued on and fall off when the cupboards are moved. I discovered two years’ worth of dirt under the ensuite cupboard. Having removed said grime and replaced the cupboard contents I find that the top of the replaced cupboard is also scratched!!

Next, although it had never been used I decide I should rinse out the new shower. There’s a fixed shower head and one on a hose. I realise that I have no clue how the new shower works. There are two knobs to choose from. No handy H C label etc.. Note I am fully dressed – you can no doubt see where this is going. I manage to get water (hopefully cold) to come out of the flexi shower. My watch starts buzzing which means my phone is ringing – it tells me it is the fisherman of my acquaintance. Can I work out how to stop water coming out of the shower? Oh. I can get water to come out of the fixed rose instead, just a shame I’m standing under it. By the time I’ve twiddled the right knob in what seems to be the right direction, the phone has stopped ringing. I drip into the living room to ring back. It seems Chris’ car, that has been making an interesting noise for a while, has finally died (fortunately he is at home) fortunately too he has a ‘best’ car – unfortunately that doesn’t start either. I test my car battery as I haven’t used it for a while, yep flat as the proverbial. Three vehicles between us none of which work. If I drank I’d need a stiff gin.

Then, when visiting, I discover that I have neglected to pack any knickers. A supermarket visit should rectify this problem. It turns out that knickers have odd names to describe different styles. I rule out ‘Brazilian’, whatever that is and ‘Thong’. It seems my size is the most popular and that leaves me with very little choice. I end up with knickers that reach my armpits. Then there was somehow losing the key to the now repaired car, while we were on a caravan site. Luckily, it did turn up in a place we’d looked three times. You probably don’t want to know about me trying to mime breakdancing for a game called frozen unicorns, or us wondering if getting crackers with Kazoos in was such a good idea after all.

The decorations will soon be back in their boxes for the next eleven months and we look to the new year. The international situation certainly isn’t anything to cheer us and we can only hope that those with some influence can turn things around and what seems to be an increasing number of maniacs, both those In power and those who support them, start acting like normal, civilised, compassionate human beings. I send good wishes and hope that you can make your little corner of the planet a happy, peaceful place. For those who are struggling, I hope that the light at the end of the tunnel starts shining brightly, or if you are stuck in that tunnel, you find a way to adjust to it that allows you some sense of equilibrium. May you all find and inhabit a happy place.

A sign of spring to cheer you all – taken on 30 December in Cambridgeshire

Technological Challenges and Other Frustrations

So the day began with attempting to download my long awaited copy of Nathan Dylan Goodwin’s latest Morton book to my Kindle (other ereaders are available). Not totally straightforward as I deliberately purchased it in a new way, thus avoiding too many profits going to large online retailers and also meaning that got it earlier. This seemed to involve teaching my Kindle a new email address. Took a bit of Googling to work out how to do that but we got there.

Then it was on with the big girls pants and the ‘joy’ of installing a new router. This has all come about because my broadband contract was up for renewal. I stuck with the same company when I moved thinking that it had been fine in the middle of nowhere in a house with two foot think walls, so surely it would work well in a modern bungalow, in a much larger settlement. Not so. It dips alarmingly and with no warning, meaning that I have had to do some presentations from my bed. Open Reach, in their wisdom, installed the router connection thingy on the corner nearest the road, which means that the router is in my bedroom. Firstly, this means, I have a permanent bright green light in my bedroom, which for me isn’t the problem it might be for some, as I inevitably fall asleep when reading, so the light is on anyway. It is however as far away as possible from where I’d normally be using wifi. I should note that ‘as far away as possible’ isn’t actually very far, as it is a tiny bungalow and certainly I could get wifi in any room in my old house and in the garden without issue.

I debated changing companies but that would probably be a frying-pan – fire scenario and as renewal coincided with Black Friday (which weirdly seems to last several weeks), my existing company offered me a 900mbps package for the price of my old 57mbps. I don’t really understand all this mbps stuff but that certainly seemed like an improvement but it meant a new router. Said router arrived. The email said ‘install an app’. I am reasonably adept on a laptop, a phone, not so much – too small, too fiddly etc. etc.. Said app however duly installed. ‘Scan the QR code on the box to get the installation instructions’. Nope that just wasn’t going to happen. All I got was offers of expensive QR code reading apps. I’d been assured that it was going to be a case of unplug the old router, plug in the new one, so I ventured forth instructionless. I opened the box to find printed instructions. I didn’t need the app anyway.

