Tag Archives: Family history

An Early Start

Well, not early for a farmer, but anything before 10 am is early for me on a Sunday. I’ve made a few notes about what I want to do for the rest of the day and have sent an email to one of my cousins My patchy family history research, though deficient in many ways, seems to have contained a piece she needed to fill a gap. She, in turn, was able to correct something my dad told me. He was an extraordinary man, I know this because a journalist said it in a newspaper article about him, and we quoted it for years after. He wasn’t, however, a very reliable source of family history as his memories were often close to reality without actually being accurate.

I’m going to write my self-imposed minimum 250 words now and then get on with my list of thigs to do. It’s not that I don’t love all my readers, it’s just that when I get a good run of inspiration going I don’t love anything as much as getting it all down on paper. I have twelve notes made overnight and I need to get them fleshed out before they melt away. There is little so sad as a ghost of an idea, when you remember you had a brilliant idea, and thought of a great opening line, and find that it has slipped away as you came downstairs.

I now need fifteen words to finish off. It can be tricky when writing this sort of post – enough to show I’m still alive, but not enough to divert me. Expect me back later today when I need a change of pace.

Pictures are from our recent trip to Southwold, which was in the headlines this week – it will soon have no bank in town. This is part of a growing trend towards removing cash from society and making us all vulnerable to internet fraud. Cash is a security issue for banks. So is computer fraud, but they can make that our problem with a few subtle alterations to their terms and conditions.

More beach huts at Southwold

A Medal and a Brief History

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I bought a small parcel of medallions from eBay earlier in the week. I really only wanted one of them, and I would have liked them to be cheaper, but the drive to collect is strong and I ended up buying them. One of the items was a white metal cross awarded for attendance by the Preston Church Day Schools Association. It’s pleasant enough, though not really something I collect. There are two notable features about it, the first being the mark on the reverse of the lower arm.

At first glance it looks like accidental damage. White metal is an alloy of lead or tin used for cheap souvenir medallions and such things and is easily damaged. However, a second look reveals that the damage seems to have been done with a tool – I suspect a small hacksaw. It’s what we call a test cut in the trade, a cut inflicted on an item to check if it is silver or not. There was no need to have done this, as it clearly isn’t silver, but some people just do it automatically. Whether this is a flaw, or whether it adds to the story is something you will have to make your own mind up about.

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The other interesting feature is that it is name on the reverse – to Edward Valliant, who sounds like a character from Bunyan.

Due to the unusual name I can tell you that Edward Valiant was born and baptised in 1894 in the Parish of All Saints in Preston, the son of Richard and May Valiant of 46, Lady St. Richard was a Railway Porter. In 1911 there were three boys and two girls in the family and Edward was a cotton weaver. He appears, with a short break, to have worked in the cotton industry for a large part of his life (being listed as a cotton taper in 1939. At this time cotton was the major employer in Preston, and in much of Lancashire. His father was dead by 1911 and the head of the family was his mother, though his brother Thomas signed the Census form.

Edward served in the Loyal North Lancaster Regiment during 1916-18 and appears to have avoided injury in that time. He married in 1920 and 54 years later his wife, Lily, died. Edward followed her a year later. His address at the time was 219, Fletcher Road, the same as his 1939 address. It’s a two bedroomed terraced house, which is still standing. Lady Street, his previous address has been demolished and although All Saints Church survives, the area around it has been redeveloped.

Preston School Attendance Medal (Obverse)

He appears to have been slightly more fortunate than his brothers – Thomas had two children, was listed as “Incapacitated” in 1939 and died in 1949 at the age of 58. Stephen, also having two children, also lost two at an early age and died in 1953 at 60.

Sadly, though it’s possible to build a framework of the lives, it’s frustrating that this is all I can do from the records. I imagine he must have been generally happy as he stayed married for 54 years and never moved away from Preston, but I have nothing to back this up.

Day 36

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As I was leaving the shop today, one of the customers asked me what I was going to do for the rest of the afternoon.

“Well,” I said,”at the moment I’m trying to decide between sitting and watching TV with the gas fire on, or sitting by the gas fire watching TV.”

In fact, I did neither. I fell asleep by the gas fire with the remote in my hand. Julia returned home, gave me tea and biscuits, and described the research she was doing in some old family letters. She has just been sent some by an aunt who is clearing out and they cover things like her grandfather’s WW1 service as a tank driver and his time in hospital after being injured on the night of 14/15 November 1940 in the Coventry Blitz, when he was an air-raid warden. I know I have photos somewhere but don’t seem to have used them on the blog.

