...seeing both sides

... seeing both sides.

Last week I was chatting with the girl I usually see at the supermarket checkout and found we both have birthdays in October - yay.  Also, we both enjoy reading and watching movies, both have strong opinions on a variety of things and we both have a talent for seeing more than one view of a situation. This constant balancing act can be tiring but, we agreed, it does not make us indecisive.

I don't mind 'seeing both sides of the coin,' I wouldn't feel normal if I was different - but what is this condition called?  Do I have a syndrome or a disorder?

"It's a bilateral view," someone  said. But then, "No... I think that means having a mammogram of both sides."

"You are your own discussion group," said someone else. 

Google finds some interesting comments.

"Seeing both sides of an issue only gets you halfway to your goal.   In many big companies, the unintended dysfunctional consequence of doing so is passivity and fence sitting.

But I think that comes from having too many people involved.  And, fence sitting is ambivalence, conflicting reactions or mixed feelings.  That is different.

"The best decisions come when you hold two opposing ideas in your mind at once."

But, I object to the word opposing, you can see more than one side, or more than two sides and they are not necessarily in opposition.

"The point of seeing both sides isn’t to avoid decision making.  The point is to make better decisions."  Well, yes but not always.

 And my hubby finds it annoying.   His conversations might begin with,

"Don' t interrupt me ...." or "I know you won't agree  ...."  or the big one -

"You never take my side."

"I do take your side."

"No, you  always take the other side."

"That's because you've already presented your side and when I see other sides I just offer them as alternative views.... to help."

"It doesn't help when I want to return a defective watering system, with a piece of my mind, and you say it's not their fault because the system came from China. You're always against me."

"For goodness sake, there is no for or against - just different ways of looking at it."

"Like when someone in a truck so old it's about to fall apart can't speed up, won't pull over and makes sure I can't overtake and you feel sorry for them."

"You shouted at him."

"You said maybe he was old, or sick or sad to be driving his truck for the last time but NO, it was because he had a dog in the manger attitude."

"I don't really understand what that is."  (but I planned to look it up)

"The dog is sitting on the straw in the manger so the cow can't eat it."
"Maybe the dog doesn't know that the cow wants the hay or maybe he was really tired...."

"See - now you're taking the dogs side!!!"

So, the dog in the manger is a metaphor or an idiom (a group of words established by usage as having a meaning not deducible from those of the individual words).  I didn't know this but apparently there are at least twenty five thousand idioms in the English language.  I wonder if there is a book.

The Dog in the Manger story comes from a Greek fable, possibly one of Aesop's, written around 600BC.  It's become a metaphor for those who prevent others from having something they themselves have no use for.  

A dog was sleeping on the hay in a manger when an ox came and tried to eat the hay. The dog barked and snapped at him and wouldn't let the ox get at his food, food that was useless to the dog. Finally the ox gave up and went away muttering, "Ah, people often grudge others what they cannot enjoy themselves.

in 1390 we find this version -

Though it be not the hound's habit to eat chaff, 
yet will he warn off an ox 
that commeth to the barn
thereof to take up any food.

in 1564 it looks like this - 

Like vnto cruell Doges liyng in a Maunger, neither eatyng the Haye theim seluse ne sufferyng the Horse to feed thereof hymself.

and a 1680 Spanish play, called The Gardener's Dog told the story this way -  A gardener sets his dog to guard his cabbages.  After the gardener's death the dog continues to forbid people access to the garden beds.  

And so we get a simile 'He's like the gardener's dog that eats no cabbage and won't let others eat either'  or  'playing the gardener's dog.'

I could retell the story as  - A market gardener loses money because his neighbours steal his cabbages before he can harvest them. One day the gardener saves a puppy that has been cruelly treated.  The gardener trains the dog to guard the cabbages and a strong bond grows between the pair. The dog is pleased he can help the gardener who saved him and the gardener is glad of the help to safeguard his meagre income.  Years pass and one day the gardener has a heart attack and dies.  The dog is grief stricken.  He fears he will be abandoned again so continues to guard the precious cabbages.  When neighbours come into the garden the dog drives them off.  Finally all the cabbages are dead and the field is empty, so the dog curls up, job well done, and goes to join his master. 

