Family tree

April brings the ephemeral but spectacular display of blossom on the cherry tree in our garden.

I always take lots of photos of it, even though they are the same shots every year. I can't help it, the white blossom and green foliage against a fiercely blue sky look beautiful.

No apologies either for showing you this jacket again; I'm happy to be wearing the hell out of it.

 

It's as old as I am and still looking sharp. .

1960-70s David Butler by Pressler maxi dress - Second to None, Walsall

1960s Admyra jacket, sunglasses and bangles - charity shopped

Sandals - retail (sale)

I've been looking at old photos from my dad's side of the family, and finally got round to scanning some onto the computer.

(I've shared a few old pics and my thoughts on family before on the blog, here.)

This is Tuckey, the farm run by my great-grandfather Henry Monk in the 1850s.

According to the 1861 census, the farm consisted of 320 acres, Henry was married to Eliza with 3 children, and employed 8 men and 4 boys on the farm, plus a dairy maid, groom and nursemaid. 

This is William Readman Monk, the youngest of Henry's 7 children, born in 1871. He took over the running of Tuckey in the late 1890s. 

William and his wife Esther Curtis (the source of my name).

They had 4 children, the eldest being Norman, born in 1900.

That's my dad!

Norman and his brother Frank with their maternal grandmother, Anne (known by her maiden name as Granny Barton) in 1903.

I love this photo of Norman, Joan and Frank, around 1906.

Here are the family together in the early 1930s - siblings Norman, Joan, Rose and Frank with their parents Esther and William. Plus dogs.

 

Esther died in 1951, William in 1958.

Dad in 1932.

One things is clear from perusing the photos; they loved their animals.

There are endless pictures of cats, dogs, horses, chickens, pigs, and as seen above, even a domesticated fox (called Minnie). All the animals are named, in fact they have equal billing with the people. 

 

And yes, that is a dog sitting on a donkey (bottom right).

Dad and Rose...

and Joan riding sidesaddle.

They were part of the tennis-playing, hunting and point-to-point set, and loved their cars...

 

 

and motorbikes.

 

 

 There are holiday photos in Margate and Brighton;

 

Joan and Rose;

 

 

Esther striding down the prom (hope that fox fur stole isn't Minnie);

Norman on the beach in a suit and tie...

and off for a drink with his first wife Dorothy.

So what happened? 

 

Dad moved away from Tuckey when he married Dorothy (who died), but Frank, Joan and Rose never married and continued to live there. Dad and Frank ran the farm until it was sold in 1973. 

 

My mum's take on the family is that they had a high opinion of themselves and didn't think anyone was good enough for them; they disapproved of her when she arrived at Tuckey as a land girl, and were unimpressed by her marriage to Norman. I don't know if that assessment is correct, and I know you can't draw any major conclusions from photos, but the years preceding the war seem to have been happy ones. 

 

 

Mum, late 1940s.

 

We inherited these few photo albums when Rose died some years ago; there are no photos during the war, or indeed afterwards. It's as though life ground to a halt for them, apart from running the farm. 

 

But not for Norman; he married my mum and became a father in his 50s and 60s. Rather a shock to the system, I imagine.

Dad carrying me, 1965.

My sisters and I visiting Tuckey in 1965...

 

 

and 1967.

I have memories of climbing on the straw bales in the barn, and tracking down the various farm cats for a fuss (this one was called Tim). We'd clamber on the mounting block in the yard, and sometimes sit on one of the horses (which I seem to recall being a terrifying ordeal). Joan would come out of the house to give us a sweet or two while we were allowed to pick flowers from the garden to take home to mum, but we were never invited inside.

 

After the farm was sold, Frank, Joan and Rose continued to live together in a small semi, where my sisters and I visited them from time to time. Frank seemed to relish his retirement, and embraced foreign travel; Joan sadly developed dementia, and Rose became her carer. 

One by one, they died. 

 

For most of us, our legacy on this earth is short-lived; within two, maybe three generations, our personal histories are reduced to dates of birth and death, and a few photos. 

 

Too pessimistic? Maybe.

 

Still, a blog is a fantastic photographic archive, and if anyone in the future (my kids, their kids) wants to know about Granny Curtise, here I am, in words as well as pictures. 

 

 

 xxx

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

 

Mum and Dad, 1959

 
   My christening, October 1964.

  

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another's throats.

Charles and Fanny King, my mum's parents, late 1920s/early 1930s.

Ruth Dennis, Charles' mother (1850-1884).

She died when my grandad was only 3 years old.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don't have any kids yourself.

1907, gathering with field guns on a piece of land amusingly named Monk's Knob.

My dad is one of the kids, aged 7.

Middle sis cuddling me on my parents' bed, 1964.

 Me, 1965.

Familes, eh?

They're all pretty odd, in their own ways.

I don't suppose I am any more fucked up than anyone else, and I certainly don't blame my parents for whatever fucked-uppery I do exhibit. They did their best, as most parents do, with the resources (emotional, intellectual, economic, cultural) available to them.

In case you are wondering, my dad was 25 years older than my mum, he was technically a Victorian, born in 1900, and 64 when I was born. He died in 1980.

I didn't follow that old curmudgeon Larkin's advice about not having any kids myself, though it did take me a while to decide to do so.

Doubtless I am busily fucking them up, despite the best of intentions, but I'm hoping they will look back with affectionate compassion at their parents' foibles and follies. As I do.

 Sisters, 1965

Siblings, 2013.

My mum is quite the dark horse, she has taken part in an oral history project about her experiences as a Land Girl - you can listen to her here.

  

I don't think I am a shadow of my ancestors. Not in a Who Do You Think You Are? way. You know, when some actress finds out great-great-grandad liked to sing in the pub, and exclaims "That must be where my performing skills come from!"

 But I am the product of my upbringing. My parents, the times I lived in, my relationships, and my experiences, they all had an influence. However, I can make some choices, I'm not a passive recipient of the past.

 Oliver James' book, They F*** You Up, is a robust apologia of nuture and environment as the key shaper of personality. It's an interesting read.

 As a slight aside, I had a discussion about This Be The Verse with Seldom Seen last term.

He had been given a homework assignment to write a poem. The teacher had said the poem needn't rhyme, but that the subject should be something "nice", described in beautiful language.

SSK had his head in his hands. He didn't know what to write about, and was worried he wouldn't use the right words.

This annoyed me. Not him; the whole idea that poetry should be all flowery language, describing something beautiful.  So I showed him This Be The Verse. (We aren't worried about swear words in our house; just as long as they know not to say them at school. Or in front of Grandma.)

 I love This Be The Verse - it's provocative, funny, honest, angry, compassionate, daft, insightful. It references tradition and structure, but plays with them for comic and psychological effect. Simple. Clever. Effective.

(Edited to add; SSK eventually wrote a poem in which he imagined he was a boy gladiator, going into the ring, terrified, ready to fight for his life. His opponent? The seven times tables. I thought it was quite good! He obviously gets it from me....)

Look at Fanny's fabulous frock!

My recollections of my Grandma are of a quiet old lady. But by all accounts, she was quite the performer, a good singer and a great dancer. 

If I could meet her now, I think I would like her.

I hope she would like me.

xxxxxxx