By way of a change...

THE PARENTS' WEDDING PICTURE

By way of a change I thought I'd show some very old family photographs that were once shown on my Sepia Saturday blog.

CLOTHES MAKETH THE MAN! Just look at my Dad in his plus fours, is he a dandy or what? For an exceptionally quiet man he had remarkable dress taste. His Sister, my Aunt May, seemed quite comfortable to be standing next to him.

According to Wikipedia: Plus Fours were described as an "extravagant, careless style that fit right in with the looser fashions and lifestyles of the 1920s" Plus Fours are trousers that extend 4 inches (10 cm) below the knee (and thus four inches longer than traditional knickerbockers, hence the name). As they allow more freedom of movement than knickerbockers, they have been traditionally associated with sporting attire from the 1860s and onward, and are particularly associated with golf. My Dad never played golf.

Women will be Men! Or put it another way, they like wearing the trousers! That's my Mom on the right, with Auntie May.

Same two, t'other way round. At least one got back to normal dress!

THE GRANDFATHERS

My father's father, Grandfather Harry, was an artist, carpenter, cabinet maker, father of six, and from all accounts a sexual harasser. However, as this is a public blog I won't disclose the details. My father got his love of woodwork from Grandfather Harry and my only regret is that I didn't have a brother who could continue the line.

Grandfather Harry started a family scrap book to which all family members contributed, There were sketches, paintings, photographs, and writings, each one lovingly displayed on it's own page with a flimsy protective leaf to preserve the item. My father was the keeper of the scrapbook but it mysteriously disappeared when he died.

The family was deeply upset over the loss. One or two pieces remain, found amongst a bag full of loose photographs, some cut to size, all with ageing sellotape marks where they'd been stuck elsewhere. It is thought they were taken out of the scrapbook at some time and simply cast aside. This snippet was definitely a Grandfather Harry offering since it was signed by him. Isn't it sad that something so old and at one time precious should have been treated in such a way… the following being one of them.

Next picture is of my mother's father, Grandfather Smith. Nothing is known about this man except that he was my grandfather and father of eight. He was rarely talked about and I don't recall him ever being referred to by name. My Mom left home at eighteen and went off to be a nurse. She was ashamed of her large and very poor family and seldom kept in touch. All contact was discouraged ... if it hadn't been for my Dad I would never have met any of the relatives on mother's side.

The photograph shows grandfather as a serving soldier in the first world war.

This picture, mounted on card, was issued by the Royal Family and given to servicemen.
At least, that's the story I was told.

DAD'S SIDE OF THE FAMILY

Grandfather, Grandmother, and six children

Grandma with the three eldest, George, Elsie and May, none of whom are still alive. In fact, out of the six only two remain.

Grandma with the baby of the family, Uncle Norman, who was 20 years younger than my Dad. I was born seven years later

Grandmother and me ... Oooops sorry, that's the wrong picture

This is Grandma and me. Sweet or what!

Grandma was a staunch Methodist and belonged to an organisation known as Christian Endeavour. I think this must be the same Christian Endeavour that started in Portland, Maine, in 1881. She always wore a badge with the initials C.E. which I used to think were her own since her name was Charlotte Eliza.

That's it, life history in pictures. As for my Mom's side of the family, very little is known, not even a picture to gaze at.

SEPIA SATURDAY - ARTISTIC TALENTS

Aren't old photographs fascinating? This is my Mom and Dad's wedding picture. Dad was the eldest of six, the last was yet to be born. Look at the outfits worn by granddad and grandma on the left. And don't they look happy? Only the best man had a smile on his face ... perhaps he knew something they didn't. Here's a more modern one, taken when I was a child. The rest of the grandchildren came later. I've added the names for ease of identification.

And here's Mom and Dad on their own, you can tell by the style of photograph that it's an old one

Whatever the character of the photographs, they elicit forgotten memories that are worth savouring. Here are some of mine for your amusement.

