To all my readers who celebrate Thanksgiving.
Happy Thanksgiving. Have a great day!
To all my readers who celebrate Thanksgiving.
Happy Thanksgiving. Have a great day!
Who can forget Back to the Future when he manages to totally rewrite history simply because he lets a sports almanac fall into the wrong hands?
Updating my family tree, I fairly regularly discover I have given people extra children, who belong to somebody else or have attached a census to the wrong person and totally rewritten their whole life. Pondering that somewhere in some alternate reality, an ancestor has suddenly found their whole lives in disarray, can be disconcerting. Perhaps they could avoid continually giving their descendants the same name or at least tack numbers(or better still their jobs) on the end of their names for the sake of some of we more challenged genealogists.
Then of course there is the issue of photographs. Is it to much to hope that somebody somewhere in the future will confuse my photo with that of Cindy Crawford, at least for a day? When I first started on Ancestry, I had happily added people with abandon from other people’s trees, watching enthralled as my tree had grown exponentially and the family members had climbed into the thousands.
(On occasion overlooking that there might be four people of the same name with the exact same date of birth etc, all of whom had different mothers or more challenging still the same poor mother).
Well, eventually having had my fun, I had been forced to go back to relieve these busy people of their additional offspring (among other things). This is reminiscent of some very famous criminal investigations which have found themselves swamped with data. I do think this might perhaps be a necessary stage but eventually somebody, somewhere has to cry,
“Enough!” and begin to methodically to sift through and fact check all the data.
My approach has been. “Ok I’ve had my fun but now what can I actually prove?”
It can be entertaining to contemplate my ancestors suddenly unburdened of the extra mouths at their table. For example James Panton, the Town Crier had presented me with just such a dilemma. I could only resolve the issue definitively(I hope) by delving into the newspaper archives and thus being able to obtain a date of birth for the Town Crier. Of course, there is obviously still room to be mistaken, causing some poor guy who has quietly spent his life working on a farm, to find himself making proclamations in the middle of Lincoln, simply because he shares a name and a year of birth, with a city-dwelling namesake.
By nature I am drawn to mathematics, where on the whole we can perform a calculation and obtain an exact answer. Logic puzzles have also given me many happy hours. However people have consistently refused to conform to mathematical formulas for my convenience, so exact conclusions have often remained elusive,
In the meantime. If you are reading this in the future, healthy scepticism of my research is ok. However please feel free to let it go, if you fear you may have confused my profile photo with that of a renowned super model.
I love newspaper archives. I have waded enthusiastically in when one of my youngsters had had a project on the Industrial Revolution. When I had studied this turmultuous period at school, I had found it dull, dry and uninteresting. Wading into The British Newspaper Archives had taught me just how wrong I was. Perhaps having children descended from the starving weavers who had marched in an attempt to save their own lives and livelihoods, had helped to bring it to life. I now view the word” weaver”(Links to actual footage of workers leaving the mills in 1901).with excitement.
The trouble with me and newspaper archives, is that I get really caught up, as if I am reading some great novel. I often skip straight to the end to find out the conclusion, before I can bear to read the painful bits in the middle.
It comforts me when I learn that an individual lived to a reasonable age and did not end up dying destitute in a workhouse. I was shocked to discover at least one family member who had died in the dreaded workhouse in the relatively recent past of the twentieth century. I love it when a story with an unpromising beginning, seems to end in a quiet, relatively comfortable old age-or as in the case of one individual I studied, they turn from a life of crime, to the more sedate pastime of prospecting. I guess I still seek the “Happily Ever After”. I love to read the glowing tributes to individuals who have struggled their whole life but who seem to have inspired love in friends and family. I remember a particularly touching episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where Ray decided to write his father’s obituary, while he was still alive. A sentimental story of Frank’s softer side emerges, when it is revealed how he had quietly showed affection to the children’s pet rabbit.
I have come across a few such deeply personal, touching obituaries and to me they are worth more than gold…
Death is more universal than life. Everyone dies but not everyone lives.
There is no greater legacy than learning that somebody has inspired genuine love and affection in those they have left behind.
Documentary about the historical films of Mitchell & Kenyon, who produced the film showing the mill workers.
Documentary about voices in Edwardian England.
I had never thought I would find a hospice a beautiful place. I heard the phrase today, “End of Life Care” and it had reminded me of watching my friend’s final bravely-fought battle. The brightest light in the whole experience for me was the hospice. So much was going on in my life at the time and yet whenever I had walked down to the hospice to visit my friend I had found peace.
It sounds odd to say I miss visiting the hospice but I do. It was a beautiful place. Not a place of sadness and death but a place of peace and even occasionally laughter. My friend was made to feel like the most precious, important person on the planet. I never saw one person treat her with anything other than kindness, dignity and respect.
At the time I had determined I wanted to write biographies for some of the patients. I did contact the authorities but that was as far as it had gone before the general “busy-ness” of life had taken over. Fortunately I had already put together the story of my friend’s family over the years- a deeply touching powerful tale. A story of Irish survivors of the terrible famine which had engulfed that country and had taken a million lives. They fortunately were also a family who had had the foresight to record at least in part, of the story themselves(written by somebody who had escaped The Irish Potato Famine as a child).
He described children as “mere animated skeletons”looking for food and men and women dying on the roadside and in the fields. He witnessed many harrowing scenes as Irish families were evicted from their homes, which were then burned. He had recounted these stories to his children and grandchildren, here in Australia.
