Judith Johnson
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House History

25/8/2012

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I have already written about my efforts at writing local history in relation to the names on Southborough War Memorial (Past and Present blog 01/07/12).  I think my Book Wish
List - currently over 80 books long! - accurately reflects my perennial passion for all things historical.

There's a poem on my Poetry page about Erddig, the National Trust house formerly belonging to my father's old friend Philip Yorke, and there is an excellent book - The Servants' Hall by Merlin Waterson, which tells its domestic history. We don't have to own a grand house, though, before we can compile a history of our home - anyone can do it, especially with the increasing availability of the internet, which yields all kinds of goodies.

We live in a simple semi-detached brick house, built at the turn of the twentieth-century, so no Roman remains in evidence, but even here there are fascinating things we could incorporate in a house history and hand on to the next owner. For example, the original Extract of Deed which the solicitor dusted down and sent to us when we moved in has a nice little map of the original plot, pictured below:

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We also know that there were several sons of this house who served in and were injured in the First World War. One of them at least worked in the local cricket-ball making industry on his return from the trenches, and we are told that home-work was carried out in the cellar. The Pathe news website has a wonderful film showing another Southborough man, Charlie Tingley, (whose brother incidentally is named on the Southborough War Memorial) making a cricket ball: http://www.britishpathe.com/video/cricket-balls/query/Southborough

Recently, when my husband and son were standing on our front door-step, a man going by in a van screeched to a halt, pulled in, and got out of his van clutching a scrap of paper (pictured below). He explained that a builder friend of his had found it below a floorboard, years back, when he was working on our house, and had always meant to hand it to a current owner. We weren't quite sure why we had suddenly been given it, though perhaps the man had heard of my local history activities? 

Anyhow, this sort of things can contribute to a pleasant feeling of groundedness, aside from anything else. So don't declutter everything - keep a few choice items back when you go to the tip!

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Corvus

18/8/2012

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I love black birds of all kinds - blackbirds, of course, with their cheery whistling, yellow beaks, and bright inquisitive eyes, but also crows, rooks and ravens. 

A year or two back I bought the book Corvus - A Life with Birds by Esther Woolfson (Granta), for my son Tom, since we've always shared a joy in watching birds in the garden. I'd heard extracts from the book read on BBC Radio 4 while driving. I recently borrowed it from Tom, and found it a rich, enjoyable read. I was amused and delighted, but also informed - perfect result. This is what I like best about reading!

I was interested to read about the author's experience of, and love for, the birds which she has shared her house and garden with. The bird-watchers I regularly chat to at Bough Beech pooh-poohed the idea that anyone who takes birds from the wild into their house should be taken seriously. However, I think even they might enjoy this book.

Esther Woolfson tells her readers about the prejudices and myths surrounding the corvid family, and I am glad to have had my mind opened on the subject. I must admit to always having had a slightly ambivalent attitude to magpies. At primary school our teacher taught us that when we saw a magpie we should always say "Good afternoon, Mr Magpie, and how is your wife today?" in order to avoid bad luck, and I did just that for many years! 
 
There are many thoughts expressed beautifully in Corvus, but here is one of my favourite quotes:

"To believe that humans have a monopoly of the things that deepen life on this earth - memory, appreciation, imagination, emotion - seems both arrogant and simplistic; to imagine that, without a language we recognise, birds and animals exist in a world of thoughtlessness, of lesser communication, lesser feeling, surely wrong."


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Fun With Words

11/8/2012

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Our family, like many others, dearly loves words, and wordplay. My late father wrote songs and poetry in his young days, and he wrote and acted in plays with his siblings in their shared Edwardian childhood.  My siblings and I all loved puns, and the flurry of activity on facebook that starts up every now and then shows that we still do! We also enjoyed thrashing each other at Scrabble!

 When my son was small we had a lot of fun every morning before breakfast building up elaborate fantastical verbal structures with words, little firework displays of sparks catching fire from the other's ideas. In this way, playing led to his learning about how to use language to express himself.  When he had something to tell us, we tried hard to stop and listen carefully, and to talk back. And of course, having actors in the family made for ever-ready amusement at double-entendres!

On long car-journeys, my husband and I often compare words in Spanish, German, Italian, French and English etc with their Welsh equivalent. It's endlessly fascinating to see where Latin has endured in some instances, whereas in others the northern European has won out - eg with the word for milk: leche (Spanish), latte (Italian), lait (French) and llaeth (Welsh) 
are all obviously related, whereas the English word is brother to the German - milch.