I made coleslaw and cheesy nachos for tea, which were tasty additions to the main part of the meal, which I subcontracted out. Yes, another takeaway. It will last for at least two meals under our new frugal regime. The coleslaw was red cabbage, spring onions, celery, pumpkin seeds, mayonnaise and lime juice. In other words, it was what I had to hand. The celery was starting to droop a bit and the lime was looking wrinkly, so it all went in. In dietary terms it’s not quite an antidote to a pizza, but at least part of the meal was healthy.

A bit more snoozing in front of the fire and a little light computer work completed the day.

I hope the header picture wasn’t too alarming. It’s a bit of a contrast to the last one, even though it’s only about. . .

Actually it’s probably 15 years ago. If the loss of colour and vitality continues the one I take in 2037 may well feature a handful of dust . . .

A Post that took a Week to Write

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I’m not sure whether to be happy or sad. Even after thinking about it for a week I’m not sure.

Last Sunday we laid my parents’ ashes to rest in a Lancashire churchyard. On the day I was glad that the weather was good, my knee held up and my 91-year-old uncle was well enough to be there. Since then, I have been thinking, and suffering mixed feelings.

They wanted their ashes to be together, and as they were married over sixty years that seemed fair enough. When I agreed to it, I hadn’t really assessed all the implications. My sister, for instance, has been looking after mum’s ashes for the last five years, which has always felt slightly uncomfortable. Dad died about 18 months ago and we have been waiting for a convenient time to meet, allowing for the various problems with lockdown. We were going to meet a couple of weeks ago but both my uncle and I were ill, so we postponed it.

They are in the churchyard in Chatburn. It’s next to the school where they met, and it’s the church where they married in 1952. The vicar officiated, and it felt serious enough, without being overly formal. This was particularly true when the vicar found the second set of ashes to be significantly heavier than the first and my uncle remarked, “That’ll be our Jim.”

The black stone on the right is the grave of my great-grandmother and great-grandfather. One of my aunts is also buried there and their son Bill is commemorated on the stone, although he is buried near Ypres. You can see it from the front in this post.

One day I should research the family history of the churchyard. I know I have at least three great grandparents buried there, two aunts, a cousin and now two parents. I’m sure there are more but I have to admit that I have never researched it or kept track of the fate of modern ashes.

It was a great day from the point of weather and views and the sense of a task completed. However, it was also sad, and raised some questions in my mind about the wisdom of delaying such things. I wouldn’t mind being buried with Julia, but I’m now wondering how fair it is on the people who have to carry out these wishes, as it does prolong the sadness. In the week leading up to the ceremony I did feel a lot of the same feelings that I had done in the week before the funerals.

On balance, I’m glad we did it the way we did, but times change and I’m going to have to think things through regarding my own ashes.

Julia’s dad had the right idea, I think. The neighbours planted a cherry tree as a present for Julia’s mum when she retired from volunteering in the village. One night after she died, Julia’s dad buried her ashes under the tree. Later, after several moves, he died, and the family was able to sneak out under cover of darkness and bury his ashes under the same tree. They are together, but there wasn’t the element of delayed sorrow I had with mum and dad.

Meanwhile, if you are ever in Chatburn, and you might be one day if you ever feel the urge to visit Pendle Hill, do call at the Brown Cow for lunch. I had the best steak pudding I’ve ever had and my sister’s cheese and onion pie looked excellent.

The church. Another uncle Bill is on the war memorial. He never lived in the village but my aunt did and had his name put there. He is also listed on the West Witton war memorial, where he lived for some years with his grandparents. If you research memorials you will often find cases like this.

They are now buried in the walled off section at the bottom of the churchyard and are, as the vicar said, part of the history of the village. If you look across the Ribble Valley the hills you see in the distance are the Forest of Bowland. If you could see over the ridge you would see Slaidburn, a village we have already visited in the blog.

Random Jottings

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I’m not quite ready to report on Sunday in its entirety, though I will get round to it in a day or two.

The driving went OK, helped considerably by a knee brace. I suffered a little last night, but the knee recovered as I slept and wasn’t too bad today.

Had my dressing changed this morning and progress is looking good – new skin forming and I’m hopeful that another week should see things just about healed.

Then I had a pneumonia vaccination, which was a surprise, as I didn’t think I could have one until I was 65. It’s always nice to get something for nothing.

Went to work and did another half day without a problem. Planning to do full days on Thursday and Saturday.The return to work is going quite well.

Adjusted my seating arrangements at home. I’m no longer putting my leg up, but this puts less strain on my knee, so it’s a good trade off. I have a telephone consultation booked with a physiotherapist on Friday to discuss this further.

