Oranges and Sunshine

The lights are dazzling on the Christmas tree this morning.  I sip hot coffee and sort through papers and bric-a-brac on the kitchen floor.  I don’t recommend painting walls right before the season’s celebrations.  It’s taking me an endless amount of time settling back in.  Everything, I’m certain, will feel fresh once I’m settled again.

Mornings like this, though, hold their beauty.  I like the nesting experience and I like the solitary moments, hanging with the border collie.  I can sing and sometimes dance, at will.

I decided to play a CD that was sent to me by my sister-friend, Linda Barns, over in London.  Some time ago, she attended an exhibition on my behalf, On Their Own: British Child Migrants at the V&A Museum of Childhood in London.

Some time before Christmas, I sat and cried through the movie, Oranges and Sunshine, a film about the migration of thousands of children from Britain to Australia.  Because I come from a family rooted in this same history, but as it is related to Canadian child immigrants, I feel a huge connection to the content of the movie.

The music I’m listening to as I write is titled The Ballads of Child Migration, songs for Britain’s Child Migrants.  They are beautiful songs written in recognition of this history.  Canadian descendants of British Home Children are continuing to look for similar accountability at every level and to see the events recognized in history classes throughout the provinces.

I try, as much as I can, to be positive when I write or engage social media.  We need, however, to be honest about our history, in order to avoid making similar mistakes again.  There are many atrocities performed by human beings upon other human beings.  This is one of those atrocities.  I suggest that my readers inform themselves on the subject, not for the purpose of blame, but for the purpose of recognition and reconciliation.

I think the movie is accurate in its portrayal of the events.

The music  that Linda has sent me is beautiful in a haunting way.  I love you, for this beautiful gift, Linda.

Kath's Canon, December 30, 2015 Linda's Gift 007Kath's Canon, December 30, 2015 Linda's Gift 006Kath's Canon, December 30, 2015 Linda's Gift 005Kath's Canon, December 30, 2015 Linda's Gift 004

My Great Aunt, Marion Ada Moors

I continue to piece together the sketchy lives of my ancestors and to get a greater vision of who my family was.  Even if I can explore our most recent generations, I will leave to my children, a sense of the strength and fortitude of our family.

As the oldest girl, I think that Marion Ada likely came to Canada early on, with John, although I haven’t had much luck in substantiating that.  She is late to get married, at the age of thirty, but I am very happy that this English lady found her Irish man and headed north to Muskoka.  Anyway, I will begin the construction of ‘what I know’ here.

John and Grace are living at 29 Hatfield Street when Marion Ada is born and baptized on January 21, 1872 at Christ Church in Southwark, Surrey.  John, at this time, is listed as a sawyer.

Marion Ada Baptism January 21 1872 Christ Church Soutwark SurreyPresent day Google Maps takes me to this pub at that particular location, so I imagine that an upstairs room of this building may have been the wee family’s abode.  I’m supposing this, but have no fact.Hatfields StreetI find her living with the family at 42 Princes Street, now Coin Street on the 1881 census.  Now, John is a grocer and owns a little shop.John and Grace Moors 42 Princess StreetHere lies the mystery…what year did Marion Ada first travel to Canada?

I find an A. Moors listed as a male, traveling on the Nestorian with other child ‘labourers’ who all appear to be male.  Is it possible that she ‘passed’ as male to get passage?  She is on no other immigration documents that I can find.  She is sixteen years of age, three years older than John who arrived at the age of 13.  If anyone has any wisdom about this, I’d appreciate the insight.  As I’m pouring over ancestral documents, I discover a ten year old child, Ada Moore, traveling on a ship with hundreds of other children, as young as one year old.  I pour over the lists of names and feel sick to my stomach at this appalling state of history.  I take pause for a moment. over the injustice. One page of six on the Circassian in 1883.

Ten year old Ada Moore is included on this page of child immigrants.  This may not be my own relation...but it amazes me that she was someone's child, on a ship heading from England to Canada to be an indentured servant.

Ten year old Ada Moore is included on this page of child immigrants. This may not be my own relation…but it amazes me that she was someone’s child, on a ship heading from England to Canada to be an indentured servant.

Marion Ada BHCWhile I may never resolve how and when Marion Ada came to Canada, I CAN assume that she came around the time that her brother, three years younger, came, some time around 1889.  I also have not located any documents from Hamilton, Wentworth, describing her work as a domestic, but this was likely her path.  I find her marrying Charles (Chas) Wood in 1901 in Wentworth and later find her on the 1911 Welland District census with her little family, a daughter also listed as Marion A. and a son also named after his father, Charles.