Plugging in involved lying on the floor and delving in a rather dusty corner but that was accomplished. Next put in the new password. In days gone by this used to be three words that you stood a chance of remembering – in fact, I can still remember the last two three word passwords I had. This jumble of upper and lower case and digits is a bit of a nightmare but also accomplished. One laptop and one phone connected. The whole process had taken about fifteen minutes. Feeling quite smug, I moved on to reattaching the printer, or in my case, not reattaching the printer. I tried going via settings, I tried via the printer app. It kept telling me the printer wasn’t turned on when clearly it was. Every time I tried, the ‘not on’ printer wasted another tree by spitting out a one time passcode. I then made the big mistake of uninstalling the printer. That, dear readers, was a mistake. I have tried everything, Youtube videos, the printer company’s useless bot, turning everything off and on again, the lot. The printer is out of guarantee so I can pay £9.99  to speak to an ‘expert’, nope not going there. Nest step, maybe I should connect the printer with a wired connection. Cue emptying out a very large drawer of ‘may come in useful’ wires. Not one will fit up the backside of my printer. I thought these things were pretty standard but it seems not. I have, for now, given up. I have to return the old router, ‘print out this label’. Errrrrr. And as I write this I realise that I now have two televisions to reconnect. I think a nice calming image is in order.

A Few Days in Shrewsbury

We’ve just returned from a few days in Shrewsbury. We were staying on a very posh-for-us caravan site because the same complex also had ‘barns’ where caravan-less members of the family could stay. I was a fail at this kind of location from the start. We checked in and were given a card to access the site barrier, no problem, we were used to these. I was also given two ribbon like bracelets to indicate that we were paid up residents. For safe-keeping, I hurriedly put both on my wrist, one for me and one for the fisherman of my acquaintance. Caravan pitched I attempted to pass his to him. Ah. This was the problem. I had tightened the bracelets to ensure I didn’t lose them by sliding a plastic ring up each ribbon. It turned out that these were one way fastenings, a little like cable ties – hindsight and all that. I managed to wriggle my way out of one bracelet but the other was firmly affixed. Not wanting a bracelet on day and night for four days, I had to return to reception and ask to be cut out and have a new one, which I made sure was looser.

The barn, for younger members of the family, came with a firepit and hot tub, both of which had to be fully explored.

The weather was kinder to us than the forecast promised and we explored the delights of Blists Hill Victorian Village. Obtaining advance passes online was an intellectual challenge in itself but we managed it. The Ironbridge complex is due to be taken over by the National Trust, which caused a hiatus in the booking system at precisely the wrong time. It was interesting to chat to the various shopkeepers and tradespeople ad to spend the ‘old’ money that we had exchanged in the bank. Mind you, the existence of a bank seems to be something that is now consigned to history. The traditional fish and chips, fried using beef lard were probably not the best thing for our arteries but were delicious.

The next day was a Shrewsbury Trail, or at least part of it before it got too much for some of our party. The first challenge here was ensuring that both cars were parked in the same place (they weren’t) and then finding our way out of the shopping centre adjacent to the carpark we ended up in. We did manage a quick game of rockets and meteors (like snakes and ladders) in the shopping centre first.

Then a visit to see the Ironbridge in glorious autumn sunshine; the first iron bridge to be constructed in the world, in 1779. This is now a world heritage site. We moved on to Enginuity Science Museum, where we virtually made pig iron, moved locomotives using levers, solved (or didn’t) puzzles and other excitements. There were plenty of other museums in the Ironbridge family for those with more stamina but we decided to quit while we were ahead,

Now we are back home for what might laughingly be called a rest.

Round up of Family History Busyness

It has been a while since I did a round up of my ridiculous busyness so here is what my life has looked like since visiting four counties in four weekends in September. Take a deep breath and dive on in.