And the simile - 'As loyal as a gardeners dog. '
The metaphor - 'He's a loyal gardeners dog.' 

Or I could retell it as - A wealthy gardener , known for his mean and wicked ways, owns a large brutish dog.  The gardener grows far more produce than he can eat or sell while his neighbours starve. He trains the dog to viciously attack anyone coming into the field and the dog is so protective that when the gardener has a heart attack no one can come near to help him and he dies.  The neighbours are forced to poison the field, killing off all the produce and finally the dog. 
There must be lots of similes, metaphors and folksy advice in that.

So, next time I am sleeping on straw in a manger and a rude oxen, who arrives without notice, wants to eat my bed, I will refer him to the idiom - 'Let sleeping dogs lie' -

because the dog deserves a comfortable bed.

--------------------------------------------

How did you MAKE that?

So many blogs I read are on arts and crafts and I enjoy looking at all the lovely things being made - so I thought it's probably time to show my work. It will have to be something a little bit novel as my crafting skills are just average. This latest project surprised me when it came out as well as it did.

I make laundry bags for Aussie Hero Quilts and Laundry Bags, to send to Aussie personnel deployed overseas.  I enjoy it because I know the bags will help people keep track of their laundry and that saves time often spent trying to find a clean uniform.  Also I can also be as creative as I like.  More information is available on the AHQ blog - http://aussieheroquilts.blogspot.com.au/

Laundry bags - cotton drill, and printed duck with kangaroos

Probably most of the AHQers make quilts - I've not done a large project like that for years, and quilts are mostly repetitive - that's not a put down, I love quilts, I love traditional patterns and modern styles. I love the fact that so much work goes into them. I especially love scrap quilts and crazy quilting, but - for me, once the design is decided the most interesting part is over.  Until it's completed, that is - holding up a quilt you have made yourself, or that has been made for you, is a very special feeling.

We had a dinner in Brisbane for the Qld AHQers and along with speeches, door prizes and a pretty good raffle, there was a laundry bag competition.  The theme was open, but the Aussie flavour seemed to be the most popular. I wanted to enter just to be in it and thought maybe I could have fun and be really creative.

I had a picture in my head of a photo bombing giraffe I'd seen on line and a painting by my little grandniece, Izzy. I thought of making a wall hanging or cushion from that image - but with an Aussie animal. Earlier in the year I'd used left over strips of fabric for the desert landscape above, with Ayres Rock and a kangaroo -  I could do that again.

Giraffe by Izzy

My plan was to draw onto calico with fabric pens, fuse that to the bag and see if I could draw more into it with the sewing machine - not embroidering, I'll leave that to the very clever ladies with wonderful computer embroidery machines -  just drawing with sewing thread using the common straight and zigzag stitches.

Now to the design.  Australia = big blue sky, bright sunshine, orange earth, lots of green, and blue ocean. Recently I'd made a block for a group quilt with these colours - it was included in the quilt they raffled at the dinner.

Aussie theme patchwork block

Choosing animals. I like kangaroos but they are not easy to draw - they can turn into huge mice or rabbits if you aren't careful. I wanted something orange to contrast with the blue I'd chosen as a background so I tried a kangaroo.

Years ago I made papier mache animals as stage props. They were the size of small children and were carried across the stage by the small children.  One was an emu. He'd be perfect.

Drawing animals is not easy for me and I always need to research. Once upon a time I'd be searching through books and magazines, then photocopying the pictures, but now we can google anything. I cfound animals in the positions I wanted, copied them. turned them black and white, erased the details and outlined the shape - just love PhotoShop.   I worked out the size I wanted then cut the pictures up in the program, as my printer only takes A4.  When printed I stuck the bits together, cut out the shape and used it as a guide to get the outline and proportions, drawing around it with a 3B pencil. The choice of picture is important because any foreshortening does not translate to a flat image.

