Wednesday, November 27, 2019

our pumpkin vine

Greetings and salutations all!

This post is prompted by an email from a Guyanese friend from my Barbados days, who now lives in Michigan with her American husband who went to medical school in St. Vincent.  She sent this photo

and asked if I recognised the young woman in the grey sweater.  I am embarrassed to admit I did not.  My friend Lisa followed up with a message to say that it was Christy Punnett who had recently hosted a 60th birthday party in South Carolina, which had been attended by a Guyanese friend of Lisa's who lives in Texas!  How many degrees of separation?  A shout-out to Christy - in Barbados, or South Carolina, or wherever she wanders.

Dem Punnett everywhere... When I first moved to Antigua, I was chatting with the driver of the water truck while our cistern was being replenished, and he asked me. "You know dem Punnett from St. Vincent?"  I asked why he posed that question, and he told me I looked "like dem"...at which point I revealed that I was from St. Vincent and was indeed one of dem Punnetts.  He had moved to Antigua from St.Vincent decades before and had worked for Mas' John as a young man.

“What man can travel this long road and not fill up his soul with crazy arabesques?”
Frances Mayes, A Year in the World 

Other family bits...
A friend of Beej's from King’s Hall School in Compton, in the Eastern Townships of Quebec sent her a group photo from graduation day 1964, and I cropped everyone else out so we could focus on Lovely Betty Jane.

There was also an adorable photo of Beej's Amanda as a little one...

In June, nephews Christopher O'Brien, Scott Serrao and Tristan Punnett visited with Dereck O'Brien (right to left) in Dubai while he was living there for work...


Thanks to Lynden for the gorgeous November Valley sunset...

One love,
Lisbie x

“...all the confusions…would be revealed as cunning arabesques
in a most intricate, beautifully formed story.”
Tobias Wolff, Old School

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

La Soufrière: Beyond the Ashes

Greetings, Family and Friends,

I heard from Zen recently that there was to be an exhibition of Soufrière photos and I looked online to see what I could find about the show… only this…

“Nadia Huggins has been working with the Seismic Research Centre to put together a stunning collection of photographs from the 1902 and 1979 eruptions of volcano in St. Vincent and the Grenadines. The photographic exhibition will be on view from November 12 to 22, at the Saint Vincent and the Grenadines National Trust, Carnegie Old Public Library Building, Halifax Street, in Kingstown, St. Vincent.”

There are online, however, lots of photos of past eruptions and the devastated aftermath.
The Caribbean photo archive hosts a Caribbean treasure trove in general
https://www.flickr.com/photos/caribbeanphotoarchive/albums
and there are at least 3 collections on St.Vincent’s La Soufrière
https://www.flickr.com/photos/caribbeanphotoarchive/albums/72157615237865988
https://www.flickr.com/photos/caribbeanphotoarchive/albums/72157617750338317
https://www.flickr.com/photos/caribbeanphotoarchive/albums/72157613392068704

I think it was Brenda who pointed me to this detailed page on the 1902 eruption http://www.georgetownsvgrevisited.co.uk/la-soufriere-1902-eruption.php
Reading it, I was struck by the portion quoted here…

“At Orange Hill, there was a large substantial stone built rum cellar, which by the orders of the manager, was left open to afford a refuge for any who wished to avail themselves of it. About seventy crowded together there. The windows were not shut, but they were small and faced the sea, so that the blast did not directly strike them. One man stood by the door holding it ajar to admit any who fled from the huts in the village. Forty were in the cellar, and all were saved”

I believe that the said manager was our great grandfather Alexander Murdoch Fraser (born 1844 in Crauts Farm, Knockie, Banffshire, Scotland), who died with his wife Catherine Robertson at Orange Hill in the 1902 eruption. Our grandmother, Lillias, would have been 20, and she didn’t marry until 1907, so I wonder where she was? Did they send her away from Orange Hill because of the danger? Had she been with her parents, likely we would not exist...

In my search for traces of the current photographic exhibition, I stumbled across an article by Naomi Clifford on the 1812 eruption, entitled 1816: The year without a summer, and published on 12 June 2015. An excerpt follows…

At about noon on Monday 27 April 1812, 28,000 inhabitants of St Vincent, free and enslaved, witnessed the sudden and violent start of the eruption of La Soufrière (The Sulfurer), the huge volcano in the north of their tiny Caribbean island. As great thunderous cracks split the air, the earth shook, a massive column of thick black smoke rose from the summit and volumes of red-hot sparks were spat into the atmosphere. Birds fell dead out of the sky. Everyone on the island, whether enslaved or free, was terrified.
“In the afternoon the roaring of the mountain increased and at seven o’clock the flames burst forth, and the dreadful eruption began,” wrote barrister and plantation owner Hugh P. Keane. The volcano was not just a thing of terror — it was also sublimely beautiful, and three days after the volcano first stirred, Keane rose early to sketch the scene, with the volcano’s sulfurous vapours curling skyward and the air filled with layers of yellows, reds and rusts. His drawing, now lost, somehow made its way to an acquaintance, the artist J. M. W. Turner, who used it as inspiration for a work he showed at the Royal Academy in 1815. Turner’s painting is now in the collection of the University of Liverpool.
Lava boiled up over the edge of La Soufrière until there was a massive explosion from the north-west side of the mountain and a molten river snaked its way through the sharp hills pushing its way to the west coast and pouring into the sea. Another vast stream spread eastward. Then the first earthquakes were felt, followed by showers of cinders, stones and red-hot magma. It was as if the earth were in a state of continuous movement, undulating like water shaken in a bowl.
The next morning, the island was in total darkness, as though the sun had failed to rise. A thick haze hung over the sea and the sky filled with yellowish black clouds. The island was covered with ash, cinders and fragments of lava—and the volcano was still rumbling. Gradually it settled back into silence.
In all, about 80 people died, relatively few for an eruption of such force, although there were many injuries, particularly amongst the slaves working in the fields. Two of the rivers had been completely dried up. The crops were ruined, and food had to be bought in from neighbouring islands.


J.M.W. Turner unveiled his painting of the eruption of La Soufrière at the Royal Academy in 1815

In The eruption of La Soufrière on the West Indian island of St Vincent, Clifford also wrote…

“St Vincent itself was regarded as one of the jewels of the Empire. The volcano’s eruptions (there had been a major eruption in 1718) had rendered the earth richly fertile, ideal for growing the dominant crop—sugar. Between 1807 and 1834 the island was the leading producer of sugar in the Windward Islands, with the highest ratio of sugar to slave.
Not only that, the island was exceptionally beautiful.”