First, a lovely chat with my Few Good Women family, with one of us practicing an (excellent) talk. Next, because exercise seems to have slipped from the agenda, a bird-watching stroll on the nearby country park, organised by the rangers. Then the first zoom chat for my Pharos Putting your Female Ancestors into Context course. Away from family history, it was time for the annual flu jab. I returned at 10.30am to a series of urgent messages asking if I could fill in for a speaker in 4 1/2  hours’ time at Devon FHS after AGM talk. Fallen Women filled the void. October’s Society of Genealogists‘ Biography Club topic was toys and childhood and we had fun reminiscing. I have even done some work on my own and I am pretty much still on track to be finished in time for next year’s big birthday. Then a two talks Tuesday; Marginalised Ancestors in the morning and Barefoot on the Cobbles live in the evening. Copies of my Barefoot novel are now almost sold out.

In no particular order, there has also been another Pharos chat, a talk about prostitution (the history of) then a 6am start to speak to the Genealogical Society of Queensland on seventeenth century crime and punishment. This was International Day of the Girl but the Few Forgotten Women had already sorted their online offerings so nothing was needed for the day. Plenty of socialising and eating with visiting friends this week amidst finally doing some work on what is planned to be my next book; some excellent case studies are emerging. I took part in the Society of Genealogist’s Devon research showcase. This should be freely available on the SOG YouTube channel shortly. I’ve been virtually in Oxfordshire to talk about home industries and then in Buckinghamshire for the Impoverished and Insane. Listening to a talk for once on Wednesday then a two talks Thursday, Forgotten Women and the 1838 Fishing Disaster this time. Yesterday was Forgotten Women Friday, having fun researching women who worked in the Ulster linen industry.

Then it was now and yes things will soon start to get a little less hectic as family time beckons, though I am not entirely sure that time with my lovely family isn’t equally exhausting but in a rather different way.

Today’s picture is of County Down, in honour of yesterday’s Forgotten Women research.

Why History Matters – the nearest I’ll come to a political post

I deliberately don’t post about politics because I don’t like confrontation but remaining completely silent makes me part of the problem. I don’t have allegiance to a particular political party, although there is currently one that I would never vote for. This is not a political post but it certainly touches on current affairs. When I was interviewed for college, part of the interview process was to write an essay on ‘why study history?’. I don’t really remember what I wrote; it was the 1970s, I know I mentioned the Irish troubles. We need to understand history because we need to learn from it. It is no coincidence that George Santayana’s quote, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to fulfil it’, is on my home page. History is getting increasingly squeezed from the school curriculum. It is seen as being more relevant in today’s world to study computing, business studies, robotics and other subjects that were unimaginable in my school days. Don’t get me wrong, that knowledge is important but so is having a world in which to utilise that knowledge.

The human race seems to be rapidly losing the critical thinking skills that come with studying history properly. We need to be able to seek out proper evidence, we need to understand the role of propaganda and the power and danger of the megalomaniac. We need to be able to sift the truth from the distortions of the truth and downright lies that abound. There has always been propaganda and misinformation but in today’s digital world, that spreads so much faster and so much further than ever before. People believe what they read in the biased popular press and on social media. They fail to realise that some news output is not balanced and impartial but is presenting a partisan and misleading view that suits a particular political purpose. Whereas, in a pre-digital age, people were only likely to pass this rhetoric on by word of mouth, now mis-information can be passed on to thousands at the click of a button.

There are unthinking family historians following the shaky green leaves and believing impossible relationships, which they graft on to their family trees. These family trees get copied and replicated and before long, the weight of ‘evidence’ is in favour of something nonsensical. This is non-evidence; where is the source of that information? In the great scheme of things, if someone gets their family tree wrong, that does not have serious consequences. Believing other kinds of mis-information is potentially much more serious and downright dangerous. Daily, I hear or read friends and acquaintances spout or write ‘facts’ that two minutes checking would prove to be false, even if their common sense has failed to ring warning bells. The keyboard warriors don’t bother to fact check, ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand people believe this, so it must be so. At a time when information has never been more accessible, we are nonetheless drowning in a sea of ignorance.

The world is currently a terrifying place. I hate watching or reading the news because I, like many, am fearful, not just for myself but for my family, my friends and a world that seems to be rapidly slipping from our hands. We seem to be rapidly evolving into a society where humans are no longer humane. What has happened to that sane world, where the majority of people are kind, are caring, are empathetic. I am not a psychologist, although I did study psychology as part of my undergraduate degree. I have however spent more than fifty years studying the people of the past, trying to understand their behaviour, their motivations and why they made the life decisions that they did.  One thing that studying history has taught me is that there have always been periods of crisis or near crisis. There have always been threats to democracy and to the status quo. There have always been individuals who have risen up to take advantage of people’s fears and who have the personality to gather followers around them, largely by latching on to one or two issues that chime with certain sections of that community in fear.

