This morning, just as I was wondering what topic I would use in my letter, stretched on my bedroom balcony was my "pet" snake as Bunny (Catherine) calls it.  It's known locally as a Congo snake, and it's not poisonous.  I first became aware of its presence about 5 months ago, and it's always around.  Most people I know do not like them and their first reaction is to kill them.  This one does not come inside the house, living only on the balconies and a terrace below.  Two years ago, there was another which only resided in my bedroom - on the window ledge inches from my head.  One day I found him dead on the tree outside the balcony.  It was sorely missed!  On this island we are blessed in many ways, one of them being that there is nothing poisonous to be afraid of.  Yesterday I was hearing that in certain forested areas, amadillos  have become a menace as they are destroying trees at an alarming rate.   Our black hawks and iguanas are disappearing due to out of season hunting.  Their meat is considered delicious and is exported illegally to Trinidad, I am told.  Hopefully, many of these species will be saved as the Vincentian Parrot (Amazona Guildingi) was , having been on the endangered list years ago.  Now, they are thriving well in our forests, thanks to a local and foreign team who worked vigilantly.  Until my next letter.

Before we go along too far, I need to say something about attribution.  The photographs which I am liberally sprinkling throughout these missives are from my collection - many of them saved digitally with no record of their source - my bad.  If I use one of your photos, please alert me and I will add attribution, assuming you're cool with me using your creation!

The Future

When I finally arrive there—
And it will take many days and nights—
I would like to believe others will be waiting
and might even want to know how it was.

So I will reminisce about a particular sky
or a woman in a white bathrobe
or the time I visited a narrow strait
where a famous naval battle had taken place.

Then I will spread out on a table
a large map of my world
and explain to the people of the future
in their pale garments what it was like—

how mountains rose between the valleys
and this was called geography,
how boats loaded with cargo plied the rivers
and this was known as commerce,

how the people from this pink area
crossed over into this light-green area
and set fires and killed whoever they found
and this was called history—

and they will listen, mild-eyed and silent,
as more of them arrive to join the circle,
like ripples moving toward,
not away from, a stone tossed into a pond.

by Billy Collins, from Aimless Love

Denise Hofflund Punnett, wife of our brother John, recently shared with us this YouTube video from 1940.

The photo below is one of the Kingstown market.  It predates me, but I can't hazard a guess as to when it might date back to - anyone?

Reading Brenda’s most recent letter sends my thoughts in all kinds of different directions.

One of the many legacies for which I am grateful is a keen appreciation for landscape. So often I’ve heard people say that they get used to a view – wonderful or awful – and virtually stop seeing it. That is not in the realms of possibility for me. In The Valley (the Buccament Valley, often referred to by people outside our family as the Punnett Valley, but never, ever by us; we mostly just called it The Valley), we always celebrated the magnificent setting in which we conducted our lives. That awareness of surroundings remains a vital part of my sense of wellbeing, and though I have not lived in The Valley for 35 years, it remains an essential part of who I am.

As Brenda said, we grew up at Twenty Hill… a property that Daddy bought from Uncle Langley, I believe. I think it must have been a part of Peniston Estate, which Uncle Langley ‘bought’ from his father as Daddy did Queensbury; Uncle Jack, Cane Grove; and Uncle Duncan, Pembroke – all estates in The Valley which had belonged to our grandfather, John Langley Punnett (1881 - 1950).

Twenty Hill was about 10 acres and the fairly primitive house was built by Daddy on the flattened top of a hill within The Valley, with 360 degrees of marvelous aspect. Over time you will no doubt hear more from us about the magic of Twenty Hill. We stayed there until Daddy’s mother died and he inherited her home, Hope House (on about 17 acres), in 1970. We moved to a larger, more finished house with electricity; but not even the thrill of flicking a switch to get bright light was enough to make up for the loss of our much loved childhood home. For decades we hankered for it, imagined re-purchasing it, and I know that it was only about 5 years ago that I accepted, in a dream, that Twenty Hill would never again be mine. But I can still feel the cool thrum of water in the external pipes that we clambered on to sneak in the window of my parents’ bathroom, the exhilaration of swinging way over the side of the hill off the cedar tree, the independence of climbing high up in the almond tree near to the End Room, my bedroom, with a book in hand and our whole world below me. I carry it all deep within me, beyond memory.

And the beat goes on! 

One love,
Lisbie x

As i embark on my second letter to you, i have to mention that the sunshine is brilliant, making the hillsides surrounding this valley perfectly clear.  Such a day reminds me of the description* made by John Anderson, Special Magistrate to St. Vincent for the Apprenticeship Period in about 1839.  He wrote that the Buccament Valley is one of the most beautiful sights he has seen, comparable to the Swiss Alps.  Quite a difference when he rode through, compared to how it is today – houses, of course, have sprouted throughout!