Naomi Clifford’s articles led to the story of Maria Glenn (1801-1866), who, it seems may have been a Vincentian! Clifford wrote about her in a book called The Disappearance of Maria Glenn.
The following is taken from Maria Glenn, Brave & Determined Young Woman of Regency England by Naomi Clifford, August 16, 2016

Maria Glenn, the daughter of a barrister, was born in the West Indies in 1801... She was not pretty (even her uncle, who was devoted to her, said she was plain) but she was a good marriage prospect nevertheless. She was expected to inherit valuable sugar estates in St Vincent when her grandfather died. This expectation made her very interesting to the Bowditch, farmers just outside Taunton, with whom Maria, then aged 15, was sent to lodge in the summer of 1817.
She and two of her young cousins were sent to stay on the Bowditches’ farm to recuperate from whooping cough.
What happened next was the subject of bitter dispute.
Maria later claimed that James Bowditch, the 25-year-old second son, threatened to kill her and then commit suicide if she did not comply with his plan to carry her off and marry her on the isle of Guernsey (which was out of the jurisdiction of English law), and that was the only reason she agreed to leave her uncle’s house in the middle of the night. She was terrified.
James and his family said the whole thing was Maria’s idea and that she had spent the summer flirting and behaving improperly with James, and planning to run away with him to marry. They implied that as a plain girl, she was grateful for the attention.
The problem for them was that while their story changed over time, Maria’s did not.
She stuck to it through a string of stressful court cases, which were reported the length and breadth of the country and never wavered in its detail, even when some of the Bowditches’ powerful friends – including the radical Leigh Hunt of The Examiner – took up their cause against her. 


Nothing to do with us, but quite the story, in which our island home featured prominently.  Scandalous lot we are...

Sending loving greetings to "all ah you".

One love,
Lisbie x

Sunday, October 27, 2019

more on Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie


Howdy!
An update, thanks to Hendrika, who brought to my attention that University College London's Legacies of British Slave-ownership referenced our blog in their listing of the spouse of Elizabeth Punnett from Generation 5... here is the relevant page...

Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie 1769 - 1838
Born 1769, merchant and slave-dealer in St Vincent c. 1784-1794. Returning to England with his wife, he was imprisoned by the French: his first wife died in captivity at Port L'Orient, 1795. Operated as merchant in London; emigrated to New South Wales, Australia c. 1822 and became secretary and cashier of the Bank of New South Wales and founder of the Bathhurst Bank c. 1834. He named the estate he established in NSW 'Dochcairn', after his father's house in Ross-shire. He has an entry in the Australian Dictionary of Biography as 'banker and landowner'.
Administration of the will of Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie [formerly of Cornhill but late] of Parramatta, NSW proved 20/06/1848.
Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie was categorised inconsistently as both planter and merchant in the Exchequer loans of the 1790s, when he received £2000. His fragment of autobiography paints him as a merchant rather than planter.

Sources
Memoirs of Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie Esq., Dochcairn, Bathhurst, NSW (1837). This text is in the State Library of New South Wales MLDOC 2528, but has been posted online - in it he comments of his time on St Vincent 'I was foolish enough however to be led by them [his peers] into the trafficking of buying and selling Negro slaves, by which means we had always the command of a great deal of money.'; 'McKenzie, Alexander Kenneth (1769–1838)', Australian Dictionary of Biography, National Centre of Biography, Australian National University, http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/mckenzie-alexander-kenneth-2407/text3185, published first in hardcopy 1967, accessed online 9 October 2015.

Our original post on Elizabeth Punnett Mackenzie's adventures
https://greataunts.blogspot.com/2016/04/elizabeth-punnett-mackenzie-1772-1795.html

and the first follow-up on that post
https://greataunts.blogspot.com/2019/05/we-recently-had-anonymous-response-to.html

Brenda and I have wondered whether we should close the blog to the general public, but I like that it being open creates the possibility of new information and perspectives.  Anyone want to weigh in on that?

One love,
Lisbie x

Friday, September 27, 2019

"The apparel oft proclaims the man." William Shakespeare

Family Far & Wide,
I am so glad to have permission to print this school paper from Malcolm's grandaughter / Rachael's daughter, the Lovely India. 
I have taken liberties... 
~ the formatting is not faithful to the original, mostly because of my lack of technical skills
~ selfishly, I have made bold portions that particularly interested me, and where I especially loved a turn of phrase
~ out of concern for length, I have omitted all the source info that is part of the scholarly paper... but I have pasted it into the covering email for anyone who wishes to look further.
The question of the mind/body relationship has always intrigued me, As has the place of "things" in our lives.  India's fascinating piece addresses these and other issues behind the eye-candy of fashion.  Maybe Coco Chanel was onto something when she said,
“Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street. Fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.”
This very day we are marching globally in defense of our earthly home, and our enhanced concern for sustainability may include a return to passing on our possessions rather than  of replacing them... we can hope, and we can act.

India modelling her paper dress at school in St. Vincent

THE POWER SUIT COMPLEX by India Dunn

The traditional suit was birthed from practicality. Whether it’s a hunting suit or worn on Wall Street; there are trousers for movement, a shirt for comfort and a jacket for warmth. However the psychology behind building the perfect suit is a fascinating insight into the tribal mentality we as homo sapiens cannot seem to shake. Throughout history we have relied on clothing to be the universal language. As any costume designer will tell you, you know all you need to know about a character within the first few seconds of seeing them based on the clothing they're wearing. Their class, age, gender, profession, personal hygiene, reliability and character can be revealed entirely based on the way they're dressed. Whether in world wars or defending tribal territory, being able to communicate who you are and where you belong at a moments glance has saved thousands of lives. In primitive tribes there is a solid foundation of fulfilment and contentment that the entire fabric of their being is based upon, humbly accepting roles gifted to them in the group and honouring them throughout all that they do. Unlike in Western societies progression is not the aim and it certainly isn't expected, but gifted and encouragingly accepted by all. What we wear everyday is the uniform of our modern day tribes, we forget that we as humans seek to belong and live in communities. Unfortunately with the advancement of our society we have become more classist and less tribal. Progression in technology and science results in us thinking less about safety, health and togetherness and more about moving up in our social circles or getting ourselves invited to the right parties to connect with the “right people”. This disengagement and insecurity we have unknowingly created amongst ourselves, from the comfort of our homes has led to a severe feeling of disconnect; seeping into our minds and leaving us power hungry and grossly ambitious. We use the language of dressing more for convincing ourselves and others of our role in society, or as the saying goes: ‘dress for the job you want to have’.