By studying history, I have observed how humans behave when they are under threat. That might be a threat of conflict from an ‘enemy’ (real or perceived), a threat of poverty at a time of dwindling resources, a threat of epidemic, of famine or of natural disaster. Humans find it difficult to cope with threats and the stress that it causes, particularly if it is unremitting, ongoing stress. Studies of those who, for example, have suffered from long term domestic abuse, or who have spent prolonged periods in a combat zone, have discovered how detrimental that stress can be both physically and mentally. As a species, we cope best with stress if we can identify the cause and lay the blame for that stress with an outsider. If the threat is perceived to come from someone not like us, it is easier to cope with than a threat from within. Who the people ‘not like us’ are has varied over the centuries. We blame the people not like us even if all logic suggests it cannot be so. In 1348, in England, Jews were blamed for the plague. It was obvious that these people not like us were poisoning the water. Except of course the Jews had been expelled from this country in 1290. We are still guilty of applying such warped ‘logic’ in order to blame people not like us for the things that we fear today.

This is not a political post because I am not brave enough. I have friends and acquaintances who do not think as I do and I am not robust enough to engage in acrimonious debate. I am selfishly wanting peace and quiet in a world where there is no peace and quiet. I am cheered by the knowledge that there are those who do sift the evidence and seek the truth and many of you reading this will be amongst them but we tend to be the quiet ones. I watch people being drawn in by bombast and rhetoric and ‘information’ that has no foundation. I see people following leaders because one aspect of what that leader spouts feeds into their fears. They do not look beyond the loud headlines and the single issues to wonder about the polices that might underline those particular political stances. They do not think of the practicalities involved, of how what is being spouted might be achieved, if indeed there is a coherent, workable plan. They do not consider how what results from these viewpoints might impact on other aspects of all our daily lives.  

Many of my followers are family historians or authors who carefully research their books. Some of you are here because I occasionally post about travel, about gardening, or special needs. Whoever you are and whyever you are here, please, please for the sake of us all, try to persuade those around you to look beyond the bombast and the catch all headlines, to look beyond the appeal to their underlying fears and analyse what is being said. To look beyond the propaganda to seek the facts. Think about what some of these policies will mean, both for us and for the people not like us. If we are the strong, we need to stand up for the weak, for those who have no voice. Let us work towards returning to a world where empathy and compassion, for each other and for people not like us, are no longer derided but are seen as core human values to be sought after and lauded. If that makes me woke, or whatever the current derisory term is, then I am very proud to be so.

Normal service, with posts in a lighter vein, will resume shortly, as long as there’s a world that will continue to allow me to do so. I’ve included a picture to lighten your day.

Weekend Three of Four Weekends of Family History

This was the weekend of the Secrets and Lies conference run by the Halstead Trust. I’ve been to a good many of these residential family history conferences over the years (and I do mean years, my first was over forty years ago) and this rated as one of the best. We’d travelled up to Peterborough the previous day and were ensconced in a caravan site half a mile away from the conference venue. Half a mile that is if you were prepared to cross a river and a railway line; it was actually two miles away by road. We were there for everything except bed and breakfast however so weren’t going to miss out.

Having had a quick recce in the morning, we arrived at the venue in the early afternoon to meet many friends. This was our first post-covid residential conference, so this was a first meeting in person for several years for some of us. It was also lovely to meet people who I was used to seeing in a rectangular box on a screen and discover how tall they were! There were also several of our lovely A Few Forgotten Women volunteers present; most appropriate given the conference theme of secrets and lies.

Lectures kicked off with Maggie Gaffney talking about a transportee, followed by Paul Blake illustrating just how the visual image, or our perception of that image, can lie. We were then treated to tales of bigamy and adulterine births in Scotland by Stewart Stevenson. The evening meal followed and Else Churchill rounded off the day with post watershed accounts of the bawdy courts.