My family on my Dad’s side was both musical and artistic. Starting with my grandfather who ‘played piano by ear’ the family members developed their own form of music, playing the piano, dancing or singing. Most were artistic … woodwork, craft-work, art or dramatics. Only now, as I look back, do I recognise the surfeit of talent in the family.

In view of the fact that I was a downtrodden child, with a mother who offered no praise or encouragement and constantly reminded me to know my place, speak when spoken to, and what will neighbours think when they look at you? (referring to my habit of leaving coats undone) I went through life thinking I had neither appeal nor aptitude. Only now do realise I wasn’t too bad at a lot of things, especially craftwork and writing.

My Dad was an artist, too, but although he was good at drawing his imagination and creativity was not with the arts. He was a whiz with wood. By trade a carpenter and joiner, if there was wood to be turned he was your man. He loved to surprise Mom and me, doing things in the home when we were out. New bits and pieces would appear. I particularly remember door handles, big and extraordinary works of art that were the talk of the neighbourhood.

As a child I was the proud possessor of a magnificent fully furnished dolls house, a dolls cradle, pencil cases, 3-tier needlework boxes, and a wonderful desk and stool, tongue and grooved to perfection. When I married he delighted in creating things for my new home, a radio stand that was an exact wooden replica of the bird bath, a cork topped, carved legged card table that was the envy of the family and fought over when he died. I still have the desk.

(Norman)

The youngest sibling, my Uncle Norman, was musical. I don’t recall him ever playing an instrument but he sure could sing. He had a fine voice that reached the rafters in church. From birth he was a sufferer of osteogenesis imperfecta, better known as brittle bone disease. Judging by his stunted growth you would not have expected him to have such a fine singing voice. He sang with a well known choir for years and was a popular member of an amateur dramatics group run by the church drama group. Nearly always the star of the show, people would ask if Norman had a part before they bought tickets. They knew they’d have a good laugh if he was in the show. He died two years ago, but his memory lives on for many folk.

(Florence)

Encouraged by Ann, Norman’s wife, who is acclaimed for her work with oils, Aunt Florence (see above) took up painting. She delighted in transferring images of her garden to paper, with which she taught me everything I needed to know about plant life. However, her special talent was marquetry, producing wonderful pictures from different types of wood veneer.

(Susan)

Three Scottish cousins played in the National Youth Orchestra, but the one who shot to fame was Susan: noted concert pianist, writer, and pride of the family. She was the first girl to enter the music faculty at Kings College, Cambridge, and is to this day a joy to listen to.

My musical career (said with tongue-in-cheek) started when Mom sent me for piano lessons given by an elderly professor of music, at any rate he seemed old to me. I did quite well, gaining two certificates from the Imperial School of Music. The third attempt would have been a doddle if the examiner hadn’t stopped me playing, pointed to a random piece in the sheet music, and ordered me to ‘start again from there….’ That’s when I realised he knew I was playing from memory.

Reason?

I couldn’t read music … but my memory was fantastic.

Reason?

The Professor was a dirty old man. He would sit beside his pupils close enough for legs to touch. He liked to squeeze young girls’ thighs as they played.

I was very young and shy and scared of adults, always fearing what they would say. I couldn’t fight him nor could I tell my parents. Mom would just accuse me of lying. My immature brain decided that if I memorised everything I could get away from him faster, hence the discovery of fraud at my music examination.

In those days girls kept that sort of thing to themselves. I guess we were ashamed to admit, actually to put into words that a dirty old man was stroking their thighs. How embarrassing was that?

The stroking didn’t stop at the thigh. I remember my skirt being pulled right up and fingers tugging at the elastic round the knicker leg. I remember making the excuse of wanting the toilet in order to jump off the piano stool and get away from him.

I began to miss lessons, played truant, naively thinking no-one would notice. One day I caught a bus into town, whilst at home the police were organising a search party. Oooo the hiding I got for causing everyone so much worry! None of that ‘are you all right’ rubbish.

But that, as they say, is another story.

If you've enjoyed this.... please go and read the blogs of other subscribers to Sepia Saturday