So what is it that we’re really missing? Since the beginning of time, we have developed deeply rooted connections to things we collect and surround ourselves with. Tribes all over the world incorporate the clothing they wear into the very fabric of their culture; every colour and embroidered patch has some sort of symbolism or sentimentality attached to it. You see extraordinary headdresses and full body jewellery, each with countless hours of craftsmanship behind them. They value the importance and significance each item has, appreciating that the more time and love you put into it, the more you eventually get out of it. Surrounding ourselves with visually pleasing things is actually massively beneficial to our mental well being. As Plato stated: ‘beautiful objects are whispering truths to us about the good life. We find things beautiful when we see in them qualities we need but are lacking in our own lives.’, or Schopenhauer’s slightly darker take on the subject: ‘We surround ourselves in beautiful things so as to project our insecurities onto a separate vessel.’ Plato continued by observing the severity of choosing to surround ourselves with visually unappealing objects. Something we consider ugly is essentially flaunting troubling and flawed characteristics in front of us, displaying less that acceptable role models, something vital in self growth. Therefor it is the responsibility of artists, painters, poets, designers and sculptors, to help us live our best lives. In the West we seem to have completely disregarded this discovery by almost entirely disconnecting with our clothing, developing a toxic relationship with the clothes we wear. Only a generation before people considered the curation of their wardrobes a deeply meaningful and very personal affair. They would have their colour charts done, consult tailors, buy quality to last and then once they finally fell apart they would take the time to have them mended. Gone are the days that fathers hand down their favourite pair of leather boots, resoled countless times yet still going as strong as the day they were purchased; only riddled with character and as comfortable as being in your own skin. Mothers no longer pass down their favourite cashmere jumpers that they had treasured so dearly, and worn until it had patches on the sleeves, only for it to be as warm and as treasured by the next in line.

The desire for sentimentality and preservation seems to have been completely lost on our generation. This has led to a dramatic decrease in creativity and skill, we rely on huge corporations to provide us with the instant but short gratification of our latest purchases. We all rush to the nearest department store to fill our baskets with the latest fad so we fit in with the tribe we seem to have been placed in, and less so “found”. We see people in troves stepping out in window displays, every crop top, snakeskin boot or leather trouser seems to find its way onto each body craving the acceptance and belonging they're missing in their own lives. We have mindlessly created this void through years of blissful ignorance and lack of self exploratory thought, due to an overload of entertainment created as an extravagant smoke screen. All sense of individuality disappeared the minute fast fashion entered the scene. Each week another tonne of discarded polyester finding itself in a landfill, only for the the cycle to start again.

I have always been drawn to boyish clothing, for as long as I can remember. It was initially because I saw them more in the practical sense, it is much more challenging climbing trees in skirts and tights. The laddering would be preposterous. As I grew older and began hearing the commentary, with a sense of bewilderment in their voices, as to why I dressed like a boy. So I began to question myself. Why did I? Why didn't I grow up and follow in the footsteps of my peers, dressed in the latest mini skirts and crop tops? Luckily for me, I was born into a generation that had had that discussion long before I was a twinkle in my parents eyes.

I wanted to question the psychology behind why we all seem to have such a strong pull towards our particular styles. In particular, why do women seem to feel that they need to dress like men to be taken seriously? Why are we more confident in a pair of trousers? Everyone is familiar with being told to put their thinking caps on, it just so happens that there’s more to this statement than we as school children had ever considered. Adam Galinsky and Hajo Adam from the Northwestern University kindly conducted an experiment: they took a group of people from a variety of backgrounds and sat them down to take a test. This test required them to pay close attention for long periods of time but before they took the test, they handed them a white coat. They told them that the coat belonged to a doctor, a figure immediately associated with a sharp mind and a responsible manner. Once they had finished the test, they gave the same white coat to a different group of people. Except this time they told them it was an artists smock, a seemingly less intimidating profession. The results of the test were astounding. Those in the coats claiming to be those belonging to doctors scored marks incomparable to those of the apparent artist smocks. They explained in the Journal of Experimental Social Physiology that ‘The clothes we wear have power not only over others, but also over ourselves,’, this has been named “enclothed cognition”. They suggest that the feelings we associate with certain garments, through preconceived judgements, we seem to adopt for ourselves while wearing them. We become the person we think we should be when we’re so closely connected to an object we relate synonymously to the identity of the profession. The language of dress is such an effective coding system that we can actually change our personality and our approach to situations by changing the way we think, giving meaning and life to the phrase “to walk in someone else's shoes”. The term “enclothed cognition” was derived from “embodied cognition”: a study in how your mind and your body respond to each other, suggestion being the strongest factor. This research into exploring how your movement affects your mental state led to the investigation of body posture. Dana R. Carney from Columbia University assessed how your deportment effects both your physiology and behaviour, and how great an impact it has on making a man appear “masculine”. Their test consisted of lining men and women up against a wall for short period of time, where they were then asked to asses their feelings of power. Through DNA samples researches measured hormones levels before and after the test, noticing that higher levels linked to display of power. The results confirmed that movement is very closely linked to conduct and mood, and as journalist Jessica Hilo says ‘Rather than mind over matter, perhaps we should think mass over mind’. When speaking of pre conceived judgments, menswear in the West has always been about making a figure seem taller and broader. A biological symbol for dominance and strength, the leader of the pack. Historically men have gone to great lengths to obtain this stature by using top hats, high heels and shoulder pads to create a more intimidating physique. The military has also had a large part in reaffirming this stigma, the most masculine profession one can think of. The epitome of mindless, undeniable testosterone. Through this we have continued to identify trousers with strength and power. Katherine Hepburn is probably one of the most famous examples of a rebellious attitude towards feminine clothing. In a 1981 interview with Barbara Walters she proclaimed ‘I put on pants 50 years ago and declared a sort of middle road,’. When she was a child, as all tomboys can surely relate, Hepburn wore her brothers clothes. She shaved her head and had the other kids call her Jimmy. She reasoned that although she never felt like she was a boy, she wanted to dress the part as ‘the boys had all the fun’. Which I relate to, its depressing to admit, but there is no denying that as little girls we were separated into two groups: the “girly girls” or the “tom-boys”. It was a sure thing that if you were in the first group, even as children, you knew that the clothing associated was something entirely impractical and flouncy. Furthering that, your already programmed preconceived judgement would also tell you that you would probably be playing with dolls and brushing hair. A concept that was repulsively boring to most of us, especially those that wanted to do what the boys were doing. So from an early age we completely rejected the idea of a physically harmless outfit choice.