Saturday dawned and I was first up, chatting about prostitution. I was glad that both my sessions were early on in the day as my capacity for being alert for a whole day at events like this is clearly waning. There was a choice of talks for Saturday’s lectures, so sadly I had to miss some I’d would have liked to hear. My first choice was Margaret’s ’Auntie Jo’s lost on the Family Tree’, which included the fascinating story of Agnes Beckwith’s life of secrets and lies, alongside a notable swimming career. After a buffet lunch of sandwiches and chips, which struck me as a rather odd but most acceptable combination I went to help Chris, who had been personning my bookstall all day. One of the advantages of in-person talks is that you do tend to sell a few books.

My choices for the afternoon were Alan Moorhouse’s tales of bigamy, Donna Rutherford’s detective story, cracking a coded message on the back of a postcard and Sarah Wise, with an account of her research into those incarcerated under the 1913 Mental Deficiency Act. Then a quick trip back to the caravan to get what passes for glammed up in our world. I was proud to receive a certificate of achievement from the Society of Genealogists. I’d actually been awarded this during Covid but this was the first opportunity for it to be handed over. Then to the food, to be frank, we aren’t a great fan of gala dinner food, preferring hearty platefuls of plainer fare over artfully arranged sprigs of not much surrounded by bits of drizzle. It is often a case of choosing the least worst menu options. This was not too bad by comparison. The soup was tasty, my aubergine something or other and Chris’ chicken something else were acceptable and puddings always go down well. A word about the dining room staff, who were just incredible in their efficiency. The woman in charge was managing them with a series of hand signals that made her look like she was a race-course bookie. She really should be in a top-class restaurant not a motel on a roundabout.

Then Sunday and by this time, I am realising that it takes stamina I am not sure I have to get through these events intact. The first talk by Calista Williams about the staff in Cottage Homes dovetailed well with the premier of my talk on Fallen Women. Judie McCourt then told us about Emma Costello’s life and divorce, including an encounter with a mystery Italian on a sofa. After more sandwiches and chips for lunch, Debbie Kennet treated us to a DNA case study, uncovering a paternity mystery.

Then it was all over. I know from experience just how difficult and exhausting these conferences are to organise and the team did a great job. I don’t know how many crises they were fielding under the surface, I am sure there were some but it didn’t show. I think I have persuaded a few people to come to our conference next year and I have a lot to live up to but I am confident of our excellent programme and beautiful location, so we do it all again then, although I have another bite of the conference cherry in between at the Guild of One-Name Studies conference in April and stand by for more family history next weekend.

Post conference, we arrived back at the van to find that it was three foot further back than we’d left it. Next door but one with huge new-to-them caravan and an automatic Volvo had been trying to move off site to go home. They’d left the motor movers on (which move the van into place a bit like a remote control car). Husband driving leaves engine running and car in drive mode and gets out to turn said motor movers off, as they are acting as a break. He turns them off – car then takes off on its own with the caravan, heading for our van. Wife in the passenger seat tries to steer car away from our van. Guy in nearby camper van tries to push their van away from ours and gets knocked down. At least this is the rather garbled story we came back to. Minor cosmetic damage to the tow hitch of our van and two broken feet where it was pushed back a metre. Site owners had been trying to ring but we had turned phones off in the conference. We were met by very apologetic damage-causers who were clearly still in shock five hours later. We ran checks to ensure we could still wind our legs up (that’s the caravan’s legs – not so sure about our own) and connect the car to the van, which were the concerns. Then to recover from the weekend.

Family History Weekend Number Two (of Four)

Before we get to weekend three of family history this month, I ought to report back on last Saturday, weekend two. We headed across the border to Bridgerule. I say across the border but the River Tamar divides Bridgerule, so some parts are in Devon and some in Cornwall. We were heading for  the church, where there was to be a local history display and we were booked to give family history advice. We had a postcode. The sat-nav didn’t recognise the postcode. Never fear thinks I, we will get to Bridgerule and if we can’t see the church, we will use What Three Words, which I also have. Bridgerule is tiny but there was no obvious church. Sadly there was no obvious phone signal either so the what three words option was out. We found the community shop and asked for directions. In fact we asked for directions twice more after that. It seems that some people can’t distinguish between a parish church and a non-conformist church. Eventually we find the church and the organisers had put on a great display, with equally great cake on offer.