The return to writing is not progressing quite as well as I had hoped, but it is progressing, even if it is very slow.

Asked my uncle about the day the school was bombed when I saw him on Sunday. It had occurred to me that although I knew my Mum had been there, my uncle and one of my aunts must also have been there. He was there, so I have another note to add to the family history.

Number One son reports that he is a little stiff from doing the Great North Run yesterday and that his time was in the top 5.000. As I’m a little stiff from just sitting in the car, I wouldn’t mind swapping with him. I’d be happy to be in the first 50,000.

Tried a few photos when I got home, but mostly blurred by a mix of wind and poor photography.

Teasel

Research and Responsibility

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No, not a review of one of Jane Austen’s lesser-known offerings, just some thoughts on family history and similar research.

It can all be summed up by the case of my great-great-great uncle Moses. According to the Blackburn Standard of Saturday 16th February 1884 one Moses Gregson, a stone mason, was up in the Borough Police Court for using threatening language to his wife Margaret the previous day.

It may very well be a tale of domestic violence, but on the other hand it may be the story of a family man (or lovable rogue) who took an uncharacteristic drink and ended up in deep water. He was also fined 5 shillings for appearing drunk in court the previous day, so I suspect that he’d been hauled into court by the police whilst still full of the drink that had caused the original problem.

The question is whether to tell people or not.

To modern day members of the family it’s an historical curiosity, but if you tell outsiders it could be a bit embarrassing. It depends on your sensitivity to such things, and though I’m no shrinking violet I do feel a twinge when discussing the story.

The embarrassment would rise, I feel, as you go back in the generations. My mother would have been very unhappy with me revealing it, and my grandmother would have been quite upset. My great-grandmother, who may well have known Moses as a child, is an unknown quantity.

She was born in 1879 and is the oldest member of the family that I knew personally. I really don’t have a clue how she would have reacted to me telling the world her uncle had been in court for drinking and using threatening language to his wife.

If she was still alive I may have been too embarrassed to even mention it to her. She in turn may not have worried about it at all as she had grown up with many things and taken them all in her stride.

This leads on to another example.

I have a small silver medal issued in 1919 to thank a railwayman for his service in the Great War, where he had served in Mesopotamia. He had two spells in hospital – once with fever and once with syphilis, which seems to have brought his service to an abrupt end. This article discusses venereal disease in the Great War if you are interested.

It’s slightly different to the case of Moses Gregson, as he isn’t a member of the family and I feel no embarrassment about it. I do, however, feel that family members who knew him may still be alive and it’s for them to talk about it (if they want to) rather than me. He was still alive into the 1980s and some of his old neighbours might still be around too.

It’s quite a can of worms when you start looking at it, and the choices are even harder when you’re trying to think of someone else and their reaction.

If something was mentioned in the newspapers in 1884, or in army records in 1918 should we talk about it openly, or should we worry about the possible sensitivity of other people?

Some Pictures of Slaidburn

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There were plenty of sheep about, as you would guess, plus a nice car park with toilets (because it’s a great centre for walkers. There was also a large gathering of Starlings and crows – mainly Jackdaws and a Blue Tit flitting about.

Blue Tit at Slaidburn

Starlings at Slaidburn

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It’s a lovely village in the right weather, though I’d hate to live here on a miserable grey day. I often think about that when thinking of my family working on farms round here, with rain and woollen clothing. They must have hated Autumn and Winter.

Door at Slaidburn

Jubilee horse trough at Slaidburn (1887)

George V post box – Slaidburn

Slaidburn

The pub in the pictures is the Hark to Bounty. In the late 19th century it was run by William Stead – blacksmith and innkeeper. He was there in 1871, married to my great-grandmother’s aunt, and died in 1893, leaving £808, which was good money in those days. In 1871 my grandmother was working for them, having come from Leyburn, about50 miles away. That’s presumably how she met my great-grandfather.

Hark to Bounty Inn sign – Slaidburn

Hark to Bounty – Slaidburn

Clitheroe and Family History

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We went to Slaidburn on Monday, taking the tree picture on the way. It’s a fascinating old village, which wouldn’t look out of place in a Harry Potter film (or a Hammer House of Horror film for those of us who remember them).

I’ll be writing about that visit in a couple of days.

Then we went to Clitheroe. It’s a pleasant small town not far from Pendle Hill, and it has cropped up a few times in recent posts, mainly as a residence for various members of my family. I used to enjoy visiting it when I was a child, though I have to say that I never noticed how hilly it was when I was younger.

