Randy Seaver posted a new challange Saturday. I love the idea!!!! Here’s mine
I am from an old dog-eared book of poetry; a vintage crystal necklace; A cup of English Breakfast Tea brewed in my grandmother’s Brown Betty. No milk. I am from the house my father built on Tiffany Street and the path through the woods. I’m from the tune without the words, and where the twilight lives after the dark; That cardinal tapping at his reflection in the window…. I am from Ayn Rand, Edwin Muir, Enid Blyton, and James T. Kirk. From a handwritten letter. Turkey dinner At noon. Sandwiches at five o’clock. White bread. Butter. Mayonnaise. Always. From if the wind blows you’ll stay that way and don’t swallow grape seeds —they might get stuck in your appendix. I am from “Why?” “How?” And, “Who is ‘they’?” I’m from across the pond, shepherd’s pie, (…more)
Miss Phyllis Mary Collins (1915-2002)
Phyllis Mary COLLINS, my maternal grandmother was born in Northampton, Northants, England on 23 Mar 1915. She was the only child of William Collins and Violet Mabel Moyses and as such was doted on by parents who provided her with everything she could want that was within their means. William and Violet ran The George Hotel, a pub situated in Market Square in Winslow, Bucks, and that is where Phyllis grew up. Bell’s Garage was just across the way, and Phyllis caught the eye of Ted Turner, a charming chap employed there as a mechanic. Ted quickly fell under the spell of the vivacious, red-headed, daughter of the George’s publican, and the two were married at the parish church in Winslow on the 26th of January, 1938. Ted by that time had left his job at Bell’s and taken a position as chauffeur (…more)
(This post was part of the 103rd Carnival of Genealogy, hosted by Jasia at CreativeGene)
This blog is all about looking to the past. Lately I’ve been consumed by it: Chasing faint trails across a sea of distance and an ocean of lost memories. I’m thankful that I have the time and resources to pursue this passion, and I’m thankful that technology has bounded forward in immeasurably large steps during my lifetime, giving us unprecedented access to original records and making possible the kind of research that could once be done only at a snail’s pace with pen and paper.
Today though, I’ve been hanging around in the present where, more than just about anything, I’m thankful for the presence of my Mother, who isn’t as close in distance as I’d like her to be, but close in spirit and always just a phone call away.
A few years ago, on a sultry Tuesday morning in what may have been Maine’s hottest August on record, I was strolling down Water Street in Hallowell, doing a little antiquing with my Mother-in-Law. It wasn’t turning out to be a fruitful hunt, and we were withering in the heat and about to call it a day when I stepped into Love Joy Antiques and happened upon a small Flemish Art box with “Handkerchiefs” carved into the lid. I’d been collecting old boxes for some time and knew this would be an interesting addition. The wood and the hinges were in good shape, but the inside lining was torn and shabby. I set it aside, and we headed to Hattie’s to cool off and have some lunch. Afterwards we stopped in one more shop where I found a lovely collection of vintage hankies. This seemed like Providence. I purchased (…more)
I’ve just become a GeneaBlogger!!!! and I’m really excited because it’s opened up a whole new world of blogging inspiration for me. 52 Weeks of Personal Genealogy & History by Amy Coffin is a series of weekly blogging prompts (one for each week of 2011) designed as an opportunity to record memories and insights from our lifetimes and share them with our future descendants.
I think it’s a really interesting concept, so I’m starting this week with the topic of Home.
I grew up in the house my father built. And my parents still live there today. It was a smallish sort of house situated on a large, beautiful piece of land on a winding, country road in a small New England town. (It’s bustling suburbia now, but when I was young it seemed like the country.)
The property had apples trees, a babbling brook, and acres of woodland (…more)
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)