During the journey from dress to suit, women were constrained by the impracticality of a pre- World War II society, where women were still being arrested for wearing trousers in public. All the while the leader in psychoanalysis Sigmund Freud was responding aggressively to the idea of women in “mens clothes”, blurting out claims such as ‘penis envy’ and ‘a sure sign of lesbianism’. Meanwhile Katherine Hepburn was leading the way for her gender; choosing to use the staff entrance after being informed that women were not allowed to wear slacks in the lobby of the Claridge Hotel. Or when the director hid her blue jeans on set in hopes of forcing her into a skirt, where she proceeded to unapologetically walk around in her knickers until they were returned to her. In the same conversation with Barbara Walters she stated ‘I have not lived as a woman. I have lived as a man,’ ‘I’ve just done what I damn well wanted to and I made enough money to support myself, and I ain’t afraid of being alone.’. I find it depressing and concerning how much of a rebellion this is not only in her time, but ours. The mind blowing self confidence so many disregarded as arrogance due to their own insecurity. Why is it that the idea of following a trodden path is carved into our very cores? Hepburn was a legendary force of nature that felt like a well needed slap to our disoriented faces. Scottish born Tilda Swinton was asked how one “Tilda-fy's” themselves in an interview with Harpers Bazaar, a loaded question to the most pompous of characters. Swinton quickly and modestly replied ‘take your mascara off’. It is this careless attitude she constantly carries that makes her the icon she is today; the classic “french girl” phenomenon where the less someone cares about being attractive the stronger the pull towards them seems to be. While she adores fashion and makeup, her approach is refreshingly simple and demure. Cocooning herself in cashmere jumpers, kilts, mens shirts and classic silhouettes; selecting each piece for quality or sentimentality, her style is entirely based on comfort and confidence. With her tall frame and androgynous features, she is the prime example of how masculinity and femininity can coincide so flawlessly. Actress Sarah Bernhardt was another iconic force of nature that shocked Parisians with her custom-made trouser suit, as well as furthering her attempt to blur gender roles in her role of Hamlet in 1899.

The 19th century brought a needed change for woman, bringing a more active and involved lifestyle, it was considered acceptable to wear suits during sporting activities such as riding, walking or archery. As the years went on we saw the birth of the Suffragette suit. Formed as a direct response to the silly hobble skirts women of the day were wearing; a tightly hemmed skirt which made it almost impossible to walk. The new suit consisted of a more convenient skirt that was split at the ankles to allow long strides, along with a blouse and jacket. However it was fourteen years later that Coco Chanel made the first true translation of menswear to womenswear, completely redesigning the “modern woman”. Her iconic tweed suit, a material previously used for mens sportswear, was made up of a boxy jacket and tailored skirt. Its success lay in the subtlety of it, it was the needed push in the right direction without screaming of rebellion and radical change, allowing it to quietly become the only thing to wear. This suit created an entirely new look never seen before, it opened doors for women that were once unimaginable. The confidence and sophistication jump started something that was previously dormant in women: their own self worth, and the determination to live for themselves.

It was Marchel Rochas that made the full jump to trousers. He wanted women to have the best of both worlds, the elegance of the Chanel suit but with the practicality and freedom of trousers. Yet we have Yves Saint Laurent to thank for le smoking in 1966; the first tuxedo suit designed for women. As their once adored satin gowns lay heaped in a sad corner of their dressing room, they buttoned their new heavily lapelled smoking jackets and slipped on their trousers. This was the solidification of using dress as a way of settling the barrier between the sexes. Probably one of the most “masculine” jackets in existence through being so strongly tied to the whole idea of sitting in a room of men, smoking their cigars and drinking their brandy - but now on a woman. Radical. As Marlen Komar so brilliantly explained, with women starting to enter the “mans world” in the workforce ‘they needed a symbol that proved they were just as serious and competent as the guys riding up the elevator with them to the office. Apparently the only way to convince male- dominated boardrooms of that was to copy their look.’. We needed to appeal to their tribal mentality by easing the blow of a gender they had thought would stay in the box they had subconsciously put us in. Erik Satie’s principle states clearly, ‘if you want to subvert the bourgeoise you should look exactly like them.’

It has always been clear that the way we dress reflects the times we’re living in, and this is a clear example of the correlation between an economic rise and the fashion that follows. In Fashion Talks: Undressing the Power of Style, Shira Tarrant discusses how the expectation to wear a pantsuit became so great that people would not take you seriously as a business women if you weren’t wearing one. This amuses me, as it has seemed to transition from restricting women from professional lives because of their skirts, to restricting them from careers if they weren't wearing a suit. During Hilary Clintons run for president she wore nothing but pantsuits. This was hardly to do with the simple fact that she liked them, but because it made her feel professional and lessened the stark difference between herself and her fellow runners. One very important reason is that it eliminated the ridiculous chatter about what she was wearing, a question undoubtedly asked in every female interview. Clinton wanted what she wore to do its job in the simplest of terms, to give her the confidence and the comfort she needed to do the job she needed to do. But alas, even one of the worlds most confident politicians is not void of scrutiny. It all boils down to the fact that these suits were a derivative of menswear, therefor women are continuously disparaged for trying to emulate men. Shouldn’t we have the right to wear whatever we like? I have always admired the women that had the courage to put themselves first. Without the self absorption of youth, or even the arrogance needed for defiance, we would not have had half of the icons we have today. The ones that challenged social norms and disregarded the rules vomited up by the sheep of society.

Fashion is such a powerful force, and we need to educate each other of the importance of its language. As through these principles we will develop the tools needed to patch the gaping hole in society. One thing I have noticed is that the consistent in all the gentlewomen I admire is that you rarely find them talking about their “style”. If anything they’re offended by the question, repulsed by the conversation drifting to anything other than the work they’re so passionate about. We try our hardest to draw out the superficial in hopes of replicating their magic for ourselves, thinking that if we dress in the same way we might also capture those qualities we admire. If only we could all accept that by taking the time to play and think, we might figure out that the psychology behind the way we dress is important, and might help us more than we think.