Once the outline was on the fabric I filldc in the details with ink, looking back at the original photo on the computer screen. The pose or expression can be changed at this stage.  Colour and shading was done with fabric ink pens I bought on line.  When I felt it was ready I cut out the calico animal. The kangaroo looked uncomfortable - but they look that way in photos too. I had high hopes for the emu.

The background had to be sky blue but I didn't have the right colour. I like to use a medium weight cotton drill or printed duck for the laundry bags because it's sturdy and nice to sew and comes in lots of colours.  But my usual ebay sellers couldn't help me with sky blue drill or similar so I was forced to actually go to a shop. I'm not an expert on fabric but love to handle it and finally found some cotton chino in the right colour. I'd never seen Chino before.  It was a bit lighter in weight than the fabric I usually use, and felt a lot softer, but looked almost the same.... hmmm.

The blue alone lacked richness so adding a strip of bright yellow desert, in cotton drill, to the bottom made a big difference. Using a fabric fix I ironed/glued the animals to the chino.  Ugh. Chino is not the same as drill.  It stretched out of shape and twisted. Also it was very humid that day and the fixative came away from the backing and didn't iron on properly. That turned out to be a good thing as I was able to pull the calico off and stretch the chino in the other direction - almost flat.  But, it meant the glue didn't take hold at the edge ... so all the edges would have to be covered by stitching. These little accidents along the way have a part in defining the finished piece, and I love that. Art often wanders in a different direction to the pattern.

Heat fusing the sketches on calico to the backing and stitching on Kangaroo

Stitching, stitching, stitching. I changed top thread colours but kept a neutral in the bobbin. The back of the piece was almost as interesting as the front. Some areas were straight stitched first, outlining the eyes and some long feathers, but most were zig zagged in different widths, making sure feathers or fur stitches covered all the raw edges.  I worked on the stitching for 4 or 5 days - in spurts. I loved it.  Maybe it wasn't exactly like drawing with thread, a little more like painting at times, I was learning what my machine would do in the way of free stitching and it was exciting to see the animals develop under the sewing machine.  I love the eyes on both of them and Emu's little grin is his own. Kangaroo looked a bit nervous so I added a stalking emu and then Emu needed a kangaroo to chase him.

Ironing the back of the fabric to smooth out puckering  - stitching feathers onto Emu

There are no instructions to give because the stitching is like drawing, you go with what feels right at the time. I did spend time unpicking tiny stitches when the Chino stretched our of shape, several times. And no, I didn't win the competition - I didn't really expect to. I find the sort of things I make never get the popularity vote, I think my designs have to grow on people - and, the judges were male soldiers. They are not into fabric art, they want something to give them a laugh, to tell jokes about and that's what they chose.  Congratulations to the winners, who understood the nature of their recipients.

At this stage the bag was one flat piece. I decided on where to fold it, ironed, stitched the side seam (three rows of stitching), ironed, added the channel for a drawstring, lined the bag with flannel shirt type checks and ironed again. While sewing the bottom seam I realised the bottom of the Emu and Kangaroo would meet in an ugly, thick lump. All I could do was sew in another folded strip of fabric to at least make colour break. The final job was to thread the drawstring through. I use cotton sash cord because it feels so nice.

OOppppsssss I had cut out a yellow sun which was to be over-stitched in white, but I  forgot to attach it before sewing on the drawstring channel. By that time I'd done so much sewing and unpicking ... I just couldn't do anymore. The sun was left off.

One flat piece - side seam stitched and ooopps, the sun wasn't included - bottom seam done with inset strip
- Kangaroo on a full laundry bag.

I posted the bag away and found I missed Emu's face for days, almost like losing a pet. When I saw it in the display a week later he seemed to have settled down and was sitting fairly flat.  I wonder who will open a parcel one day, pleased to get a new laundry bag, and find my Emu looking back at them. I'd love to see that.

The finished bag - Kangaroo's side with the lining hanging out, Emu in all his glory
and demonstrating how he'll look on a full laundry bag. He might be a little bit scary.

ANZAC DAY... every year

ANZAC DAY can mean... 