It was a dullish day so I had a go with the effects on my computer – not sure if it’s worked or not. One of my early memories is of visiting the war memorial with my grandmother and being shown her father’s name on the side.

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War Memorial – Cliheroe Castle

Harry Carus – just a name on a memorial

Like so many others he’s just a name on a memorial now, I doubt if anyone who knew him is alive now.

Home of I N Carus

Clitheroe Castle

Home of the Carus family

Home of Eleanor Carus

These are various homes of the Carus family over the years. The one with the red car is where my grandmother was living with her widowed mother in 1917, and may be the one where the family photo was taken. The view of the castle is the one they would have seen when they stepped outside.

Harry Carus and family -1915

The house with the silver car outside is the one where all the family lived in the late 19th century – all nine of them!

The other one, with the box balls in the front garden, is where Isaac Newton Carus lived, before handing it on to one of his sons.

I have a lot more to do, so this is just the tip of the iceberg. It’s a strange feeling, seeing all these places where family used to live, particularly as I must have passed within 100 yards of one of them dozens of times without realising.

Another Day Away

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We stayed in Skipton last night and spent the day doing some Family History photography. The day was bright in patches, but by the middle of the afternoon, when we were at Clitheroe Castle, it was rather dark.

The trees in the main photo were an early find, while the sun was managing to break through.

The others are slightly less than sharp, but seemed too good not to use. Julia spotted the squirrel going through the bins as we left the castle.

Bin raiding squirrel at Clitheroe Castle.

There will be more on this trip later, but first I want to stick my feet up and have a cup of tea.

The Carus Brothers at War (Part 1)

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I just took out a subscription to an internet newspaper archive last week and the first task I set myself was searching for some family history. With one branch of the family it has come up trumps.

You may have heard some of this before as I have mentioned it and have used the photographs before. Sorry for the repetition but with new information, and it being exactly 101 years to the day since his death, I thought it was worth another post.

I have many common names in the family but am fortunate in having one branch with the name of Carus. To make things better, they come from Clitheroe – a small town with its own newspaper.

Harry Carus (1887-1916) was my great grandfather. When I started researching him I knew that he was one of a large family, that he’s on the Clitheroe war memorial and that he left a wife and three daughters when he died. He was a chapel-goer, Sunday school teacher and member of a self-improvement club called the PSA (I believe that’s Peaceful Sunday Afternoon). He joined up as a volunteer and, on his last leave before going to France, laughed when his irate wife discovered that the three girls had found, and mostly eaten, the special cake baked for his last visit.

It had been on a top shelf in the kitchen and my grandmother had climbed up the lower shelves like a ladder before passing down to my Auntie Peggie – second in age and partner in crime.

The Commonwealth War Graves Commission gives the information that he died on 10.10.16. He was a Corporal, aged 28, belonged to “B” Battery of the 180th Brigade
Royal Field Artillery. He was the son of H. A. and Margaret Carus, of 27, West View, Clitheroe, Lancashire and husband of the late Ellenor Carus.

This was during the latter, rainy, part of the Somme battle and was probably every bit as hellish as we imagine the First World War to be.

He has no known grave and is commemorated on the Thiepval Memorial, the iconic arched memorial that lists the names of 72,396 Somme casualties who also have no known grave. In a later post I may well come back to the phrase “no known grave” as it’s an interesting subject in itself.

As more details became available from the release of records I was able to learn a little more about him. He had four brothers and two sisters, worked for a grocer and his last known address is still standing. I have visited it using Google Maps.

The army medal rolls show that he went to France on 28.11.15 and is entitled to the 1914-15 Star, War Medal and Victory Medal. They spell his name “Carns”. His family was also given a bronze commemorative plaque and a scroll. On the subject of names, his wife was Eleanor, so even CWGC aren’t perfect.

When I searched the newspapers I was able to find the memorial notices posted a year after his death, and pin down a couple more family addresses. The family was still together in those days – the remarriage and death of Eleanor and the separation of the girls was still to come, as Harry’s death continued to affect them in the coming years.

I was also able to find a mention of his death in the “25 Years Ago” column, when it was noted that he had been in a gun pit with six others when a shell landed in it and killed five of them. Presumably this was what had been contained in a letter at the time of his death – my grandmother had always said he was hit by a shell that killed him instantly and left nothing for burial. It’s nice to have corroboration but I’m not sure it’s true, it was just what people wrote home to parents and widows to hide the truth.

That, in a nutshell, is the life and death of Harry Carus.

Roadside Poppies

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Life after the Care Farm