Marion Ada born 1872 No idea Death

1911 Census Welland District, Ontario  Daughter and Son on following page of census.

1911 Census Welland District, Ontario Daughter and Son on following page of census.

They are living with their teenagers in Crystal Beach, Muskoka in 1921.

Marion Ada and Charles Wood Census 1921 Crystal BeachI have no death records for Marion Ada, but the search continues.  Charles Wood Junior is found on various voting records and listed as an assistant in water works and as late as the 1940s, a Superintendent.  it seems that the family settled over the long haul in the resort type location.  On my next drive east, I’m going to stop in and see what I can learn about the Wood family of Crystal Beach.

Crystal Beach 1910s1910 Crystal Beach Post Card

Flossie Macfarland (wife of Joe Haddow) and Marion Ada Moors Wood at Crystal Beach circa 1921.

Flossie Macfarland (wife of Joe Haddow) and Marion Ada Moors Wood at Crystal Beach circa 1921.

John Moors 1841 – 1914

My great great grandfather,  John Moors, is somewhat elusive on my ancestral search.  I am having a difficult time finding his parents.  Through a number of links, I have his birthplace as Yeovil, Somerset, England.  It may be  that he is the son of a Jane Moors, resident of the Swan Inn at the time.  Jane disappears soon afterward, so I am also going to make the assumption that John ended up lost in the struggles of the community at the time, likely orphaned…dunno.  I put this research ‘out there’ in the hopes that other researchers might confirm or add to my information.  I also hope that my research makes the search for others less taxing.

Birth Record

Birth Record

He married a Grace Rebecca Porter and together, they had four girls and one son, also named John.  It was this lad who ended up on a ship at the age of 13, a home child to Canada, working on a piece of land in the Arthur area until 1898, when his father, mother and family also immigrated to Canada.

This watch was presented to my Great Great before he immigrated to Canada in 1898.  It, in turn, was passed on to my Great Grandfather who passed it to my Grandfather.  Unfortunately, it fell under disrepair before it found its way into my father’s hands.  Still, the historical inscription remains.


1865 to 1935 Canadian Passenger List

1865 to 1935 Canadian Passenger List

Of his grandfather, MY grandfather, John Moors, says…

“My Grandfather Moors was a red-headed man with the most beautiful blue eyes that you ever did look at!  He was a very quiet man.  And Grandma Moors was a very short lady, especially when compared with my father who was 6’2″.  When we went down to visit Grandma and Grandpa, just as a joke, Father would pick Grandma up by the elbows, right up off the floor, and give her a great big kiss.  He’d put her down and we’d all laugh.  Of course, Grandma rather enjoyed it too, I’m sure!

Grandfather Moors took me to the Toronto Exhibition to see another new-fangled idea, the milking machine.  He promised me that we would go to the midway.  Of course we didn’t make it because all he did was look at the cattle, hogs and horses.  The result of that trip was the purchase of a cream separator.  He told us that if he caught any of us playing with this machine, what he would do to us would fill a book.  But I noticed that after the beauty and novelty wore off, we soon got our turn to run it.  There wasn’t much fun in it after all!”

Interesting that on Rose Margaret’s marriage to Harry Clayton, on the marriage certificate, John is listed as being a Stencil Maker.  See on the far left side of the document.

Rose Margaret Moors Married to Harry Clayton

John Moors was laid to rest in 1914 in an unmarked grave in the Hamilton Cemetery, sharing the space with my great Uncle Robert A. Moors.  His only son (Canadian home child), John Moors, is at rest in Etaples, France, having died as the result of a German bombing raid on Canadian Hospitals in Etaples on May 19, 1918.

John's signature on his marriage certificate...

John’s signature on his marriage certificate…

Marriage Certificate DetailP1130137The spot where Robert rests is well marked.  His wife, Jessie Maclean, has also slipped beneath my genealogy radar.

Robert A. Moors 1910 - 1979

Resting Place for Robert A. Moors and to the left of this flat marker would be John Moors, Robert's grandfather.