- a day off school or a national celebration 
- a difficult morning taking elderly people to the march or a day without normal TV 
- a cranky family after the dawn service or a drunk Dad after the RSL
- a day of nostalgia or a day of discomfort if your family are German or Japanese
- time to visit the family or visit the cemetery 
- or a bit of a mystery

On Anzac Day I think of my Dad. His birthday is also in April, but I usually forget the actual day. Anzac Day represents the massive change in the lives of my parents, that influenced my upbringing. While we live in a country sheltered by it's geography we were not untouched by the events that came under the Anzac banner.

So much of my early life was in the shadow of World War ll.  Growing up in the 1950s in Sydney was life in the 'Post War era'. Every family had someone who had 'been in the war'. This often  mysterious event, that happened far away, was very much in our daily lives. So many men came home with permanent reminders. Uncle Bruce limped on a wooden leg, a result of his plane being shot down and Uncle Don's arm was permanently bent.  Mr Wilson down the road had flashbacks to Changi prison and locked his wife and children out of the house. The neighbours always took them in.  The man who swept the railway platform turned his face away to hide his burn scars and missing eye, and we knew of men who lived in 'rehab' hospitals. There were other wounds that didn't show, the wounds that led to too many beers and too many arguments.

Both my parents and their siblings were in the services, as were family from the generation before - my grandparents and their siblings and cousins struggled through The Great War in different ways.  We now remember it as WWl - now that we have had other wars equally frightful.

My grandmother, Eva, who was a trained nurse, married in 1914.  As a married woman in those days she didn't work but during the Great War she was busy raising money for hospitals and organising groups to roll bandages and knit socks for soldiers. She and her husband promoted the planting of vegetable gardens instead of lawns, in their area of Sydney. They also collected food from family in the country, to help the families of men serving overseas - there were very few social services in those days and people, especially children, actually died of starvation. 

Two of my grandmother's sisters went to France, Claire as a nurse and Ada to drive ambulances. They brought home many souvenirs of the war which were stored in a glass cabinet in the living room of their mother's house and entertained all the younger family members for years. Then they opened a small hospital in Harris Street, Sydney, specialising in rehabilitation of war injuries. The building had been donated by a family friend.  My great Aunt Claire married one of the patients and he took her away to South Africa. 

Then came WWll. Mum's sister, Joan continued in the footsteps of her aunts as an Army nurse in Port Moresby. Her future husband staggered down the Kokoda track, one arm almost blown away. 

1943 Mum on the rifle range

Mum was a Sergeant in the Army and spent her war in Qld, supervising on the rifle range or in the office. Before the war she had aspired to be a fashion model but as men joined up to fight working women were expected to take on their civilian job. Mum was 18 and forced to work in a bank. She hated it but waited until she was 21 to join the army. In all life situations we all have different experiences and not everyone had the same war. She had friends who joined the Land Army and worked on farms in place of the men who were away.

For some young men it was a chance to escape from home, or boring jobs, to see the world and learn new skills.  All the services had cooks and drivers, admin staff, mechanics and nurses and the list goes on. Not everyone is exposed to horrors on the front line. Dad did not talk about his war but Mum did and made her years in the Army sound like an exciting school camp. War time in Brisbane was parties and picnics to help people relax and Mum met my father at a dance for serving officers.

1943 aged 22

Dad was at university when he joined the Navy in 1942. As a sub Lieutenant he served on ships as assistant navigator, saw action at sea and spent time on an enemy occupied island near Borneo, hiding in the jungle at night and in holes in the sand by day, waiting to be picked up . It's a shock to think he was only about 22 then, much younger than my children are now, in fact only four years older than my granddaughter!  Dad's only brother was in the army, and from photos I think he may have been in North Africa. I have a photo of Dad's father in army uniform too. Dad always had nightmares which caused him to shout in his sleep.  He said he had leg cramps. 

