Family Things
I just watched Stephen Fry on "Who Do You Think You Are?" tracing his family tree. I've always liked him, and I think even more highly of him now I've seen how he responded to the sad stories of parts of his family. Some of his relatives died in Auschwitz, his own line surviving only because one of them got a job in England.
There are moments in family history when it hits you how many people have had to work hard and beat the odds for you to be around at all. I often think about Mordecai Lawrence, working as a miner all his life and encouraging his children to work hard at school, doubtless hoping they would have a better life. When I saw my Nana's marriage certificate, showing that she had signed and that her father Mordecai had made his mark, I wondered if he watched her sign and was proud that his youngest daughter could read and write. I'm sure he was. I wonder what he thinks now, seeing my mother able to read the Bible in the original languages, watching her go out preaching in churches very like the one where he worshipped.
He and Sarah Jane lost most of their children. Their lives were hard. Life in a mining village was back-breaking labour and illness and injury and most generations knew the next generation would follow them down the pit. Yet Mordecai was an optimistic man, a good man too. I often think he must have been very pleased when his little girl married gentle George Tucker. He and Mordecai were two of a kind.
George died, saving someone else, of course. Laurina was a young widow. If he'd died sooner, none of my family might now exist. My life seems more miraculous every time I delve into the family history.
Thankfully, Auschwitz has no direct link to our family, though my Great Uncle Roy did take up with a woman whose husband and twins had died in a concentration camp. I understand, though, how it feels to see harm done to your family. You get attached. These things matter, even so long after.
There are moments in family history when it hits you how many people have had to work hard and beat the odds for you to be around at all. I often think about Mordecai Lawrence, working as a miner all his life and encouraging his children to work hard at school, doubtless hoping they would have a better life. When I saw my Nana's marriage certificate, showing that she had signed and that her father Mordecai had made his mark, I wondered if he watched her sign and was proud that his youngest daughter could read and write. I'm sure he was. I wonder what he thinks now, seeing my mother able to read the Bible in the original languages, watching her go out preaching in churches very like the one where he worshipped.
He and Sarah Jane lost most of their children. Their lives were hard. Life in a mining village was back-breaking labour and illness and injury and most generations knew the next generation would follow them down the pit. Yet Mordecai was an optimistic man, a good man too. I often think he must have been very pleased when his little girl married gentle George Tucker. He and Mordecai were two of a kind.
George died, saving someone else, of course. Laurina was a young widow. If he'd died sooner, none of my family might now exist. My life seems more miraculous every time I delve into the family history.
Thankfully, Auschwitz has no direct link to our family, though my Great Uncle Roy did take up with a woman whose husband and twins had died in a concentration camp. I understand, though, how it feels to see harm done to your family. You get attached. These things matter, even so long after.