I’ll be honest, in a place the size of Bridgerule, we were expecting one man and a dog if we were lucky but no. There was a steady stream of visitors and they didn’t just glance and pass by, they stayed and engaged. There was someone sat at our stall, asking for family history advice almost all day. In all, we fielded seventeen detailed enquiries. Partly I think because most of the visitors weren’t experienced family historians, we were able to help every single one. They all left with new information and delighted smiles. It is a long time since I have felt quite so much like a magician.

There was an interesting incident with Amazon in the middle of trying to record a talk ready for next month. Not sure if it was just because the order included an electrical item but I was asked for a tracking number. Unfortunately the driver’s only two words of English appeared to be ‘tracking number’. Where was this tracking number? I always delete all the emails that say ‘your order is out for delivery’ his engine is running while I look through the 200 or so delete emails of the past two or three days (searching didn’t seem to work, nothing in junk). Then he finds the third word in his English vocabulary ‘app’, nope, no app; I do all my stuff on the laptop not the phone. Finally found a teeny tiny tracking number when I went to the Amazon website. The whole palaver must have taken about fifteen minutes all told. By the time we’d finished, the noise of the pouring rain on the conservatory roof made recording tricky.

What else has been going on? A meeting with a new family member for Chris, who also has a Buckland Brewer connection and an excuse to eat cake. A talk to give and some work on a Cornish family. I’ve also been giving my talks for the coming weekend a final once-over. One was a little lacking in illustrations, as everything I wanted to use was copyright. As a consequence, I’ve been having a play with ChatGPT. I don’t have a paid account so there’s only so much you can do each day. Nonetheless, it has livened up the presentation. Really looking forward to chatting about the history of prostitution and fallen women this weekend, as you do – well, as I do anyway.

Image ChatGPT

‘Tis Done!

It has taken all the time I could spare and some that I couldn’t, for the past seven weeks but the seafarers and shoemakers story of some of my children’s ancestors is finished. In the end there were sone coopers, a baker and a housemaid thrown in for good measure. It covers sixteen couples or individuals and eight generations. There’s 16,000 words, 62 pages and 160 footnotes and at times I really wished I could stop finding new people to add. I can’t imagine anyone will want to read it but it is at least preserved for posterity. Just in case anyone reading this is connected to the same Hampshire families, the surnames are: Sweetingham, Denham, Emery, Fox, Grace, Hooker, Markes, Newman, Renouf, Strugnell and Wade and you can download the pdf over on my Granny’s Tales website.

Now I need to turn my attention to the things that I should have been doing. Mind you, it may well be that my planned archive trip next week will open up a whole new avenue for research, as if there aren’t enough families still to write about anyway.

Mostly about Writing

I thought that it was about time I wrote something, so that people didn’t start enquiring after my welfare. It’s been the season for the descendants to descend; typically, they were here during the few days of less good weather. Plenty of board game opportunities, with Taverns of Tiefenthal being the current favourite, alongside the obligatory visits to the pick and mix sweet shop, the ice-cream shop, the rock pools and the playground. We also watched people attempting to paddle cardboard boats across the river and some of us acted like ninjas (best not to ask) and that was summer fun done for another year. There then followed what passes for a spring clean, as I removed buckets of sand from various corners of the house, washed a million sheets and towels and returned things to their rightful places. Though, to be fair, the visitors were pretty good and setting things to rights.

Now it is back to the computer, interspersed with occasional paddles and even a very quick swim. A quiet month for talks this month but I am gearing up for a hectic September. I’ve done some brick wall busting. Well more of a chipping away, as Devon FHS members have got too good at solving their own, so we tend to only get almost impossible ones sent in now. I have practiced my ag labs workshop for the end of the month and am very excited to launch that on the unsuspecting public at the end of a whole day of exploring agricultural labouring ancestors.