* * *
 
India in Myanmar

When India shared this with me, I had recently read the background to a Banksy artwork, The Holocaust Lipstick, so the power of the body/mind connection was very much with me...
When British troops liberated Bergen-Belsen concentration camp on April 15, 1945, they encountered 40,000 prisoners in 200 huts. They also discovered 10,000 bodies. By April 28 everyone had been buried. Although 500 inmates continued to die every day, at least there were no more corpses lying about. British Lieutenant Colonel Mervin W. Gonin, commander of the 11th Light Field Ambulance, R.A.M.C. was among the first British soldiers to liberate Bergen-Belsen in 1945, and recorded this story…
“It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don’t know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering around about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tatooed on their arm. At last they could taken an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity.”

Thank you, India!
To all the family,,,
Be
Dream
Love
Thrive...

One love,
Lisbie x
 Rachael with daughters Freya and India, in Indonesia

siblings ~ India, Hamish and Freya

Rachael and her brood, just a blink of an eye ago


Sunday, July 7, 2019

poetry in the prose of life

Good day Family!

Coming up following this is a guest post by Hendrika Haasen.  Some of you may remember Hendrika from her comments on the blog, and the poem she wrote about Malcolm...


A huge thank you to Hendrika for her friendship and generosity, and for her interest in our family - an interest which has been a real gift to me.  That interest has sparked a redirection of my own view, away from what has come to seem to me as a dissolution of our Vincentian heritage, towards new adventures in the family saga.  The Vincentian base is thriving in new ways – Rachael (Catherine) returned from ‘foreign’ after decades in exile to create her own paradise on the homestead of her childhood, and her charming Airbnb provided a base at Queensbury for Hendrika and Randy to experience Vincy first hand.

My youth, when Daddy and his brothers and all their children called the Valley home, always seemed to me blessed and, dare I say, magical? With Granny as an anchor, the family met every day. No doubt there were adult stresses – financial, marital, personality differences – but the connections were always solid and in play. The family fortunes and adventures had fluctuated wildly over the centuries, but there was always a sense that we were people with a core that endured. A core and culture of decency, respect, humility, gratitude and kindness, and an abiding love for our terroir. That heritage transcends national boundaries.

Photos that Cousin Patricia thoughtfully shared with family members recently tell a story of love and loyalty and delight in each other as she and Niall celebrated (at the orchestration of their fine young people) their 50th wedding anniversary in the Lyragh Estate Hotel, outside the town of Kilkenny where Niall lived as a child.  

Riceal, Ross, Aisling, Brioc, Niall, Patricia

Louis, Melanie (Brioc), Delilah, Aisling, Amelie Michael & Brioc

This Spring sister Bunny got a chance to drop in on the McHughs as her husband Brian O’Brien finally got to visit the land of his ancestors.

Uncle Langley’s brood also had celebrations this summer – in Ontario.  A big birthday for Cousin Jennifer and a wedding for Beej’s handsome grandson (Amanda’s son) Dax, to Lovely Marlena.  Beej, who lived in the U.S., Canada, Jamaica and Barbados, and returned to St Vincent to live years ago, also visited Maureen’s tribe in Tanzania this year. 

The family is growing in the United States too.  On June 17, Adam Yaseen, son of Raneen and Roger Bacchus, and grandson of my sis, Brenda, was born. 

Also thriving in Ontario is brother Colin’s posse.  As Hendrika relates in her post, it is Colin who provided her introduction to our story and our selves.  Colin and Tamara and their children (Daniel, Paul, Nathan, Sarah) have a dog training business, which built on his uncanny connection to canines.  In our family, you think Colin, or his mother Auntie Eileen, you think dogs!  Check out his website and see what his clients have to say about his work...

Here he is, early on, always with an animal in the picture...


Thanks, Hendrika - you've added more to my life than I can say!  
Thanks Family - I'm grateful you're mine.
One love,
Lisbie x
“When we share -- that is poetry in the prose of life.” 
Sigmund Freud

"...the universe remains
an incomprehensible wheel of
grave attraction."
Eleanor Lerman



Mellow Vibes

“Well, to tell you the truth, my first wife was a Timmins.” Boysie (Colin) replied to my question about what he might have heard about the town of Timmins, the place that George and Louie Blencowe (née Fraser) eventually moved to with their family, and the place where I grew up.

Lisbie has asked me to write about how I have come to know the Punnett family and I’ve started with a bit of a conversation that I had with Boysie.

This exchange came after our Sadie had spent almost four weeks with the Punnett family in order to reverse the canine anxiety that had led her to claw a hole through our bedroom drywall so deep that some of an outer brick could be seen. By the time of the above conversation I had come to a deep appreciation for Boysie’s wisdom, which focused on but was not limited to dogs, and I had developed an equally deep curiosity about the place that is so often in his conversations and such a part of who he is, St. Vincent (a place with much more sensible dog owners than Toronto!). On the web I had found the TV program Crab and Callaloo, Stuart Hall’s series on the Caribbean, Redemption Song, articles from Searchlight, and Letters from the Great Aunts. On that blog there was mention of Louie Blencowe, and this unusual last name was known to me from my teenage years. I was in the same class as Michael Blencowe and his siblings also attended our small Catholic high school. I had a vague memory of Michael answering that typical Canadian question, “Where are you from?” with the answer his family was from a small Caribbean island that no one in Canada would have heard of. Could this Louie Blencowe be the Mrs. Blencowe I knew who was a friend of my mother’s through church and whose husband did some mechanical work for my father on the farm? I found Mrs. Blencowe’s obituary that included the first name that I had not known (my mother always referred to Mrs. Blencowe when she spoke of her) and listed Eileen as her sister so it seemed true that through our dog I had gotten to know extended family of the Blencowes.


So the next time Sadie stayed for boarding I had a chat with Boysie about Monica, Michael, and Margaret (I don’t think Mark and Marie came up at this time). I asked if, from the communication between Boysie’s mother and her sister, the family had formed an impression of what life was like in Timmins, since I imagined that it was a stark contrast to St. Vincent. Boysie’s response was the sentence that I started this with, and that I still find rather incredible. This conversation confirmed a feeling that had been growing in me that meeting Boysie and the Punnett family was, for some reason, what the cosmos intended. How else to explain knowing two branches of one Vincentian family in Timmins and Toronto?