A number of the words beginning with the letters 'sn' seem to have a family relationship, all with a bit of a nasty flavour eg sneer, snide, snigger, sneaky. When you say these words out loud, the tongue hisses and the top lip bunches up under the nose, which itself crinkles, the teeth below being bared. Is this a physical manifestation of an aggressive vocal expression, I wonder? 

I love language, languages, and dialects, and the smallest one of all, the nuclear family dialect, made up of shared experiences and family jokes - things misheard, lines from favourite films or songs, the things children got wrong, which stick around.  

Some expressions may have been handed down for generations. When my son was at art school, some Chinese students in his studio were highly amused to hear him say "Ay - ahh!" when he hit his thumb while making a canvas. They explained that this sounded like a Chinese expression made when in pain. He told them that it was something he had picked up from me. I've never been to China, but my father's grandfather exported wool from Wiltshire to Shanghai in the nineteenth-century, and the family lived out there for some years. Perhaps I inherited it from the generations before me? Who knows?


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The Mothers' Hospital

5/8/2012

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I have a special place in my heart for the Salvation Army, not just because of the practical hands-on way they practise the principles of their spiritual beliefs by coming to the aid of those of us who are less fortunate than others, but also because I gave birth to my son in the Mothers' Hospital, Hackney.

By the time Tom was born, in 1982, the Mothers' had been taken over by the NHS, but it was still staffed by a number of Salvation Army nurses. I had never been a regular churchgoer, nor was I a confirmed Christian, but at this powerfully moving time of my life, I found it profoundly comforting when the nurses came in to our small ward and offered prayers and hymns.

I was also grateful for the opportunity given by the hospital to stay in for almost a week, as I grew used to the idea of being a mother, and to having such a huge new responsibility now my son was in the world. The Mothers' had a number of traditions, one being that even if you were a repeat visitor to the maternity hospital, you were still invited to attend the lesson on bathing baby!

Over the 30 years since, from time to time I have met others who either gave birth or were born in the Mothers', perhaps most memorably the elderly lady I encountered while looking round the beautiful old synagogue in Dubrovnik (incidentally the only synagogue in Western Europe that remained open throughout WW2).

I will always be grateful to the Mothers' for the warm encouragement I was given. 
And I continue to be grateful that I live in a time and a place where that is available for all women, and equally aware that in many parts of the world this is not the case. My own mother had eight children by the time she was 36 years old.

For those who might be interested in reading about a time when this was not so in the UK, I can most highly recommend the wonderful book Maternity: Letters from Working Women, Collected by the Women's Co-operative Guild (Virago) edited by Margaret Llewelyn Davies, first published during the First World War, in 1915. Here follows an extract, with grateful thanks to Virago:

A WAGE-EARNING MOTHER (extract from longer letter)

"I myself had some very hard times, as I had to go out to work in the mill. I was a weaver, and we had a lot of lifting to do. My first baby was born before its time, from me lifting my piece off the loom on to my shoulder, as two of us had them to lift, and then carry them from the shed across the yard to be weighed. If I had been able to take care of myself I should not have had to suffer as I did for seven weeks before that baby was born and for three months after; and then there was the baby suffering as well, as he was a weak
little thing for a long time, and cost pounds that could have been saved had I been able to stay at home and look after myself. But I could not do so, as my husband was short of work; and when I had my second baby I had to work all through again, as my husband was short of work and ill at the time. So there was another poorly baby. While I was carrying this one he only worked three months out of the nine. I could not get any support at all then. I had to go out to work again at the month-end, and put the baby out to nurse. I had to get up at four in the morning, and get my baby out of bed, wash and dress it, and then leave home by five, as I had half an hour's walk to take my baby to my mother's, and then go to my work and stand all day till half-past five at night, and then the walk home again with my baby. I had to do this with three of them. I think you will understand I have had my share; and all my children have had to be brought with instruments. I have had six living children and one miscarriage.... "
Wages 28 shillings (£1.40) a week.

 Links for further reading on the Mothers' Hospital:
http://www1.salvationarmy.org.uk/uki/www_uki_ihc.nsf/stc-vw-sublinks/FFCF49855F479E718025704B0043C860?openDocument

http://health.hackneysociety.org/page_id__184_path__0p4p.aspx

http://www.homerton.nhs.uk/about-the-trust/our-history/mothers-hospital-1884-1986-/


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    Lifelong bookworm, love writing too. Have been a theatrical agent and reflexologist among other things, attitude to life summed up by Walt Whitman's MIRACLES.

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