Resting Place for Robert A. Moors and to the left of this flat marker, foreground would be John Moors, Robert’s grandfather.  Hamilton Cemetery York Blvd

Gorilla House LIVE ART: November 7, 2012

Ok…so, back to the easel and rockin’ with the Gorilla House animules!  I had a wonderful time.  I took the pressure off of myself by bringing a reference.  I knew that no matter what the themes, I wanted to recognize Remembrance in some way…remembrance, memory, family.  Given my huge interest in family research, I also wanted to bring into the mix at least one character, intimately…some one I have come to know through my research.

Here are the themes as received from the wheel of doom…some connect to my intentions…however, not directly…you decide.

1. school yard wimps and…
2. judgement
3. watching reality t.v.

I began by setting down the words to W.B. Yeat’s poem, A Dialogue Between Self and Soul.  As the words lifted up…I moved the lines upward…as they fell, I moved them down.  This is just a spectacular poem.  I know.  I know.  It’s long and you have stuff to do today.  Trust me.  Read it and you will be somehow changed.

Dialogue Between Self and Soul
By William Butler Yeats

{My Soul} I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,
‘Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
Fix every wandering thought upon
That quarter where all thought is done:
Who can distinguish darkness from the soul?

{My Self}. The consecrated blade upon my knees
Is Sato’s ancient blade, still as it was,
Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass
Unspotted by the centuries;
That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn
From some court-lady’s dress and round
The wooden scabbard bound and wound
Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn.

{My Soul.} Why should the imagination of a man
Long past his prime remember things that are
Emblematical of love and war?
Think of ancestral night that can,
If but imagination scorn the earth
And intellect is wandering
To this and that and t’other thing,
Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

{My Self.} Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it
Five hundred years ago, about it lie
Flowers from I know not what embroidery —
Heart’s purple — and all these I set
For emblems of the day against the tower
Emblematical of the night,
And claim as by a soldier’s right
A charter to commit the crime once more.

{My Soul.} Such fullness in that quarter overflows
And falls into the basin of the mind
That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind,
For intellect no longer knows
i{Is} from the i{Ought,} or i{Knower} from the i{Known — }
That is to say, ascends to Heaven;
Only the dead can be forgiven;
But when I think of that my tongue’s a stone.

{My Self.} A living man is blind and drinks his drop.
What matter if the ditches are impure?
What matter if I live it all once more?
Endure that toil of growing up;
The ignominy of boyhood; the distress
Of boyhood changing into man;
The unfinished man and his pain
Brought face to face with his own clumsiness;
The finished man among his enemies? —
How in the name of Heaven can he escape
That defiling and disfigured shape
The mirror of malicious eyes
Casts upon his eyes until at last
He thinks that shape must be his shape?
And what’s the good of an escape
If honour find him in the wintry blast?
I am content to live it all again
And yet again, if it be life to pitch
Into the frog-spawn of a blind man’s ditch,
A blind man battering blind men;
Or into that most fecund ditch of all,
The folly that man does
Or must suffer, if he woos
A proud woman not kindred of his soul.
I am content to follow to its source
Every event in action or in thought;
Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!
When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.

Then…the painting.  Although the chin area isn’t resolved…and some other things…I captured a gesture of my great uncle, Walter Haddow as he was photographed at Camp Borden in 1915, before heading out with the 40th Field Artillary Battalion to war.  He was one of the lucky ones.  He came home.  My great-grandfather did not.

Thank you, Peter, for purchasing this piece at auction and I’m so glad that this served as a reminder of your grandfather.  Also, thanks to the many individuals, new to the Gorilla House, who stopped by and spoke to me about the poem and about the painting, my process and the subject matter!

Searching Out the Ancestors

I continue the journey of discovering my family tree.  Yesterday, Max and I headed out on a summertime drive to Drumheller, Alberta, in order to locate the final resting place of my great uncle, my great grandmother Mary Eleanor Haddow’s brother, John ‘Jack’ Haddow.  The afternoon yawned wide open with sunshine and miles of crops, golden and dancing in the easy wind.  It was divine.

Once in Drumheller, I collected my free tourist map from a small corner store.  Outside, a collection of teens had congregated, sharing smokes and slurpees and when I asked them for the directions to the Drumheller Municipal Cemetery, they were lovely and gave me specific directions and landmarks.  Then I was on my way.