On Anzac Day Dad disappeared in the early hours to catch a train from our outer Sydney suburb of Caringbah into the city. He marched every year, until he died at 65, no matter where he was living.  After the March he went to his club, with navy friends. Two of them had remained in the service.  I think Dad always regretted leaving the navy. He got out to get married, as most of the young people did at the  time.  He continued in the reserve, RANR, went to sea for a couple of weeks once or twice a year, and gave weekly classes in navigation at Rushcutters Bay. I loved seeing him arrive home late on Thursday nights in his uniform. I especially loved him in the summer whites that showed off his tanned face. For a short time in my teens I went out with a navy dental assistant, stationed at Garden Island.  He walked me to the door one Thursday night and we ran into Dad in the driveway - Dad in full uniform - sailor, whose name I have forgotten, also in uniform that night and snapping to attention.  I was taken by surprise, but it was fun and I was proud of my Dad.

After retirement age, which I think was 60, Dad remained with the volunteer reserve, RANVR, until he left Sydney for is dream hobby farm near Taree. Dad's civilian career had been 30 years in banking. He was a serious person who understood commitment and respect.  Always a country boy at heart he loved animals and children and the sea. His hobbies were growing vegetables, reading, swimming, sailing and classical music. He donated blood, as often as they let him, for his whole working life - because he'd seen men die without it.  In 1964 the HMAS Voyager sank off Jervis Bay, after colliding with HMAS Melbourne and 82 men died. While in grief for them all Dad lost more friends. For Dad, Anzac Day was a tribute to all those who were lost, and a show of respect for those who had survived.  He was anti war and anti violence. 

My mother's reaction to the post war years was to embrace the immigrants who poured into Australia from Europe. She loved meeting new and interesting people, especially from the 'Continent'. She like all things continental -  and she soon learnt to cook spaghetti bolognaise (using tomato soup) and to say welcome in Dutch. Her new friends came from Austria and Holland and Russia and Germany.  Mum loved this variety of people and backgrounds and also the fact that Australia could offer them a home. We children learned the difficult to pronounce names and ate food cooked with garlic and the children from Europe learnt to speak English in a few weeks.

When stories of Vietnam began appearing in newspapers I asked Dad where it was. I had heard of Indo-China but place names like Vietnam, Cambodia and even Thailand were new to us.  Dad said it was not worth discussing and stopped bringing the newspaper home.  He was hoping it would be over quickly, but before long my sister and I were waving goodbye to friends, some who didn't come back and some who came back changed. I attended anti war demonstrations but also met American sailors at parties. Young Australians were marching in the streets of Sydney and it seemed like a lot of fun. This was the first televised war and we saw it on TV every night.  When horror stories of the behaviour of soldiers on both sides led to the abuse of returning servicemen, Dad did talk about it. He told me to separate the men from the politics - to remember that the boys we knew who were in the fighting were people just like us and that hadn't changed.  The Anzac Day marches, which had been growing shorter as WWl veterans dropped out, became longer with the addition of the Vietnam Vets.

1961

Years later my parents divorced. Mum married a man she'd known for years, a German who had served in the German airforce in WWll.  That was a situation we lived with and all handled in our own way.  Of course it was very difficult for Dad and there were many emotional years for everyone - it's almost impossible to explain.  Dad married again too, eventually, but that's another story.

My father's navy sea chest, with his name stencilled on the sides, was my toy box as a child, and we played with a white canvas bag that was probably his laundry bag.  Now I sew laundry bags for Australian Defence Force personnel deployed overseas. Working in a school for over 20 years I've known a number of students who went on to the Army or Air Force, including children of staff members and friends.  Our Prep teacher's son, Michael, who I first met when he was two weeks old, served with the army in Afghanistan in 2010/11. His mother put a link on facebook to the blog for Aussie Hero Quilts and Laundry bags, and as I loved sewing I had a look. Not only did they make patchwork quilts, and I love patchwork, they also made bright coloured laundry bags to help the service men and women keep track of their laundry. I knew this was something I could do. Every laundry bag or quilt block I sew now holds my thoughts of Dad and his war service.  I am pleased to be part of this group of dedicated ladies who are all about helping our defence force personnel feel closer to home but my continual prayer is that fewer and fewer people will have the need.

