A MOMENTOUS DAY - Part 1

If anyone has watched Heir Hunters on the television, they will have wondered whether there is anyone out there who might leave them an inheritance.  If they have already traced their family tree and feel fairly confident about its accuracy, they will have immediately dismissed the idea and got on with their lives.  But don't be in such a hurry to discount the possibility.

Not that we've ever had anyone unexpected leave us anything, but in this life there is more to be surprised about than money. 

We started to think about our ancestors several years ago and have managed to discover quite a bit of information about relatives who lived as far back as the 1600s.  It's a fascinating journey to make, but even more interesting when a name is unearthed that was previously unheard of.

My husband, Mick, has come across several of our own generation and we have so far met five of them. most coming to our notice through the Ancestry website's messaging board.  Admittedly, some of them are quite distantly related, but they are all connected in some way and meeting them has been a pleasant and enjoyable experience. 

The first was Eileen from Sunderland, a lady who had been a Reeve before she married.  We were eventually able to meet her and her husband, Brian, when we travelled north to the Sunderland Air Show in July 2010.

The next to be found was Steve and his email address added a clue.  It ended with  ''gibtelecom'', which stands for Gibraltar.  This was particularly interesting to us as we had spent quite a bit of time there when we were travelling in Europe whilst Mick was doing work experience for his Diploma in Horticulture.  Mick responded to his query and soon discovered that apart, from being distantly related, we had friends in common.  As a result we were invited to their Silver Wedding celebrations, which we were able to attend in November 2006

Maurice, a retired teacher, living half in Italy and half in Cambridge, came next.  An avid researcher Maurice and Mick exchange emails whenever anything new crops up.  They are both searching for a link which will take them back to the early 1500s.  In fact, Maurice came to stay overnight with us when we enjoyed a very pleasant evening.

In 2009, Peter left a message.  Living in Halifax, he had been brought up by his grandparents and turned out to be a second cousin. 

All of these had been from the Reeve line.  Relatives of Mick's mother, an Ivy Fenn prior to her marriage in 1944, were much more elusive.  Ivy was born in Great Yarmouth and never spoke of her background so it was hard to discover anything much about her ancestors.  It was believed that she was an orphan whose mother had died when she was a child and whose father and several brothers had been drowned at sea.  We visited Yarmouth and its library, looking for reports that there had actually been such a disaster, but could find nothing.  Official records were limited and Church records were non-existent because of floods and fire which had taken place destroying a great deal of archival information.  Mick understood that his mother had been brought up by a Mrs Simms and they had in fact holidayed with her, but memories of children are often hazy and our enquiries came to nothing.

A message from someone called Liz, was, therefore, was very exciting, especially when she turned out to be a full cousin on his mother's side - the daughter of an uncle, with a brother and sister and children of her own.  At the first opportunity, we drove to Yarmouth and met up with Liz and her husband, Alan.  She was able to show us where she had lived, but knew nothing about Mick's mum or Mrs Simms, although she had heard about a sister called Minky who was also known to us.  This name was a puzzle, but further research into birth records led us to think it must be a nickname as her age and parentage fitted with a more realistic birth name.   As a result of this contact and by obtaining other certificates from the Register Office in Lowestoft, we then discovered that Mick's maternal grandfather had not died at sea at all, but had in fact remarried and was still alive at the time of his mother's marriage to Jack Reeve in 1944.

Things had quietened down over the last couple of years or so, no-one new having turned up and research had fallen off to a new low, other things having taken priority in our lives.  Last Friday, therefore, came like a bolt from the blue.

As we all know, the weather has been appalling through June, and July isn't shaping up to be any better and so it was that on Thursday afternoon we had a flood warning.  It wasn't imminent and we didn't think too much of it, but by lunchtime on Friday water had started to come into the lane and within half an hour it had spread to about 100yds.  The Council arrived to deliver sandbags about this time and I became concerned that we might be stranded if the car was trapped behind it, so drove through a foot of water and parked it in a safe place.  We lost our car in the 2007 flood and I didn't want to go through that again.  By 4 o' clock, the Environment Agency had arrived with another pump and by 8 o' clock the lane was clear. 