I took Max for a nice walk around the perimeter of the property and scanned the map that was displayed at the front entrance.  I didn’t have any idea what had brought my relations to the west in the first place and wondered if I would have any luck in finding John.  Once Max was back in the van, I began the search and basically sorted out that there were blocks based on period of history and looked for the section from the 1920s.  Soon enough, I located John ‘Jack’ Haddow, and next to him, his daughter Edith M. Haddow who had passed away in 2009.  I sat down and spent a good long while…saying family prayers and just taking in the beauty of the location.

A large plaque is on display at this location because it marks the section that was set aside for victims of an epidemic of influenza that moved through the region between 1916 and 1923.

“During the roaring 20’s, all of the Drumheller Valley communities were coal towns. From gambling and bootlegging to strikes and racial tension, the valley was full of action and entertainment.”  This information and image collected here.

On my great uncle’s death certificate the cause of death is listed as typhoid, but these were the years of the Great Influenza Pandemic between 1916 and 1926.  John Haddow passed in 1921.  He was fortunate that it wasn’t necessary to bury him in one of the common graves.  He was a young man, only 38 years of age, with a wife, Mary Boyd and two children, John and Edith.

I have previously located Mary Boyd Haddow McLennan’s resting place in the Queen’s Park Cemetery in Calgary, along with her son, John ‘Jack’ Boyd Haddow.  It is a generous thing that someone provided a new headstone and saw that Edith could rest along side her father in Drumheller.  Now I am very interested in finding those individuals who loved Edith into her later years as we, also, are connected by our history.

When Max and I headed east to check out the little hamlet of East Coulee, I felt really blessed that I had located two of my relations.  I am enjoying learning about each character’s life as I go.  I’m going to assume that John found work as a coal miner as there were so many opportunities at the time, in this location.  (LOOKY HERE! Within an hour of this writing, a dear distant cousin on the Haddow-side, wrote to me and told me…”Jack was a rancher in Drumheller … he raised cattle and was a cowboy.”  Mystery solved!  Thank you, Anne! And now I shall have to delve into the ranching history of the area!  Looking forward to it.) I thought about all of this as I looked at the coulees, hills and hoodoos on both sides of the road, undulating and richly-coloured in mauves, taupes and rose layers.  Vegetation was sparse apart from the dash of bright yellow in the brown-eyed susans.

On the way back to the city of Drumheller, I stopped at a wee shop and bought myself a double scoop ice cream cone…maple walnut…my Dad’s favourite.  It had been an exceptional day.

John Addow, Hadash, Hadath, Hadda, Haddack, Haddah, Haddalle, Haddater, Haddath, Haddatte, Haddaw, Hadderth, Haddey, Haddock, Haddon, Haddoth, Haddow, Hadeth, Hadnow and Hadwith

The One-Name Study on the Haddow ancestors includes the origin of the name.  Mr. Dick Chandler has been personally very helpful to me as I have searched for my own Haddow relations and while we haven’t been in touch for some time, he DID inspire me to continue.

Origin of the surname

“The first occurrence of the surname has been traced to the part of England now called Cumbria, at the start of the 19th Century. Aided by DNA analysis, a common ancestor has been identified, from whom all living Had(d)aths are believed to be descended. The surname appears to have developed as a variant of Haddow. Research is currently stuck at 1767 when William Haddow of Pennington (one mile west of Ulverston) married Agnes Boulton of Baycliff (on the coast, three miles south of Ulverston) at Aldingham-in-Furness Parish Church (on the coast, one mile south of Baycliff) on 21st February.

The origin of the name is believed to be the Middle English for ‘half’, plus the Gaelic dabhach, which is a measure of land equivalent to four ploughgates (so the name means ‘two ploughgates’). A plough worked by eight oxen was capable of bringing 104 acres into tillage in a year. A ploughgate was therefore the name that was given to 104 acres of arable land, and a ‘half dabhach’ or ‘hadabhach’ (being half of four ploughgates) is therefore 2 x 104 = 208 acres of land – hence the title of the Had(d)ath Family History book.”

It is a wonderful thing to recently have some of the pieces to the ‘Haddow’ puzzle, in Canada and in the United States, begin to come together.

Today, I learned that in 1923, John Haddow  (my great grandfather) visited his son William Thomas Haddow, here in Calgary!  Thank you, Anne.

