I’d like to introduce…

Edward George "Ted" Turner

Edward George Turner, known affectionately to his family and friends as Ted, was a kind hearted, gregarious, right jolly English gent, loved by all who knew him. He was born on the 27th of June 1911 at Blake Cottage, Horn Street in Winslow, Buckinghamshire, where his father was employed as head groom to Mr Gosling of Blake House.

And His Lovely Wife…

phyllis

Miss Phyllis Mary Collins, daughter of William Collins, publican of the George Inn in Winslow, which is where Ted met her one fateful day in the 1930s

The Thing About Family Lore....

frederick turner ruptured spleen

Family tradition holds that Frederick Turner, my British Great-Grandfather Leonard’s only brother, was killed in action in India during World War I. Adding charm to the story that I heard frequently as a child was the idea that Leonard, distraught over his brother’s death and wishing to honor his memory, decided to drop his own given name and assume his dead brother’s, both in day to day living as well as on legal documents. Although my Grandfather and his sisters never knew their Uncle, they did know the story of his heroic death and grew up thinking of their father as “Frederick” L. Turner.

The notes from my earliest attempts at recording my British genealogy reflect this family lore, however as my own research began to reveal more of the details of the Turner brothers’ lives, the accuracy of the story came into question.

I knew from my grandfather’s (…more)

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In the beginning

Jean turner 1938

For me, as I suspect for many, the tracing of my roots began simply,with a curiosity to know where I came from and a conversation with an older relative.  I was 13. A few hastily scribbled notes based on family remembrance  may or may not have proven to be accurate, but at least it was a start.

Although my English grandparents lived  a continent away and I saw them only once every year or so, they seem to have found my interest in the past somewhat entertaining, and were always willing to share another story, or dig out an old photograph or two.  Summer visits would invariably include a trek out to an old cemetary or, if I was really lucky, I could persuade Granddad to walk over to Delapre Abby and sit with me for an hour or two while I pored over old documents in the records office.

I took my (…more)

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