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

Pretty in pink. Isn't she?

This is pretty...

although my poor camellia has taken quite a buffeting in today's rain and high winds. 

 

 

And I do think she's very pretty. Beautiful, even. 

As for me, I'm loving my pinks this weekend, but pretty? Now, there's a question. 

 

I've been thinking about that word.

Pretty - of a person (especially a woman or child); attractive in a delicate, graceful or simple way, without being truly beautiful.

1970s Richard Shops* maxi dress and sandals - Ebay

1960-70s raffia bag and bangles - charity shopped

1970s pendant - vintage fair

 

* Any Brits of a certain age remember their 1970s adverts? 

"Richard Shops are filled with all the pretty things, soft and lovely pretty things to wear. Hey there, pretty thing, make the world a prettier place. Come pretty up, and buy your clothes from Richard Shops."

I think any word used almost exclusively to describe girls and women is worth questioning. 

 

Does being pretty matter?

I don't think I worried about it as a young child. 

 

Looking objectively (if that's possible) at old photos of me, I think I was quite a pretty little girl (I'm the smaller, fairer one in these pics). I certainly didn't feel a terrible lack of confidence or low self-esteem based on how I looked.

That came later, with adolescence. There are few photos of me from that time, I was horribly self-conscious and camera shy.

 

I did so want to be pretty. Pretty girls were popular and desirable. I knew I was clever, but I would have traded my good grades for being pretty any day.

 

 

1960s huge palazzo pants (cut down from an ill-fitting jumpsuit) - Ebay

Top, waistcoat, shoes, bangles and 1960s vinyl shopper - charity shopped

1960-70s Sheffield-made steel pendant - flea market

If conventional prettiness requires a lightness of touch, graceful girlishness, a delicacy or sweetness which we associate with childhood or youth, then I could never be described as pretty. My features are strong and heavy. And while that caused me heartache in my teens and early twenties, I eventually learned that prettiness is just one way to be attractive.

 

So how would I describe myself now? 

Well, it varies, but generally, I like to think I look striking. That is due in no small part to how I dress, of course. As my lovely friend Vix always says, a flamboyant outfit is a great distraction from blemishes or a bad hair day. Confidence helps too.

 

And Patti wrote a thoughtful post last year about the merits of the word handsome to describe women. Beauty may be out of my reach, but I hope for handsome!

While I am happy to describe my clothes, jewellery, prints and colours as pretty, I don't feel it's a word that has anything to do with me.

Looking through the family photo albums my Mum has lent me, I picked out this image of me as a child which I really like.

1969; I'm 5 years old. 

I look confident, possibly a bit arsey and challenging. I'm squinting in the sun (still do that),

 and probably wanted to get on with playing in the pool rather than pose for a photo. 

 

Not particularly sweet or cute, but that kid looks like me. And pretty or not, I like that kid. 

 

Pretty or not, I make the best of what I have, and I like that too.

xxx

Practically perfect

A busy week has come and gone.

I can tick off another solid week of Ebay sales, parents' evenings for two out of three kids, a night out with friends in the pub, and my yearly blood tests (the fasting kind - never does a cup of tea taste as good as the one I can finally enjoy after those bloods are safely in the vacutainers.)

Oh, and an interview to be a volunteer in a charity shop, but I'll tell you about that when I start. 

Looking blue, but not feeling it at all.

I was having a small tidy up around the house (a rare occurrence), and chuckling to myself at the state of my very disordered and not-at-all blogworthy home, in comparison with the oh-so-stylish and beautifully presented houses of many bloggers I know. 

I don't really have the art of display; my treasured objects are just slung on shelves, gathering dust as often as not, and the rest of the family don't even notice them.

But shall I show you a few of the bits and bobs around the place?

That's my old teddy bear giving you the side-eye. She (yes, she) is called Sally, she's about the same age as me, and she and the cat collection, the OBDs, and Mary Poppins and her giant bottle all jostle for space on the crammed bookshelves. 

Em gave me the tall and elegant blue cat on the right; my mate Jo gave me Mary Poppins, because she says Mary reminds her of me. Practically perfect in every way, obviously. Or maybe it's because the Mary of  P. L. Travers' books is rather strict and waspish... 

(I think Mary keeps her rum punch in that bottle.)

This 1950s piggy bank has somehow ended up with me; I used it as a child, but it's older than me, it must have belonged to my eldest sister originally.

It has no opening underneath, so to retrieve your pennies, you either have to break it, or hold it upside down, insert a knife in the slit on the top and jiggle it about in the hopes that a coin or two will fall out. 

Does anyone else remember doing that as a kid?

Another childhood treasure - look, you can see I wrote my name on it (Curtis - no "e").

It was a gift from my aunt and uncle, and the wooden box and cubes have a very particular smell; just opening it up transports me back in time to the 1960s. Olfactory memories are the most powerful and evocative, I find.

I adored those illustrations as a child, and still do.

Beate, they make me think of you and your gorgeous home.

 

That's my Uncle Robin and Auntie Leni on the left, who gave me the Goldilocks picture cubes. Leni (Helen) was German, I wonder if that's why she was drawn to those pictures? My uncle called her Lenchen, she was very stylish. 

There's my Grandma and Grandad on the right, and my cousin Charles, middle sister Sabena, and me.

It was 1966, and we were at a cousin's wedding. 

 

Same year - me (aged 2), Sabena (6) and Belinda (11). Sab's flashing her boobs, and Belinda's unimpressed. And there's my dad lurking in the background. Families, eh...

Although I don't really think of myself as a collector (hmm, a wardrobe bursting with vintage dresses might tell a different story), perhaps this shelf of pomanders is starting to resemble a collection!

Fiona kindly gave me the one shaped like a birdcage after I admired it on her blog, and Claudia gave me the small pink one in the middle.

Jacket, t-shirt, sandals, belt, sunglasses and bangles - charity shopped

1970s Debroyal maxi skirt - vintage fair

Miracle pendant - car boot

This weekend will be a quiet one, I think, although we are out for tea tonight as a Friday treat.

And the sun is still shining, we're having a beautiful autumn, so like Baby Bear's porridge, chair and bed, everything feels just right!

Have a great weekend, folks.

Linking to Patti's Visible Monday gathering as usual. 

xxxx