A couple days ago, Malcolm, eldest of the great uncles, talked about the wonderful times he had with another great uncle, Roger , in the United States , saying that whenever the two of them got together, pure joy resulted.  Last night, great uncle John spoke of an incident he remembers well.  He was about 9 or 10 years old and Malcolm in his early 20’s.  One day at 20 Hill, home of Chris and Ruth, John was near the pig pen, when Malcolm joined him and they had a conversation which made him feel so good that this much older brother took the time and interest to be alone with him.  John went on to mention that many years later, when Malcolm relinquished house, car etc. to begin living in a shack in the hills without running water and electricity, he visited him at Mount William to spend the day as he did not know when he might see him again.

That’s it for this week.

brenda

 *'The principal river on this side of the island is Buccamont. It is of considerable size. About three miles from the sea it divides into two branches which have their source at the base of the Bonhomme where their division takes place. The valley is the most beautiful and extensive in the island, well cultivated and containing 8 sugar estates ... The Bonhomme, which terminates the valley, is a grand and romantic object from every part of it. At the bottom is a fine bay where ships of a large burden may anchor.'

 

“The poetry of a people comes from the deep recesses of the unconscious,
the irrational and the collective body of our ancestral memories.”   

Margaret Walker

Generations of the Future, Greetings! 

I am Lisbie (Elizabeth Angela Donna Punnett), second child of Ruth Palmer Darwent and Christopher Alexander Punnett. Brenda has told you about Daddy’s first wife and children as well as of John Christopher Alexander, myself, and Stephen Mark Langley, the children of his second marriage. Mummy had also been married previously – first to American John Hersey Monroe Woods, with whom she had John Hersey Monroe (1943) and Roger Nicholas deBaskerville (1946); then to Trinidadian Albert Max Serrao, with whom she had Mary Catherine Ruth (1948), Esme Jean Lynn (1950), and Michael Albert Max (1951).

Reading Brenda’s opening letter and her description of the first time she met our youngest brother Mark, I was struck that my own very first memory is of Mark’s first day of school. I must have been 8, and most people seem to have memories that reach back further. Mind you, I have earnestly laid claim to memories of events which occurred before I was born! I think I have always been an attentive listener, and stories I heard became real to me in the telling and retelling. I remember arguing passionately with Mummy about some incident of which I had clear recall and Mummy insisting that these happenings predated my birth, rendering it impossible that I was present! Just shows you how fickle memory is!

Daddy had bought Queensbury Estate from his father (at a nominal price), and he and Auntie Eileen made their life there. When Daddy and Mummy married, Daddy left Queensbury and bravely set about finding some other way to make a living. At one time, he managed the Casson estates at Leeward - Mt. Wynne and Peter’s Hope - and some arrangement had been made for us to spend a few months away from home at one of the Casson bungalows in the grounds of the Great House at Arnos Vale. This is where we were staying when Mark started school at the St. Joseph’s Convent in 1965. There is a photo of me, in my Brownie uniform, standing next to Mark outside the house on that first day of school. I wonder why this day implanted itself more securely in my memory than all the previous days of my life?

I’m looking forward to sharing recollections, stories, and all manner of things with you as we continue to write these letters. The idea to do this was Brenda’s and I think comes from our own wish that we might have known more about the ancestors than names and dates on a family tree. That seems to me more urgent at a time when many of the youngest family members are being raised away from our West Indian roots. We have no particular plan or direction in mind, and the flow will most likely not be chronological; we'll just let it unfold as it will.   

Until next time, 
*One love,
Lisbie x

*The urban dictionary says “One love refers to the universal love and respect expressed by all people for all people, regardless of race, creed, or color.”
It was also a song recorded by Bob Marley and the Wailers in 1965

At almost 70 years old, my sister , another great aunt aged 58, and i , have thought about jotting down random thoughts and happenings from our past. So, here's a start to the ramblings of Lisbie (Elizabeth) and Brenda.

i was born in August, 1946 to Eileen Stephanie Fraser and Christopher Alexander Punnett. i am the third child of that union, preceded by Malcolm Alexander, Christopher Robin . A fourth child, Colin Langley was born later in 1949. My parents were very young, too young in my opinion for undertaking marriage and raising children. Anyway, they tried and stayed married for about 10 years, before divorcing, a rare happening on this tiny island. Christopher soon met his future wife, Ruth Darwent Serrao , whom , in my opinion was the 'love of his life'. Fortunately, Eileen and Chris remained friends,and so did Ruth and Eileen. John Alexander was born in 1954, followed By Elizabeth Angela in 1957, and in 1960 Mark Stephen arrived who was the 'angel' in his parents eyes.

During my boarding school years in Dublin , i received about two letters from Daddy. In the first, he informed me of Mark's birth in the following way: "Ruth produced a son, Mark Stephen on December 19, 1960." i did not meet Mark until 1963 when i returned to St Vincent for the summer holidays. One morning, whilst i was riding to 20 Hill to meet Mark, lo and behold, there he was walking with a cutlass in his hand, accompanied by Nalco, a trusted employee. He was adorable and so tough! i'll never forget the sight of him that day!

Life, as you can well imagine, was vastly different to what you know today! By our little letters you can see just how different! Maybe one day, one of you may be tempted to read the entries!

Great Aunt brenda