As is usual during such events, the telephone started ringing with friends and relatives enquiring if we were all right.  First my sister, then our son and then Mick's sister.  Whilst we are on good terms with all our families, Pam is not a regular caller, so I was surprised to hear from her, but as Mick was outside doing his King Canute bit, trying to hold the water back, I assumed she was ringing to check we were OK and told her we were fine.  But that wasn't the reason for her call.  "Do you know if mum worked in munitions in Derby in the war?" she asked.   I said I thought it sounded familiar, but would have to ask Mick.  "Why?" I asked.  "Well, I've had a letter from a lady, saying her husband was adopted and has discovered his mother was an Ivy Fenn."  I still don't know how she had found Pam, but as Mick is the keeper of the family archive, she had rung to get his opinion as to whether this could be the same Ivy Fenn who had married Jack Reeve.   Mick was able to confirm that their mother had worked in munitions in Derby, which led to the realisation that in all likelihood a half brother is waiting in the wings to be introduced to the family.

A telephone call to Brian later that evening seems to have further confirmed the possibility and a date is now being set for a meeting. 

With the water pumped away, Mick brought the car back on Friday night and, lo and behold, the water was back by 5 am on Saturday morning and the pumps were eventually brought back  and worked well into the evening.  Fortunately the river was on its way back down by then and we found ourselves free of it on Sunday morning.  Relief for us then.

But I can't imagine how Brian feels at this moment in time.  He will be 71 years old and has lived all his life with no knowledge of parentage or the possibility of  blood relations.  He will never know his father, but perhaps now he will come to know something of his mother and her family.  Mick is the eldest of five so has nothing to lose and everything to gain in such a meeting.  It perhaps also explains why his mother was so reticent about divulging her past.  Perhaps she had kept knowledge of this baby from her husband.  Perhaps, although she had five more children, she harboured this secret for the rest of her life, unable to share her sorrow.   Who knows, but how sad if it's true. 

There's no money involved, of course; we're not heirs to a fortune; and we hope it all turns out well in the end, but in the meantime we look to the future and the promise it holds for all of us.

9 July 2012

NOW FOR SALE ON AMAZON

TWO  LIVES

by

ELIZABETH  REEVE

An autobiography relating the special relationship between a mother and her son.

Liz was born into a loving Christian home and lived that life-style for many years.  Trained as a secretary, she embraced socially responsible roles through parent-teacher associations, playgroups and other committees.   

In 1988, she became Secretary to the Council for Social Responsibility of Derby Diocese as well as to The Padley Group, a homelessness project involving residential and day care.  A few years later, she was instrumental in setting up a drop-in centre in Belper.

In 1994, she completed a three year, part-time Diploma in Theology and Pastoral Studies at Nottingham University and in September 1996 began a year-long journey in a motorhome around Europe whilst her husband, Mick, worked as a volunteer in chateaux and botanical gardens - the second year of a Diploma in Horticulture.  Returning in September 1997, she and Mick began six years as Camp Site Managers with the Camping and Caravanning Club.  She has now been retired for several years, but having returned to her birth place now acts as Secretary to the Don Gorge Community Group based at Lower Sprotborough, near Doncaster in South Yorkshire.

Her son, Michael, was born in 1967.  His childhood exhibited signs of independence from an early age and his non-conformity to the usual principles expected of young children carried on into his teenaged and adult years.  Whilst being loving and caring to his family and in many ways adhering to good ecological values, he had a side to his personality which ultimately led to the road to self-destruction.  Leaving home at 16, he eventually travelled to Spain where an early indulgence in drugs gathered momentum.  In 2000, he and his partner, Mary, returned to England, leaving Mary's daughter, Cara, behind in the care of the Spanish Social Services.  After an initial attempt to become clean of drugs, they were again sucked back in and, when Mary died, Michael went into a downward spiral, ending up in intensive care for seven weeks before once again beginning the road to recovery.

A story of love, patience and hope offered as a lifeline to those in similar circumstances.

ALSO

A YEAR ON THE ROAD

A small book of theological reflections written during a year travelling round Europe in1996-97. 