This is believed to be the oldest known photo of a survivor of the Potato Famine.Here
Description of The Famine(from The Colonial Times, Hobart) 23rd October,1849.
An extract from a letter sent to the editor of The Dublin Evening Packet:
Her children got nettles.Showed me a bag about the size of a small pillow-case, full of nettles This took two children all the day to get so full. The poor people left few nettles about, and the children now often had to fight others for these! The way they cooked them was to boil them in an old broken crock ; and Whelan gave a small tinful of his meal,about one half-pint,to shake over the nettles.Her children and herself and her husband had no other food..
One story of how Irish came to Australia: Irish emigrants come to Australia
Assembling an intimate account of the family’s life in Australia had been relatively simple. Thanks to the wonderful free resource of Trove,(Please note Trove may still be a useful free resource, even if your ancestry is not Australian.) I had learned of their lives in their newly-adopted country in great detail. My friend had been able to present to her mother, whilst she, (her mother) had still been alive, those reports, some of which had touchingly named her mother, grandfather and great grandfather personally. I have had many moments of self-doubt devoting myself to genealogy but one of my rare moments of truly recognising the value of such research, had occured, learning of the memories, which had been jogged and the closeness which had been fostered, at least in part due to the sharing of a few newspaper articles.
Painting classes did not go well for me, I had actually managed to blow up an overhead projector among other things (needless to say I do not think I will become the next Rembrandt) but the one thing I did take away from the whole experience, was the discovery that my instructor, had also worked at a hospice. Up until that point I had had no idea that people might be given artistic opportunities in a hospice. I had never expected to find myself by visiting a hospice but I think in many ways I did. If anybody is trying to put together the story of somebody who is approaching the “end of their life”please feel free to contact me, I will attempt to help if I possibly can. I also cannot stress enough to record people recounting their story themselves(I found this example on Youtube). You will be leaving a great gift to future generations.
My stated goal of my blog was to bring family history to life and show its relevance to our daily lives. I believe the wounds of the past do not simply disappear, they perhaps continue for generation after generation. Edward Ball attempted to bring healing for those who had suffered as a result of his family’s five generations of slave ownership.
Every family has a closet full of skeletons, which it takes courage to face and unearth. Yet doing so may bring peace and closure to so many. When I have been faced with some of the more challenging aspects of my research, I have attempted to steal myself and dive right in. We all want to know about our family’s former glories and aristocratic connections. Facing possible wrongdoing and tragedy is much harder, however ultimately perhaps more rewarding.
This has been updated to include the outcome of the trial of Martin Luther Parkes, husband of Rebecca Frances Panton.
As is often the case with genealogical research, the task of researching John Panton born 1804 in Lincoln, has taken many twists and turns.My newspaper archive research, revealed early on that there was a James Panton, who was town crier(He was also a shoemaker by trade) in the Bail. Initially I had believed that John’s father James Panton(1786-1857) had been the town crier. However further research has proved to my satisfaction that John’s brother James Panton, was the town crier. James Panton the town crier, is described as having expired suddenly, having been cleaning out his pig sty. He had complained of feeling unwell and had died lying next to his wife in bed, aged only forty four.The death of James Panton, crier of the Bail would have made him born in 1805(from the Lincoln, Rutland and Stamford Mercury, 16th November, 1849.)
As he was born in 1805, this indicated that he was the brother of John Panton born 1804. Today I have been researching James Panton(1805-1849)from Lincoln, son of James Panton(1786-1857) and his family.
Investigating each of his children in turn has proven particularly fruitful and yielded yet another interesting court case. Rebecca Frances Panton(1843-1915), daughter of James Panton, the town crier had an eventful life.By 1881 Rebecca Frances Panton(referred to as Fanny) who is the second youngest daughter of James Panton, town crier, is living with her sister Sarah Panton and has clearly married somebody with the surname of Parks. Further research disclosed that Rebecca Frances(Fanny) Panton had married a young man, named Martin Luther Parks. This unusual name aroused my curiosity. A quick search of the newspaper archives revealed that Martin Luther Parks had been put on trial in September 1867, for having abandoned his wife and two children.Documents were produced to prove the marriage, however Martin Luther Parks had claimed he did not believe the marriage was valid, as he had been underage and had not had the permission of his parents. As revealed by later investigation, Martin Luther Parks’ father was a Methodist Minister called Robert Parks. He (Martin Luther Parks) was remanded in custody, as bail had not been paid. Later it was reported in The Nottingham and Stamford Mercury (September 13th, 1862) that the case had been discharged as he (Martin Luther Parks) had paid all expenses due and had undertaken to, “take his family off the books of the union”.
Martin Luther Parks can be found in California in 1896, working as an engineer. Records note that he comes from England.
By 1881 Rebecca Frances Panton and her children are living with her sister, Sarah Panton. Ten years later in 1891 Rebecca Frances Panton is described as the head of the household-by this time she has four children Robert, Eleanor(sadly Eleanor died in 1893, aged only eleven), Florence and Lucy and her sister Sarah is now living with her. Unsure how she has managed to acquire two more children, although all the children bear the surname Parks. I note that Rebecca has retained the surname Parks.
Rebecca made straw bonnets and is living at 33 Bailgate according to the 1892 Kelly’s Directory.
Rebecca lived until she was ninety years old, despite the hardships she must have endured as a lone parent, dying and being buried in Lincoln in 1915.