It seems odd to keep writing this blog. I have no idea if anyone still reads it, though I do broadcast many of the posts for all to see on facebook. What seems stranger though, is that I started this blog as part of a community of blogs.
At first I started at Brittney Lenhoff's(now Strange, though she was strange back then!) urging, along with Danny Temlett and I think a few others. Then more and more people came along. Andy Moll, KC Clark (now Wyse, though again she was quite wise back then too - appropriate names eh?), Sarah Toth (Shank), Angie King (Bryan), Danny Kwon, Kevin Hawley, Ryan Hawkins, Ashley Van Gelderen, Woody etc etc etc. The list could go on and on.
Many of those dropped away over time, but for a long while at least there were a cluster of 'bloggers' that kept up with it all, read each others posts etc. Andy Moll was on one. Kat Scofield another. Sara Treece (now Graham, but still treece!) also kept up with a blog, and infact still does.
Now though, its a dead world for my blog. Its a quiet place devoid of community. I'm sure it seems odd writing about this on my blog (not least if its as dead as I say!) but it occured to me before that just as i've moved out of incredible community in the real world, so my blog has survived through into a point were its probably one of the few still being updated. The parallel struck me I guess!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Painted her letters...
I spent part of this evening down at my great aunt's house looking through a host of papers, documents and other bits and bobs that make up a great treasure trove of history that document part of my family history. I've had a few such evenings of late and each visit produces a few great little surprises.
Tonight came the realisation that Ed (my great aunt) has been living in her current house for 65 years, as confirmed by the orignal property deeds. Her dad (my great grandfather) purchased the house with cash for a grand sum of £400 way back in 1944. The family moved in in June 1944, with World War II raging around them, and Ed has been there ever since. I find that incredible, especially in a world in which there seems so much fluidity of movement.
Other documents that came up were a little more sobering. There was the doctors report on my great uncle Bob (Ed's brother) and his need to have a portion of his leg amputated when he was a young lad, closely followed by a court settlement which awarded him £1000 (this was back in the late 1920s so must have been quite a large sum of money) because of said amputation. I also found receipts for funeral expenses and tax adjustments related to family deaths. In a sense this opened up a little more of a world that I have heard much of in passing (conversations between various family members who knew all these folk) but knew so little of, being born after many of them had passed away.
In the midst of these more official documents I also found two pages of a letter written in old Lancashire dialect which, while interesting in itself, led on to a debate between my Mum and Ed as to who it could belong to, one option being my Nan (who passed away a few years back). Although it was decided she probably didn't write the letter, Ed recalled something that my Nan's work colleagues used to note about her letters - that she 'painted her letters' - meaning I think that they were so well written and phrased that they were more a work of art than communication.
I like that phrase - painting a letter. I know its tremendously arty in its expression but its also quite thought provoking in the sense of inspiring a change in your own letter writing style.
Tonight came the realisation that Ed (my great aunt) has been living in her current house for 65 years, as confirmed by the orignal property deeds. Her dad (my great grandfather) purchased the house with cash for a grand sum of £400 way back in 1944. The family moved in in June 1944, with World War II raging around them, and Ed has been there ever since. I find that incredible, especially in a world in which there seems so much fluidity of movement.
Other documents that came up were a little more sobering. There was the doctors report on my great uncle Bob (Ed's brother) and his need to have a portion of his leg amputated when he was a young lad, closely followed by a court settlement which awarded him £1000 (this was back in the late 1920s so must have been quite a large sum of money) because of said amputation. I also found receipts for funeral expenses and tax adjustments related to family deaths. In a sense this opened up a little more of a world that I have heard much of in passing (conversations between various family members who knew all these folk) but knew so little of, being born after many of them had passed away.
In the midst of these more official documents I also found two pages of a letter written in old Lancashire dialect which, while interesting in itself, led on to a debate between my Mum and Ed as to who it could belong to, one option being my Nan (who passed away a few years back). Although it was decided she probably didn't write the letter, Ed recalled something that my Nan's work colleagues used to note about her letters - that she 'painted her letters' - meaning I think that they were so well written and phrased that they were more a work of art than communication.
I like that phrase - painting a letter. I know its tremendously arty in its expression but its also quite thought provoking in the sense of inspiring a change in your own letter writing style.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Gladstone and Derby
I've been reading a book about Gladstone and Disraeli recently (both former British Prime Ministers in the Nineteenth Century) and its been eye opening in a variety of ways.
One of those eye openers has been the realisation that for a period of the Nineteenth Century the North West of England was something of a powerhouse of British and, as a result of the British Empire, global politics.