FRUSTRATION

The word frustration comes from the verb 'to frustrate', but the two words describe different things.  The act of frustrating suggests that outside forces are at work, whilst the word frustration has more to do with feelings and sensations resulting from being frustrated.  On a personal level, of course, one can be the outside force doing the frustrating and causing others to feel frustrated, but one can also be the one suffering frustration. 

It's all to do with power or who has the power in any given situation.  If one is doing the frustrating, then one is holding the balance of power, whilst if one is frustrated, one is made to feel powerless.

The consequences of holding power can be quite traumatic, sometimes on both parties.  For instance, if a toddler's will to do or have something is frustrated by the parent, the result can be a tantrum of colossal proportions, causing embarrassment and humiliation; if a criminal is thwarted, there may be a violent response; and if a business man's goal is unfulfilled, he may seek retribution.  Regardless of these responses, it is sometimes necessary to make such a stand. 

In these and other cases, the reactions of such children or people indicate something about the personality of the person concerned and, whilst reactions may be less personally aggressive, there is no doubt that at the very least resentment will be felt towards the perpetrator and grudges may be held for years. 

Frustration may, however, have an inanimate cause and the personality trait suggested in these cases may be due to a lack of patience, though the lack of efficiency or common sense by others may also be a cause. 

Most of my own frustration comes from these causes.  My computer, for instance, either wants to do too much for me or too little.  It corrects my grammar or the numbering and placement of my paragraphs when I am perfectly happy with my script, but can't keep up with my typing speed and then misses out letters or words.  The internet is far too slow in responding to my commands and Google has just changed my email page so that I can neither  see what it says because the print is too pale and - well, it's just too complicated to explain!  My mobile phone is another cause of frustration in that I never hear it when a message or a phone call comes in and then the sender complains that I haven't replied!   I also expect people to know what I expect of them without having to spell it out.  If a tradesman knows his job, why do I have to explain every detail of my problem to him or risk him making a hash of it?  If someone visits an area because it is particularly beautiful, why do they mess it up by leaving litter all over the place?   If I fall over my husband's shoes every time I go in the kitchen, why can't he put them away? 

Most frustrations are trivial and relatively unimportant in the great scheme of things, but small irritations, disappointments and unfulfilled ambition can build up until they are out of all proportion to reality - and who knows where they might end.

Liz Reeve

28.1.12

Writing Group Exercise

“ON READING” – With Apologies to Stephen King

Whenever I have been asked what my hobbies are, usually on a job application, “Reading” has always figured somewhere in the list.  I can’t remember ever being asked about this in interviews, but it apparently gave an impression of someone who at least could read and, hopefully, as a result had some intellectual capability. 

My reading for pleasure has, however, been sporadic.  I don’t remember reading all that much at school, even though I studied English Literature – Shakespeare and Keats for ‘O’ level, but for a period after school I became obsessed with Denis Wheatley and authors like Georgette Heyer.  I loved anything about the French Revolution, which we also studied for ‘O’ level and these writers filled the bill admirably.  Having been brought up in a strictly Methodist home, Dennis Wheatley’s satanic novels were also very exciting as well as being informative in a subversive sort of way.  I suppose it must have been during this period that I became intrigued with spiritualism and séances.  I had an aunt who lived near London who was a spiritualist and used to talk to Charlie, her dead husband, and ask him to help her if she was doing a particularly hard job and she used to go somewhere in London to services from time to time.  She must have been quite unusual in our family, though, as we were always given to understand that it was wrong to try and contact the dead.

After I was married, I read books which were a bit ‘heavier’, “Michel, Michel” by Robert Lewis was the fascinating story of a Jewish boy rescued from the Nazis who was raised as a Catholic.  It’s easy to imagine the moral questions raised by that.   “Germinal” by Emile Zola was another that raised moral and social issues surrounding the exploitation of miners and their families in France.  And a third in a similar vein was “The Ragged Trousered Philanthropist” by Robert Tressell, a blatantly political novel which exposes capitalism as the real source of poverty, though his workmates wouldn’t accept this.  “The Bonfire of the Vanities” by Tom Wolfe, made into a film some years ago, was far superior in book form and is one brought to mind again by the greed of the sub-prime mortgage sellers which caused the credit crunch this time around.