This blog was a very important part of the cosmos’ plan. Lisbie had a post concerning memory and language as elements of personal identity that I found very interesting so I responded and since then we have been corresponding by email about identity, St. Vincent and the Caribbean, fiction and poetry, and the nuts and bolts of our lives. This correspondence has been the basis of a friendship that has also taken me once to Ottawa and twice to Annapolis Royal for some wonderful in person chats originally with Lisbie, but later with Arthur as well. On the first trip to Annapolis Royal Arthur confirmed for me that the woman with the Timmins last name who Boysie had been married to was indeed connected, through an earlier marriage, to the Timmins brothers of Montreal. They had made their fortune during the gold rush that created the town to which they gave their name, where Michael spent his teenage years and I grew up. (Feel free to fill in the appropriate cliché here.) On that first Annapolis Royal trip, which by chance coincided with Lisbie’s birthday celebration, my sister-in-law, Ivy (of Nova Scotian heritage) and I were introduced to the experience that I’ll hazard to guess Arthur has often known and that he helped create on this occasion, of being enveloped in the web of connections, or at least some of them, that characterizes Lisbie’s life with her family. Bunny and her people were an important part of that celebration, so I had the chance to take a lovely morning walk with her and I got a glimpse into her life in Atlanta and she shared some of her memories growing up with Lisbie et al.

Ivy (Hendrika's sister-in-law), Hendrika, Marlene (Max Serrao's daughter, so Lisbie's sister's sister ~ i.e. Bunny's sister), Lisbie, Bunny, Brian O'Brien (Bunny's husband)

Three years or so after the first consultation with Boysie and Daniel, my husband, Randy, and I were fortunate enough to meet other members of the family when we stayed with Catherine (Rachael) in what we learned was once Malcolm’s pool (or is it snooker? I can never remember) room. Perhaps pool house would be a more accurate term for the space that is now a lovely AirBnB suite. Here I experienced one more Timmins connection when I told Catherine the “Well, to tell you the truth, my first wife …” story, and she told me about the two years she and Rocky spent living in Timmins with the Blencowes. By this point I was almost not surprised. Later during our visit John and Denise were kind enough to invite us to a wonderful lunch that ended up lasting into the evening, and we have Catherine to thank for getting us, Brenda, and another guest of hers to the other side of the island for a day of conversation and family history. Of course we enjoyed a few meals at Zen’s bush bar and heard more stories about Boysie’s way with dogs and talked a bit about raising children. Mike Kirkwood kindly shared some of his own history as well as that of the family and the island, including the story of Ashton Warner, who was listed in the slave census for Cane Grove near the time of emancipation, a document which I have seen, on line, in the original form. Catherine’s guest invited us into Malcom’s tree house and we were able to experience that view of the sweep of the Buccament Valley. This and our other experiences confirmed what I had read from Lisbie and Brenda’s accounts of the beauty and the spirit of the place. The donkey’s visits near our patio rounded out our experiences.


When asked about the interest I have developed in St. Vincent I explain that I see the island as a microcosm of the effects of the currents of history that have washed over and shaped the world we know now. The Punnett family represents, with compassion, intelligence and charm, an expression of those currents that have reached as far as Timmins, and I’m sure even farther still. I’m so glad I’ve gotten to know some of you and look forward to more stories, both in person and here, about both the past and the present.

Randy, Lisbie, and Hendrika in Chester, Nova Scotia in June 2019

Hendrika

“It is not every day that
the world arranges
itself into a poem.”
Wallace Stevens

Saturday, May 4, 2019

follow-up on Elizabeth Punnett Mackenzie (1772 - 1795)

Greetings all!

We recently had an anonymous response to a 2016 post about Elizabeth Punnett Mackenzie of Generation 5, and her husband Alexander Kenneth
https://greataunts.blogspot.com/2016/04/elizabeth-punnett-mackenzie-1772-1795.html

The comment can be found here...
https://greataunts.blogspot.com/2016/04/elizabeth-punnett-mackenzie-1772-1795.html?showComment=1556919720737#c6830858032508004243

Unknown's comment got Brenda sleuthing... and I think the exchange of emails on a fascinating adventure story (albeit with a tragic end for our Elizabeth) is worth sharing with you...

Unknown May 2, 2019
Thank you for this great review of his life. He is my 4th great grandfather through his daugther hectorina australia mackenzie m. charles langley. after i read the memoir i thought it would make a great movie, so im glad i wasnt the only one who enjoyed it.


Elizabeth Punnett May 3, 2019
how wonderful it is that we have the ability to make this connection centuries later! Mr. Mackenzie certainly had a life of great adventure!
Thank you for making contact. I am curious as to how you happened upon us?
One love,
Lisbie

Saturday, May 4, 2019
Brenda Punnett to Elizabeth
Since re-reading the Mackenzie article last night I have been fired up ! Googled for information on the vessel he mentioned, Sarah Rebecca, but the only one I can see , within the time frame is James & Rebecca out of SVG which was captured by France.
His story reminds me of the resilience of the people who settled in places like this. Imagine setting out for a year’s holiday in those perilous times and leaving behind a year old baby?? Yet, amusing as you pointed out, in his description of Elisabeth’s countenance (?)!
Also reminded of her cousin, Miss Nanton which confirms our finding in the Registry that the first Christopher (1739 Bds - d.svg 1786), father of our Elizabeth was married to a Miss Nanton. Her brother, Christopher Punnett married in 1803 an Elizabeth Davidson, who maybe the Davidson friend of Elizabeth, as also mentioned by Mackenzie.
So much can be probably gleaned by studying the... info on Blair Ewing’s family tree. Each session brings home a tidbit!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_ships_captured_in_the_18th_century

Saturday, May 4, 2019
Elizabeth Reynolds to Brenda

Oh Sis, how clever to have thought to google it!
As you advised, Wikipedia states that "James and Rebecca" was captured in 1794 by the French while on a voyage from Saint Vincent to London.
Mackenzie wrote that “In July 1794, Mrs. Mackenzie, myself, a free woman and a negro boy of my own embarked on board the “Sarah Rebecca” for London, leaving our sweet little girl under the care of good old Mrs. Punnett (Mrs. M.’s mother) with the intention of returning in less than 12 months.”
It would seem that Alexander erred as to the name of the vessel, and my Sister found him out!
So, you got me fired up too. I've copied the family tree into a new document and added information (in bold red) that's not on the original - like Elizabeth Punnett Mackenzie's mother being a Nanton, and the pertinent Mackenzie info.
As you pointed out, Alexander's memoir mentions both Nanton and Davidson in relation to his wife. Also, the person that shared the original piece you sent me was a Bill Davidson... I wonder if his connection to Mackenzie was through Elizabeth Davidson Punnett - the sister-in-law of Elizabeth Punnett Mackenzie?
I went to his website but it is no more, so googled him -
Davidson, William Alexander Crawford
Passed away at Toronto General Hospital on Friday November 25th, 2016 at the age of 73
Dearly loved husband of Joyce Datt of Oshawa. Much loved dad of Lindsay Sutton and her husband Stephen of Blackstock and Lesley Jackson and her husband Steven of Georgetown. Fondly remembered by Vic and Navin. Cherished grandad of Emily, Alexandra, Ember, Cohen and papa Bill of Nisha and Maya.