Largely that was the result of two men. One the one hand there was the Earl of Derby, a member of the Stanley family who resided at Knowsley Hall (now best known for its safari park), member of Cabinet for many years, and later held the title British Prime Minster on a number of occasions.
On the other side was William Gladstone, a leading member of both Conservative and Liberal governments who in his later years became MP for South Lancashire, a constituency that held at its centre, Liverpool, Manchester and most of the towns inbetween.
To suggest that they alone held power in the UK would be false - certainly the monarch and establishment was much stronger than it is now, not too mention a House of Commons and Lords that seemed far more capable of reeling in the singluar personalities of the Cabinet - but they did carry a great deal of poltical clout and it was very much rooted in the North West.
Examining that state of affairs from the North West of England in the Twenty First Century is a sobering reminder that all power is fleeting and to think that the current status quo will remain is at best short sighted.
One of those eye openers has been the realisation that for a period of the Nineteenth Century the North West of England was something of a powerhouse of British and, as a result of the British Empire, global politics.
Largely that was the result of two men. One the one hand there was the Earl of Derby, a member of the Stanley family who resided at Knowsley Hall (now best known for its safari park), member of Cabinet for many years, and later held the title British Prime Minster on a number of occasions.
On the other side was William Gladstone, a leading member of both Conservative and Liberal governments who in his later years became MP for South Lancashire, a constituency that held at its centre, Liverpool, Manchester and most of the towns inbetween.
To suggest that they alone held power in the UK would be false - certainly the monarch and establishment was much stronger than it is now, not too mention a House of Commons and Lords that seemed far more capable of reeling in the singluar personalities of the Cabinet - but they did carry a great deal of poltical clout and it was very much rooted in the North West.
Examining that state of affairs from the North West of England in the Twenty First Century is a sobering reminder that all power is fleeting and to think that the current status quo will remain is at best short sighted.
Monday, November 02, 2009
'But its 60 pence?!?!'
I was just in St Helens buying a few odds and ends for various birthdays that are coming up and as part of that I ventured into WH Smith to pick up a card. On going to pay for said card, I realised that the amount of change I was going to recieve was pretty negligable and so before the lady on the till could give me the change I asked her to put it in a little charity box that was there.
What followed was one of those moments when you realise that you've done something that to the other person was unexpected, unprecedented, strange and perhaps even straight out bizarre.
The lady paused for a moment and then with her mouth open and her eyes widening, she fixed me with a stare that already conveyed everything I needed to know. She was no doubt thinking ' you must be mad' or 'strange' or 'a complete weirdo' who spends his money with ease and abandon.' Then she opened her mouth and said with a great deal of vigor and horror:
'But its 60 pence!?!?!'
Somewhat taken aback by this reaction to what seemed like a very small amount of money, I assured her that it was ok, that I knew and understood the implications of what I was doing. Still looking - for the lack of a better word - gobsmacked she very reluctantly agreed to put the money in the charity box at which point I left, contemplating the moment.
I relate this story not to even vaguely suggest that I am something other than a very poor giver(obviously I would hope!) but simply because the lady's reaction to a tiny amount of money really threw me. That it did so was as much because I generally find the staff of WH Smith in St Helens to be warmer and more friendly than many other places. Still, this was also the shop where I tried to take back a book of first class stamps that I had been incorrectly given (which had a value of £5 so it wasn't inconsequential) and was viewed as some kind of looney.
I dunno. I think its sad that they were so surprised about someone choosing to give 60p to charity.
What followed was one of those moments when you realise that you've done something that to the other person was unexpected, unprecedented, strange and perhaps even straight out bizarre.
The lady paused for a moment and then with her mouth open and her eyes widening, she fixed me with a stare that already conveyed everything I needed to know. She was no doubt thinking ' you must be mad' or 'strange' or 'a complete weirdo' who spends his money with ease and abandon.' Then she opened her mouth and said with a great deal of vigor and horror:
'But its 60 pence!?!?!'
Somewhat taken aback by this reaction to what seemed like a very small amount of money, I assured her that it was ok, that I knew and understood the implications of what I was doing. Still looking - for the lack of a better word - gobsmacked she very reluctantly agreed to put the money in the charity box at which point I left, contemplating the moment.
I relate this story not to even vaguely suggest that I am something other than a very poor giver(obviously I would hope!) but simply because the lady's reaction to a tiny amount of money really threw me. That it did so was as much because I generally find the staff of WH Smith in St Helens to be warmer and more friendly than many other places. Still, this was also the shop where I tried to take back a book of first class stamps that I had been incorrectly given (which had a value of £5 so it wasn't inconsequential) and was viewed as some kind of looney.
I dunno. I think its sad that they were so surprised about someone choosing to give 60p to charity.
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