Starting work again and looking after two young children must have hindered my reading somewhat as I don’t remember reading anything for a long time after that.  No doubt I read newspapers and magazines, but I suppose I felt I was reading enough at work whilst typing psychological reports and then theological papers.  I even wrote one or two contributions myself, but it was evident that my upbringing and the reading I had done in the past had influenced my interest in social responsibility and religious issues.

So, it wasn’t until about 1991 when I enrolled in the ‘Diploma in Theological and Pastoral Studies’ that I took up books again with any enthusiasm.  For three years, I read nothing but theological history and treatises, some interesting, some obscure and some enlightening.  Unfortunately, one might say, though that’s debatable, I also read what might be called books of a heretical bent – no pun intended!  For some reason, I tended to prefer these as they challenged my preconceptions and forced me to reconsider the beliefs I had held all my life to that point.  On conclusion of the course, I breathed a sigh of relief and again put books on one side whilst I worried about what I now believed and where my missing son might be.

In 1996, we set off on our year-long European adventure, but writing became more of a time-filler than reading, as I wrote my diary, letters to friends and “A Year on the Road”, my little book of theological reflections. 

Reading didn’t rise to the fore again until 2004.  By then, we had finished our six year stint working on camp sites, renovated our cottage at Lower Sprotborough and moved into a community which I had known intimately in my childhood and youth, but which had moved on, with lots of new housing.  Most of the people I had known had either died or left the area and those who remained were strangers to me.   The church provided one gateway and I took it, but it wasn’t enough so I joined a reading group at Balby Library, where I stayed for two and a half years.  It was out of my area, but the one at Sprotborough was full.  However, in 2005, a second group began meeting in the village and I jumped at the chance to join it.  

Seven years on, we have read about seventy-five books of varying quality, some challenging, but most falling into the category of what I would describe as easy reading, meaning you can get through them in a couple of days and forget what was in them almost immediately.  These offer little in the way of discussion at our monthly gatherings, though the social aspect remains enjoyable. 

Apart from this, I have read dozens of books that I come across in a variety of ways.  I love a good adventure, mystery or detective story, but reject all books that appear from the cover to be ‘light romance’.

Having read theology for so long, I have had my fill of that – at least for now, but am happy to choose religious novels which provide something relevant to think about.  One particular book in this genre stands out.  “My Name is Asher Lev” by Chaim Potok, is the moving story of a Jewish boy with a talent to paint which he feels compelled to master despite the hurt it might do to him and his people. 

I have also enjoyed “Naming of Names” and “The Tulip” by Anna Pavord, fascinating books about plants. 

Books about illegal drugs and prodigal children, for example “Wasted” by Mark Johnson and “ Pete Doherty: My Prodigal Son” by his mother Jacqueline, have also drawn me and encouraged me, though they provoke much sadness for wasted lives.

In more recent times, I have read books suggested by a friend: “Katherine Swynford” , mistress and later the wife of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, by Alison Weir; “The Big House”, the story of  Sledmore in the Yorkshire Dales by Christopher Simon Sykes; and “The Inheritance: The Story of Knole and the Sackvilles” by Robert Sackville-West.

Unfortunately, the books I enjoy most and might suggest for the reading group are not ones that are available in larger numbers and so it remains for me to read them on my own and hesitantly offer them to others as worthy of their consideration. 

My latest historical batch includes titles such as, “The Battle: A New History of the Battle of Waterloo” by Alessandro Barbero and John Cullen, which satisfied my interest in the Napoleonic War; “The Time Travellers Guide to Mediaeval England” a fantastic journey into the 14^th century, by Ian Mortimer, “Foreign Devils on the Silk Road” describing the adventurers of the early 20^th century who battled the deserts and all sorts of hardships to bring home the treasures of the east, only to be castigated at the end of their lives by their colleagues, by Peter Hopkirk and “We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families”, the horrific story of Rwanda’s genocide in 1994, by Philip Gourevitch.

I found all of these gripping stories of real events to be both well-written, well-told and worthy of much wider consumption than is possible with so few copies on the shelves of libraries available for reading groups. 

As a member of a writing group, I hesitate to say that books are being dumbed down, as any reading is better than none, but it’s sad to think that those which uplift and inform in an intelligent, well-written way get the poorer deal. 

Liz Reeve

January 2012