Much loved brother of Helen Davidson of Scotland, Linda Davidson of Australia and Irene Scott and her husband Stuart of South Africa.

I recently read a strange detective story located in New Orleans after Katrina (Claire DeWitt and The City of The Dead by Sara Gran). There are a few quotes in it that come to mind as we play detective with the family tree - like...
“All I can do is leave you clues… and hope that you will not only solve your mysteries, but choose carefully the clues you leave behind. Make your choices wisely, ma’moiselle. The mysteries you leave will last for lifetimes after you are gone.”
x

Family, I hope you find this saga as interesting as Brenda and I do. We find it such fun hearing from other folk who relate to these stories. While the blog was on hiatus, there were a few comments that I need to look at, respond, and publish.  Soon come...

We'd love to hear from you.
One love,
Lisbie x

Monday, April 15, 2019

for love of an island


Hello Family!     

Yesterday I read a piece that Jamaican Dr. Honor Ford-Smith wrote about visiting the birthplace of her countryman, author and poet Claude McKay (1889–1948), and I was blown away by this portion:
“There are so many places like this dotted around the region.  So inspiring they take your breath away and so lovely they drown out all the bickering and the bad mind and the fashionable cynicism and there is much to be cynical about but when you go there you feel as if you are rooted in the energy of the forces that speak through the voices that call out the remaking of the world.”

I got to thinking about the power of place in our family’s history… evidenced compellingly by the return of two of Aunt Thelma Punnett Kirkwood’s children, Mickey and Maureen, who left St. Vincent as children for South Africa.


I’ve always been taken aback when people claim to become so used to their surroundings as to lose awareness of them. Growing up as the third generation of Punnetts to live in our Valley, it seemed to me that we were always acutely conscious of, and grateful for, the magnificent landscape that was the backdrop to our lives.

Whether it’s
- the thrill of the mist descending from the mountains towards us at Twenty Hill
- the cool and thrum of the water in the exterior pipes as I clambered up them barefoot into my parents’ bathroom
- the verdant magic of walking in the forest at Dallaway within earshot of the trickle or rage of the river
- the first art project of my life, looking for images in the cliffs and evening clouds of Byahaut
- a moonlight walk in the Valley
- the purely glorious vista from Acres, or
- the stirring of return as I hit the Rillan Hill church and saw the Valley open ahead…
the beauty of the Buccament Valley is with me in the most visceral of ways, wherever I am, and I believe that to be true of us all who grew up there. 

Our family is experiencing the fourth century of an ever-changing island, and some of those changes have been hard to bear. I always have in mind what Daddy used to say about his own father, who he claimed was a man who embraced change and even believed we would one day get to the moon! Honor’s powerful words feel full of hope and vigour, and a reminder that our world has been remade before, and can again be remade for the greater good, and that failures and flaws are not the single story of our family, our Valley, or our Country. May we be “rooted in the energy of the forces that speak through the voices that call out the remaking of the world.”

The Melisizwe Brothers - Welcome to St. Vincent & the Grenadines

Skinny Fabulous, with Rodney Small on pan - This Island is Mine

Just fuh so, this poem by the politician and writer Phyllis Shand Allfrey, sister of Dominican Celia Frost (wife of Bajan Frostie who came to work with Cable & Wireless and later was editor of the Vincentian).

Love for an island
Love for an island is the sternest passion;
pulsing beyond the blood through roots and loam
it overflows the boundary of bedrooms
and courses past the fragile walls of home.

Those nourished on the sap and the milk of beauty
(born in its landsight) tremble like a tree
at the first footfall of the dread usurper –
a carpet-bagging mediocrity.

Theirs is no mild attachment, but rapacious
craving for a possession rude and whole;
lovers of islands drive their stake, prospecting
to run the flag of ego up the pole,

sink on the tented ground, hot under azure,
plunge in the heat of earth, and smell the stars
of the incredible vales. At night, triumphant,
they lift their eyes to Venus and to Mars.

Their passion drives them to perpetuation:
they dig, they plant, they build and they aspire
to the eternal landmark; when they die
the forest covers up their set desire,

Salesmen and termites occupy their dwellings,
their legendary politics decay.
yet they achieve an ultimate memorial:
they blend their flesh with the beloved clay.

Family, ah begging yuh, leave us some comments about the Valley moments small or huge, that live with you.  I’d just love for us to share those indelible moments with each other.  Pretty please… with icing sugar…
Are there places or experiences that “…take your breath away and … drown out all the bickering and the bad mind and the fashionable cynicism…”?  Tell us, please…

One more piece of music by Vinci Skinny Fabulous with some regional cohorts, filmed in the homeland.
Skinny Fabulous, Machel Montano & Bunji Garlin - Famalay

One love,
Lisbie x

“Diversity may be the hardest thing for a society to live with, and perhaps the most dangerous thing for a society to be without.”
William Sloane Coffin Jr.


For a lagniappe, as Trinidad and Louisiana folk say, here's a poem of Claude McKay’s  that might especially resonate with those of us in the diaspora…  

The Tropics of New York
Bananas ripe and green, and ginger root
     Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
     Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,

Sat in the window, bringing memories
     of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical skies
     In benediction over nun-like hills.