In 1945, Dad wrote in his diary;  Dear God, guide me, may my choice be right...Easter is now past, went to church and communion.  I prayed that you might lead me Lord, in the job ahead, be it what it will, that I shall be able to do my job, to the best of my ability, and if I'm called upon to die, may it be faced with courage.  I'm prepared for that, if it will help to bring peace and happiness to the country that I love and to the world!  To those that I love I'm not afraid...I'll do my job.  Padre Eyers is a fine man, a man that I can follow, if I follow his teaching well I can't go far wrong.  He is a fine inspiring Padre, well loved by his men.

Anzac Day is for my Dad. I have his service medals mounted and framed with a photo of him in uniform, at the incredibly young age of 22. While my husband takes his father to the dawn service and the Anzac March I turn on the TV.  In my mind Dad is still marching alongside all those men and women who understand the high price of commitment.

1945 Mum and Dad in Sydney, on the way to tell her family that they were engaged.

                                     

 If would like to know more

AUSSIE HERO QUILTS AND LAUNDRY BAGS 

http://aussieheroquilts.blogspot.com.au/

-----------------------------------------------------------------

understanding a CHANGE OF NAME

I have just begun to paddle in the lake of ancestry - the 'in' hobby for the retired.  No, I'm not making fun of it, just teasing a little until I get used to this stage of life. It was almost a year ago, at my favourite aunt's 95th birthday party - well done Aunty Joan - when Heather, a relative of Aunty Joan's late husband, mentioned her ancestry work and asked me a question about my grandfather. Then she whipped out her pink laptop and clicked on Ancestry.com to show me what she thought was an error. 

I've always had an interest in family history. As a child my favourite bedtime stories were those Mum told of her childhood and I picked up some of the names and relationships.  These stories formed a base for the rest of my life and looking back I can see how important they were.  Maybe if more families went into details about who they are and where they come from our young adults would be more secure and able to see the big picture, instead of just their selfies.

I've talked to other relatives at times so my family story collection is constantly being added to, and edited as I discover the 'true' facts about events and lives. Funny how people are happy to talk openly about some things but add to or change details of events they feel a sensitive about. There was great fear about how you appeared to other people 100 years ago. 

Sadly, it's mostly my mother's family story as Dad's was out of reach geographically and also personally as they/we did not keep in touch. I have not yet joined Ancestry.com - because I haven't had the time to devote to this that would justify the expense.  But Heather introduced me to Trove - a collection of scans of newspapers and magazines from something like the 1750's up to the 1950's, and this has certainly kept me busy. I've found amazing things including my grandmother's wedding notice, lists of people who attended the charity balls she organised after WWl, my parents wedding notice and my birth etc.  I've even discovered a few bits and pieces about my father's family which is exciting. Back in the days before emails and facebook every event or announcement went into the newspaper. Heather also put me in touch with the daughter of my grandfather's brother and that led to some very interesting insights.

So, the error in Ancestory was to do with Mother's father.  Mum's sister is Aunty Joan but she, understandably, gets a little confused these days and I became the back up memory.  I knew that my grandfather had changed his name at one time - I thought it was before he married Eva, my grandmother.

I found this in some notes Aunty Joan wrote for me about 10 years ago, and these are her words:

'I was born on 2nd May 1917 in our family home, which had been designed by my father, at Ryde, NSW.  The house had gardens and an orchard. Other houses were few and far between. Opposite us was a Chinese (market) garden where men worked all day, often carrying two buckets of water on sticks across their shoulders. They had a primitive hut in the garden.
Father had been born Otto Wilhelm Schwertmann, but the war of 1914 – 1918 forced some businessmen to adopt more English names. Father chose the names of English towns and became Otford Wilton Weston. Hundreds of people with German names were interned in camps though they had been nothing but good citizens. German names were frowned on for many years. Even when I went to school at ten or twelve years of age, we called out rude things to children with German names. I’m glad Margaret and I were saved from this, although we were completely unaware of our good luck at the time'.