John Haddow with his son, William Thomas Haddow 1923

I have made this letter longer, because I have not had the time to make it shorter. Blaise Pascal

A Distant Cousin Connects

I am so blessed.  I putz around to a great degree these days…sorting, tossing, accumulating and sorting again. As my readers know, I feel like it’s important to work on my family research and the archives on such research can become pretty extensive at times.   I enjoy sharing my findings with my parents when I come upon something new.  Today ‘the new’ came in the form of a message from Anne in Kansas, sharing that I had attached an incorrect photograph to my Agnes Mary (Mae) Haddow South on our site and I had!  But what was wonderful about that was that this was a distant cousin who was sharing this news with me.  Undoubtedly, we will remain friends now, as it seems that Anne is the keeper of family history to the south of the border, while definitely I am doing the same to the north.  She and I will most definitely become pen pals.

I liked that all of this today sparked a memory for my father…a drive that he shared with my grandfather John Moors, between 1967 and 1968.  Grampa had made a visit with us in North Bay, Ontario and he insisted that my father head out with him, on a drive to Powassan, to meet the Souths.  This is what my father wrote of this memory.

“I knew all about this Agnes Haddow — Her husband (Elkanah Alfred South) had one of the first saw mills in Powassan. Don’t know if he was the guy but some guy named South took the first team of oxen up north (to Powassan) and is buried in a grave way out in the middle of the bush about 3 miles from Powassan. I could not believe it when Dad directed me right to it. He was on the trip that took the oxen up there as a young boy (don’t remember how old). Dad even knew where the old house was and all that was left of it was parts of a stone basement walls.Then Dad looked up some lady named South living in Powassan that day-I did not go in the house but it must have been a living relative.”

Thank you, Anne, for putting us in touch with a memory.  Here are photos of Grace Rebecca, my Grandfather’s sister, as a young girl.  She would have been a wee girl when she lost her father, John Moors, on May 19, 1918 in an enemy bombing in Etaples.

Where are you, Ruby J. Campbell?

Ruby J. Campbell 1919

I received this message, this morning in my e mail, having left an obscure message some time ago in  I had made a brief search for Ruby Campbell’s family, coming out of the Prince Edward Island region.  I am so glad that Brian cares to have this returned!

I’m John Campbell’s grandson and Ruby was his sister. I would love to see her bible and the inscriptions. Let me know how I would be able to get it.
Brian Norton

1898 National Bible Society of Glasgow

Well, those of you who read and follow my art and my interests in research, know this.  I harvest the Holy Bibles that are discarded by the world…in second-hand shops, garage sales and yard sales.  I then incorporate some of them into my Covenant paintings.  But, if I find a Bible with inscriptions within, I then try to locate the family.  The idea of one of our family, years ago, sitting and praying with scripture, is an image that I keep close to me.  I know that it is important to pass these artifacts on to family members who will treasure them and that, without thinking, somehow these have found themselves, cast away.  Now it’s time to return Ruby Campbell’s Bible!

November 25, 1934, Sunday

Unfortunately, with further research, Brian’s Ruby was not Ruby J. Campbell, but Ruby M. Campbell, so I continue to protect and cherish this New Testament and look forward to any living relation to contact me.  In the end, I’ve tracked down one Ruby J. Campbell who lived in Ontario and it seems that her mother Elizabeth or Bessie, was widowed and their family lived with Bessie’s brother.  Still tracking down clues on this one.

The Glade: What Happens to Our Art When We Die?

Jessamine Newby’s Painting: $4.99

Jessamine’s painting is another one of my treasures.  And for those proponents of “We have NOT the past.  We have NOT the future.  We have only this moment,” I feel differently.  I think that all we are for this moment is made up of all of the wee bits of everything we experienced and everyone we’ve known in the past.  The inscription on the back of Jessamine’s painting, The Glade, caused me to further consider this.

Ulverston, Lancashire…hmmm, undated.

The frame, solid wood…the painting kept stable in the frame with those little triangles of days gone by and edged with paper tape, crispy with age.  These were rituals of the time, not considered of any consequence and yet noticed by this unknown writer/artist/mother/daughter of 2011.  I wondered who Jessamine was as I looked at her signature.

J. N. Newby

She was born Jessamine Normandale Scantlebury, March 27, 1899.  Her father was Edward Hugh Pengelly Scantlebury, born in October of 1875 and her mother was Ada Annie Normandale, lovingly called Nancie by her friends, born December of 1875.  Of Edward, sometimes referred to as Ted, I learn this in the Journal of the Fell & Rock Climbing Club Edited by W. G. Stevens.