Biography club was concentrating on household tasks this month. This must be at least the eighth time I’ve run courses to help people write their life stories and this time (like all the other times) I am determined to keep up with the participants and finish mine. On the strength of having done quite a bit already, I am just about on schedule. The plan is to finish in time for next year’s ‘big’ birthday. No one will want to read it of course but it is fun to write, if an exercise in self-indulgence. Seriously though, everyone has a story to tell and everyone’s story is important. Of the planned fourteen chapters, eight are done, two are almost done and four are figments of my imagination. One of these will be about voluntary work and that’s going to take some time. I’ve got as far as making a list and have come up with twenty different things I’ve done over the past fifty-five years that come under this category. Some were short-lived, most were fun and almost all are chocked full of memories. The trouble is that voluntary work and hobbies, another chapter that is as yet a blank page, overlap so I am going to need to distinguish between then somehow. The first three chapters alone are 40,000 words and run to 145 pages including illustrations. I told you it was self-indulgent – I may not be printing this out! The expurgated versions of some of the chapters are over on Granny’s Tales, just in case anyone is curious.

Related to all this looking back, I’ve been preparing a talk for the 40th anniversary of Isle of Wight Family History Society, which is one of three big live performances scheduled for next month. As well as what I hope will be some thought-provoking comments on the family history community’s past and future, there’s plenty more self-indulgence in the shape of ‘do you remember?’s. Family history has been and still is an enormous part of 70% of my life. Most of my friends are those I’ve made through family history. It has been a blast and it isn’t over yet.

In between all this, I am still plugging away at my seafarers and shoemakers in Southampton – see I didn’t even have to try to create the alliteration. This too is growing like topsy. What I should be doing is more to the next book. It is on the, rather dauntingly long, to do list! By way of encouragement, reviews have been coming in for Women’s Work. I am particularly chuffed with Julia Packman’s review in this month’s, Who Do You Think You Are? Magazine ‘a creation to be reckoned with’. Oh and it is currently on offer at 30% off from Pen & Sword, that’s a hardback at paperback price (ebooks also available). So if you want a creation to be reckoned with you know where to go.

One-places, Shoemakers, Seafarers and Finding Living Relatives, with some Ag Labs Thrown in

The title of this blog illustrates the wonderful variety that is family history, also known as, how many rabbit warrens can you plunge down head-first in a short space of time? Some lovely news first. I have had the huge honour of being made an honorary life member of the Society for One-Place Studies. I am always very unsure what I’ve done when these tributes come my way, except for having been around for a very long time but I am very grateful. I will continue to champion the cause of one-place studies, as there is so much that you can learn by focusing in on a small area and for family historians, it is important to understand the environment in which they lived.

I’ve also had great fun creating an interactive workshop about researching rural communities and their workers. This is due for its premier on 30 August and you can book for a whole day of fascinating presentations with an agricultural history theme here. I shall be persuading some friends to practice this workshop first but I think we are going to enjoy ourselves.

I’ve decided to take a step across to look again at a branch of my children’s ancestry, which is also the family for which I have an, admittedly pretty much dormant, one-name study. So a few days have been spent with the Sweetingham family who include generations of seafarers and shoemakers who settled in the Hamble estuary near Southampton. An area with an interesting history, ripe for a one-place study I’d say but emphatically not undertaken by me. Repeats to self ‘you do not need any more projects’. Once you untangle the Hughs who like to call themselves Luke and the Henrys who call themselves Hugh, because they can, you are on a roll with this lot, helped by several wills. Mind you, two family members were in court for destroying a will but the odd criminal adds to the story. Although I set up Granny’s Tales for my own ancestry, I am tempted to start uploading stories of ‘the other side’ because they too need preserving. The Sweetinghams are currently a series of notes so don’t hold your breath.

I’ve also been sent a book by a fellow genealogist from the US, Cheri Hudson Passey. This is on the important topic of tracing forward and finding living relatives; what Cheri calls ‘Genealogy in Reverse’. This has always been a key part of family history research; who knows what nuggets of information, memorabilia or photographs those distant cousins may have? With the advent of DNA testing, we have another reason to trace forwards to try to identify those DNA matches that come our way, or maybe to find people to persuade to test. Although we live in an era when there is a whole plethora of documentation about every individual, it is also a world of privacy laws, mobile populations and an awful lot of people. Tracking down distant living relatives, especially those who want to remain hidden, is an art. Although Cheri’s slim volume (54 pages), entitled Genealogy in Reverse: finding the living, is written for the US market, much of it is applicable across the English-speaking world and in any case, some of our living relatives may well be outside the UK. I don’t have a price but it is obtainable from the Genealogical Publishing Company in Baltimore, Maryland, if you are interested.

Another picture to remind you that I live somewhere beautiful.