This is a good family story, but from talking to other people and checking in Trove I've found that it wasn't my grandfather who changed his name, it was my great-grandmother who insisted on it.  And, it was done after Ot, as they called him, married my grandmother, Eva. They married on 20th June 1914. A newspaper notice dates the name change as 24th June 1915. My grandmother, who I knew very well as she lived with us for years, never let on that she had originally been Mrs Schwertmann. I have no memory of my grandfather who died when I was a baby.

There was a bad reaction from a number of family members to Eva marrying a German. Many years later, when my mother divorced my father and then married an actual German that negative reaction surfaced again. BUT ... and this is delicious, my cousin discovered that my grandfather had not really come from Germany. The town where my great-grandfather was born is/was technically in Denmark! The borders moved back and forth a bit over the years. I think it's really wonderful and would like to blow a few raspberries to that long gone generation who protected themselves with hate and also, because my father's grandfather was Danish and that gives me Danish blood on both sides. Sadly Mum and Dad never knew that.

But back to the name change.  Mum always said her father had been born in Germany. His father, Christian, had come to Australia for the Sydney International Exhibition, held in 1879. He was so impressed with Australia that he returned home to Germany and came back with his whole family, including my grandfather who was almost 10 years old. This cemented the idea of German ancestry.  The true story as I have now discovered, is; Christian Swertman did come to Australia for the Exhibition, as a single man from Denmark, with a contact address of c/- the Bank of Hamburg, London. He married an Aussie girl named Grace Noble, a teacher from Victoria with Scottish ancestry. They had three children; Otto, Hubert and Olga. Christian was killed in a street accident in 1896 when Otto was about 10 years old.  At that young age my grandfather found he had a family to support. He went to work selling newspapers and eventually put his brother through school and himself through university while assisting his mother, grandma Weston, and sister Olga. Later Hubert disappeared and his two daughters went to live with grandma Weston. Otto became a well known Sydney Architect and a humanitarian.

About her husband, my grandmother once wrote;  'Father, (her husband Otto) had a wonderful voice, and I enjoyed singing too. It was lovely having friends and family gather around the Pianola and we would sing far into the evening, forgetting about the time'.

In 2000, my second cousin Ian, who was a bit younger than Joan and my mother, and who, until his death in 2013 was the keeper of the family history, told me;

'Eva and Ot had lived a wealthy life until the depression. When Ot didn’t have work he was depressed and often refused to get out of bed. They became very poor, eventually they were without a business and they lost the house.  They had always been the ones to help other people and didn’t like to take help. This stressed the marriage and probably contributed to their separation.'

Pride was such a problem for that generation, or was it fear of judgement or class discrimination?  In all the years that the family stories were told by my mother, grandmother and aunts, it was never mentioned that Eva and Ot lost everything in the depression. I did know that they separated. Eva took Margaret, the youngest, and moved to a small flat over a shop and Eva went back to nursing.  Mum told me that her mother 'worked with a doctor, visiting sick people in their homes, to change dressings etc. She got to know many people and their life stories.'  It sounds a lot like the District Nurse work that my sister did in the 1970's.

Joan went to live with relatives and Ot moved in with his former secretary and her children, who soon became more his children than his own daughters. In Eva's family it was always hinted that the hard times were caused by (bad) Otford leaving Eva and the girls. Eva was still angry with him forty years later.  Isn't life interesting - it's like a soap opera?

I am so glad I listened to the stories my relatives told. While it's only a tiny part of the full story it is somewhere to begin and so much better than nothing. And it's very entertaining to smooth out the wrinkles and discover a fuller picture of people with real lives, and jobs and mistakes and problems. I think they all did the best they could for the time they lived in... and what more can any of us do?  I'd encourage everyone to ask about their family history and/or write their own life story to hand down to the next generation, it could be important to at least some of them one day.

Oh, and that error on Ancestory.com (I'm not promoting them, it just keeps coming up), someone had changed my grandfather's Christian names to the new ones he'd chosen but left the original surname.  It's all fixed now.

 

Photos taken between 1928 and 1932
My grandfather, Otford - my grandmother, Eva - my aunt, Joan and my mother, Margaret

"It doesn't matter how many say it cannot be done

or how many people have tried it before;
it's important to realize that whatever you're doing,

it's your first attempt at it."