Journal 1953


E. H. P. SCANTLEBURY, 1875-1952

“Edward Hugh Pengelly Scantlebury, son of a distinguished Servant of Admiralty, Thomas Scantlebury, came to Barrow-in-Furness in July, 1900, but it was not until six years later that he began to dream of a club that should be for those who were devotedto Lakeland. He was on a visit to his father’s house in N.W. London, in the Summer of 1906, and told me that friends in Barrow, Kendal and other parts of the District supported him.

In November, 1906, the Fell and Rock Climbing Club was formed, and members of other mountaineering clubs received a letter asking them to become members. The response made Scantlebury a very happy man; for he had come to the Barrow Shipyard from his apprenticeship at Fielding and Platt Ltd., Gloucester, and had not yet been accepted as a native. However, he had the strong support of many splendid friends and it was at Wastwater Hotel, on 30th March, 1907, that the first General Meeting was arranged by him.

It was a disappointment to him that Ashley Abraham and John W. Robinson, could not attend as President and Vice-President. Our Honorary Members could not come, and G. H. Charter, one of our Founders, was absent. A Chairman was appointed and the meeting duly confirmed its confidence in Scantlebury and the other Founders. How well they justified that confidence! What an everlasting debt of gratitude we owe to those men of Barrow, Ulverston, Kendal, Keswick and the rest of Cumberland, Furness and Westmorland. It was their local daily effort and their unbounded practical energy which built such a firm foundation.

I hope that Charles Grayson will be happy to know that we send to him, in U.S.A., our expressions of gratitude for his work, as a Founder in daily contact with E.H.P.S. The following is an extract from Grayson’s letter to me, dated 9th May, 1953:

—’It seems a very long time since that Sunday—11th November, 1906—when Scanty, Craig and I had been climbing on Dow Crags. When we returned to the Sun Hotel at Coniston, for supper before train time, we started chatting about forming a Club. Gordon and Charter must have been climbing too, and were sitting at another table. We called them over and—before train-time at 6-30—we had decided to start the F. & R.C.C I should mention that Grayson wrote this just after the death of his wife. They were both enthusiastic mountain walkers together, and some of the older Members will remember how active she was when she was a Member of the Club.

My recollection is that she joined in the second year. She resigned in 1921 when she realised that they would remain in U.S.A. Grayson has our deepest sympathy. From a first (1906) membership of under 60, the Club became about 260 strong in under three years and—in spite of the First War—increased to nearly 450 within 13 years. Unfortunately it lost some of Scantlebury’s unique help, as Editor and Secretary, after the end of 1910, but Palmer and Grayson replaced him, and Craig remained as Treasurer. Slingsby followed Seatree as President, and Colin Philip and Scantlebury became Vice-Presidents, after George Abraham and Woodhouse.

His home duties and work, at the Gun Department of Vickers, Sons and Maxim, prevented his regular attendance at Meets and Dinners but indirectly he was very active in the Club’s interests. Until I left for India in 1911, I was with him almost continuously, and learned then how exceptionally versatile he was. His colour and monochrome photography, water-colours and writings, his complete knowledge of the District’s topography and his musical taste were his more obvious gifts. Also, he was an enthusiastic gardener, a lover of animals, a skilled mechanic, and a woodworker. The pleasure in joining him in his hobbies was enhanced by the fact that he was never satisfied with his high standards.

Although we spent much of our time in rock climbing—he trusted me in all conditions of weather and on severe climbs—there is no doubt that he took the wider view of the glories of the District. He loved roaming into unfrequented valleys, villages and woods, as well as walking over the moors and fells. When the inevitable motor invaded the District he was able to make expeditions with his wife, Nancie (nee Ada Annis Normandale, of West Hartlepool) and his daughters, Jessamine and Mollie.

Excepting for a few climbs at long intervals, he gave up the more difficult climbs in 1921, when he was 46 years ofage. Among the many climbs we did together, those which appeared to me as the most difficult, were: — Gimmer ‘ A,’ in wind and rain; Great and Intermediate Gullies, Dow Crag, in winter conditions, and Keswick Brothers’, Scafell. The last was a mass of ice. The one ice-axe took a dive to Hollow Stones, and fortunately attracted the attention of Gemmell and Worthington, who went again to the top of the face and lowered a rope to us, from the soft snow in the shallow finishing gully.