My eyes grow dim, and I could no more gaze;
     A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways
     I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

And a charming animation of the poem https://youtu.be/ICY0jR1cdQI
x

Sunday, March 31, 2019

a loving plea to our far-flung family to share and save our stories


Howdy Family, 

it's been waaaay longer than we would have liked since Brenda and I tended this blog.  Life's "crazy arabesques" claimed our attention, but we really want to get back to collecting our stories - old and contemporary, anecdotal and historical, reflective and imaginative, factual and speculative... the stuff that captures how we were, how we are, how we wish to be, along with what we're doing, and thinking, and planning.  

Lots has happened since our last Great Aunts missive...


Our niece Claire and her husband Ron gave Kim and Mark their third grandchild when Aaron Edward Mark Rollock was born in London on August 27, 2017. 



On February 09 this year Nephew Matthew and his Nikki had twins, Bella and Noah Mark, to join Sophia, making them a family of 5, living in Bedford in the UK. Does anyone know of any other Punnett twins?


Niece Zen gave little Blaze a brother, Aatlaz, on April 24, 2018. Here she is during that pregnancy, at an exhibition of her paintings in Saint Vincent.



Sister Bunny's son Christopher and lovely Karina had Baby #2 on January 31, 2018, in Ft. Myers, Florida.  Asha Sabine O'Brien, joined the family just shy of the second birthday of her sister, Morena Quinn.

Sister Lynn's second grandchild, Adalynn Rose Jane Hurst, was born to Carla and Eric Hurst on December 29, 2017 in Acworth, Georgia. Ady celebrated her first birthday with family in Trinidad.
Carla, Luke, Lynn, Eric & Ady, Toro, Luke's daughter Gianna, Laura, Wendy, Malini

Roger and his Raneen are making Brenda a grandmother in June! 


I think Betty Jane may be the first great- grandmother of our generation!  Amanda's daughter Megan gave birth to Sebastian, pictured here, in about June last year, in Ontario, Canada.

Nephew Tristan, who lives in Miami, Florida, visited Patricia's clan in Ireland and again in Spain, making us very happy that Generation # 11 are keeping family bonds alive while frolicking in "foreign". 


Brenda tells me that Benjamin Sky was born in October 2018 to Alexandra and John Luke, joining River and Lily Rose in their clan.

There have been losses, struggles and illness too. 

Uncle Angus Fraser, the family holy man, left this world on October 7, 2018. He was remarkable in his warmth and goodness, and dedicated his life to the service of mankind, accomplishing much, and leaving a legacy - in quantifiable terms and in hearts around the world.  I'd love to see Cousin Betty Jane or Patricia do a post on that treasured gentleman.  His exit leaves the elegant and feisty Laurie Fraser Tuddenham as the one remaining member of our parents' generation.  Auntie Laurie, keep on keeping on - we love you!



















I remember hearing that when Britain declared war on Germany, a telegram was sent from the people of Barbados to the people of Britain saying something like, "Go ahead, England, Barbados is behind you!"  I think we've all been sending that message to beloved Cousin Patricia as she has been going through the health mill with her trademark humour and courage, and with the loving, devoted support of her very own posse of Husband and children. Go good, Miss Paartrisha!

Much is missing from this attempt at filling the time since we lapsed, but we intend to do our best to stay current, while capturing old stories, and we hope that family and friends of all generations will pitch in with us.  Please, do help us stay au courant...

One love,
Lisbie  

below is an article on the importance of family stories you might like to read (reprinted without permission, of course...)

March 27, 2019
Melissa Martin, author, columnist, educator, and therapist. She resides in the US.
People in all countries tell stories about their history. Communities are hubs for talking and listening. Every person has a story, and every person is a story. So families are full of stories.
“When families are invited to share their stories, folktales and culture, there are a number of benefits for children, families and schools: Encouraging students to talk with family members about their cultural heritage shows respect and interest in students’ diverse cultures, making students and families feel more connected to the school. Families are offered authentic, academically oriented ways of being involved in the school without themselves needing to be highly proficient in English or numerous academic subjects.”
Every family has a book full of stories. Account of births and deaths—and the colourful happenings in-between. Each generation is unique. Tales are photographs made up of word pictures. Of course, some yarns are embellished or exaggerated. Also, some stories are full of laughter while others are full of tears. We reach back into our memories and relive the times of the past. Family history is embossed in our DNA.
Recently, my aunt Judy told me a story about the time Lydia, my grandmother, square danced for Rosalynn Carter. I guess the Carters visited Portsmouth, Ohio, during their campaign for the presidency. Lydia bowed and kissed the hand of Rosalynn after the dance ended—and the lady from Georgia bestowed a glowing compliment upon the pioneer woman from Appalachia.
Moreover, who can forget our witty and wacky relative, “Uncle Beanie.” He bought, sold, and traded antiques in Scioto County and beyond. As a kid, I was mesmerised by his house full of goodies. It looked like a store of treasures. Moreover that man could play a tune on the piano! Without taking any piano lessons, he learned to tickle the ivories by ear. His sister, Joyce lived next door. She wore red lipstick and sparkly jewellery. My cousin Kim and I adored Joyce and thought she must have been a former movie star.
My grandmother Hila was the queen of the garden. She ploughed, planted, and produced veggies fit for royalty. Her fingers picked, snapped, and cooked the best green beans in southern Ohio. Snuggling under my grandmother’s homemade quilts on a cold winter’s night and examining the different pieces of fabric in the warm daylight are fond memories of yesteryear.
Patchwork quilts lay at the foot of every bed. She used remnants and scraps of material from old clothes and sheets for quilt pieces. Every homemade quilt told a story. Instead of ink and words, the fabric’s colour, texture, quality, pattern, style, and stitching give an account of why, what, where, when and how. Hila hailed from the backwoods of Kentucky.
In her book, “Appalachian Elegy” bell hooks (name not capitalised by her choice) wrote of life’s harsh realities in a collection of poems inspired by her childhood in the isolated hills and hidden hollows of Kentucky. History lives on when our words are written in a book.
Storytelling is as old as the mountains and valleys. While hunting or gardening, families shared stories. At the dinner table or the bedside, families shared stories. Spoken stories served the purpose of informing, entertaining, educating and passing down beliefs, values and ideas.
“Family stories are tales about people, places, and events related to the members of our immediate family or their ancestors. Family stories casually chatted about at the dinner table or regaled again and again at family gatherings can parallel great epics or notable short stories.
The memorable stories of our lives and of others in our family take on special importance because they are true, even if everyone tells different versions of the same event. These tales are family heirlooms held in the heart, not the hand. They are a gift to each generation that preserves them by remembering them and passing them on.”