He was born on 16th October, 1875, at Haddenham, near Aylesbury. Although of Cornish descent, his Alpha and Omega was Lakeland; and it was his genius—in approaching so many famous mountain lovers, and in seeking the generous support given by existing clubs—which made the Fell and Rock Climbing Club an immediate success. Although our membership is now nearly 900, it is well that we should approach 1956, the Club’s Jubilee year, with a proper expression of gratitude to the Alpine, the Climbers’, and other Clubs which responded to Edward Scantlebury’s appeal for members.

I know that it would have pleased that great and generous comrade, if the Club celebrates its Jubilee by thanking those parent clubs, and by establishing some additional safeguard for the sanctity of the Lake District. On 16th December, 1952, I received a long and cheery letter from him in all the buoyancy of earlier days. He died on 17th December at the age of 77, and, like the great man that he always was, showed a sense of humour to the end.

I thank all those who have helped me in this attempt to pay homage to Ted Scantlebury.”


Jessamine and Mollie (Edward and Annie’s two daughters) must have also inherited some of their father’s love for the outdoors and for all things artistic.  I have recorded in bold, above, Edward’s love for photography and watercolour, both, and it is evident through this exerpt that he was also immersed in the outdoors.  Jessamine’s painting is of a location in the glades of her home, Tressillian Town Bank in Ulverston.  The painting was likely done circa 1929-1935, sometime after marrying George Frederick John Newby in August of 1927.  I have collected just a few photographs of the characters that come to life this morning through this story.  I have accessed photographs through research specific to the Scantlebury family and would love to have this painting fall back into the hands of one of the family who would most treasure the piece.  If no one comes forth, it will always have a special home with me.

Jessamine, Mollie and Edward

Edward Hugh Pengelly Scantlebury

Ada Annie ‘Nanci’ Normandale

I do not know how this painting came to be with me, but for me, it is filled with wonderful mystery.  As I look at the brushwork, I imagine a woman who was dabbling in a hobby once treasured by her father.  I imagine the fresh air of the location where she sat painting.  Perhaps there was a picnic lunch packed.  The carefully inscribed label, along with the identification No 2 “The Glade” and 6 pounds 6-0 leads me to believe that she was selling her work at one time.  And how did this painting make its way to Canada…and then to Calgary, Alberta?  What family members or art collectors hung this piece on their walls?  If only art could speak!  What would it say?

“The Glades” circa 1930



From Harvey River: a memoir of my mother and her people

A recent ‘read’, A Memoir of my Mother and Her People From Harvey River by Lorna Goodison, gives a beautiful account of a writer-poet who journeys through several generations through to the present.  From the inside jacket…

“When Doris Harvey’s English grandfather, William Harvey, discovers a clearing at the end of a path cut by the feet of those running from slavery, he gives his name to what will become his family’s home for generations.”

Given my interest in ancestry and my search for the narratives of my own family, the structure of Lorna Goodison’s account was of tremendous interest to me.  I’ve toyed with the idea of writing my own memoir at some point, but am sometimes uncertain about how to protect the ‘living’ from the honesty of a family’s beginnings.  Goodison is successful, I think.  An excellent book for those who enjoy historical accounts.

I would like to include here, a poem by Lorna Goodison.  This poem found on this site.

Guinea Woman by Lorna Goodison 

Another from the Norton Anthology of Contemporary Poetry.

Guinea Woman
By Lorna Goodison

Great grandmother
was a guinea woman
wide eyes turning
the corners of her face
could see behind her
her cheeks dusted with
a fine rash of jet-bead wars
that itched when the rain set up.

Great grandmother’s waistline
the span of a headman’s hand
slender and tall like a cane stalk
with a guinea woman’s antelope-quick walk
and when she paused
her gaze would look to sea
her profile fine like some obverse impression
on a guinea coin from royal memory.

It seems her fate was anchored
in the unfathomable sea
for her great grandmother caught the eye of a sailor
whose ship sailed without him from Lucea harbor.
Great grandmother’s royal scent of
cinnamon and scallions
drew the sailor up the straits of Africa,
the evidence my blue-eyed grandmother
the first Mulatta,
taken into backra’s household
and covered with his name.
They forbade great grandmother’s
guinea woman presence
they washed away her scent of
cinnamon and scallions
controlled the child’s antelope walk
and called her uprisings rebellions.

But, great grandmother
I see your features blood dark
in the children of each new
the high yellow brown
is darkening down.
Listen, children
it’s great grandmother’s turn.