Beware of those who own stamp albums

My husband collects postal history of Palestine / Israel. It appeals to his analytical mind and passion for history. A few days ago, we were having a random conversation about Stanley Gibbons, the Englishman who catalogued stamps and whose reference books are a must have for any philatelist. We both thought it strange that he never made it into the “People of the Millenium” list. After all, he practically invented modern stamp collecting.
I decided to see what I could find out about him. It turns out he was trained as a chemist and had FIVE wives who all died young. Some have speculated that there was a link between these deaths and his profession as a pharmacist. It is also rumoured that he was found dead in the arms of his lover at the Savoy Hotel. It seems that fraternising with those who collect stamps could be classified as a “liaison dangereuse”.
How thrilling!

Photographic memory

Have you ever found an old photo in a box that raises a lot of questions? Here is mine. Here is the Grandmother I never knew with two of her 7 children. I am guessing that the shot was taken in the early 1930’s. The family were quite well off for the time, as they had a car, and here is my grandma, my aunt and one of my uncles sat on the running board. I don’t know where it was taken, or who took it, but someone thought it was important to capture the moment.
Where were the other four children (no 7 probably wasn’t born when the photo was taken)? Did my grandfather take the photo? Is that why my grandmother is sitting in the driving seat? Why was it so important to take such an ordinary photo? Was the photographer just trying out a new camera? I find it puzzling that there was a moment of spontaneity from my somewhat austere grandfather. Or perhaps a friend wanted to capture my grandmother with a rare carefree smile.
Eighty years on, her grand-daughter is never without her small digital camera tucked in her handbag. I think Grandma Daisy would have approved of that.

Addenda - in the 12 hours since I posted this photo, my Dad has identified the car as a Wollesley Straight Six, and Mum says the photo was taken at the weekly cricket match at Sutton on the Forest where my grandpa played on the team.

Flashing back to the '50s

A self-indulgent memory post this morning. I recently acquired a new tablecloth. Well, not new new, but new to me. I believe it was a “gift from the Almighty”, as I don’t exactly have money to buy non-essentials at the moment. After I had washed out the fusty, second hand “stored too long” smell out of it, I realised what a gem I had found. Not only that, as I was ironing it, I had a full colour, 3D flashback to my childhood. The memory is only about 40 years old, but I had to smile, as it would indicate I have joined that age group where distant memories are often more vivid than yesterday’s shopping list.
The cloth is the style which has the design “cut out”, and each cut edge is stitched with a coffee coloured over-lock; delicate without being too fussy. The memory involved a small living room in a 1950s bungalow in Yorkshire, my childhood home. We had two armchairs covered in dark blue moquette, with a wooden hand rest on each wide arm. The back of the chair had an antimacassar on it – I think designed to be a Brylcreem repellent. Uncle Ernie was a barber and fond of an oil slick or two, so was Dad and my Grandpa Cyril. So the antimacassar was a barrier to a permanent greasy stain on the headrest.
For some reason, my mum had a set of tray cloths in the same design. Or perhaps it was that the tray cloths were antimacassars “surplus to requirements” as we only had two armchairs. I don’t know.
My mum did use the tray cloths with a lovely coffee set she had when her lady friends came around for a coffee afternoon. She made coffee half milk, half water, and put a glass device, like an overweight coaster in the bottom of the milk pan to stop it boiling over. The minute it rattled, you knew it was time to dart into the kitchen and turn off the gas.
I am left wondering if my love of all things 1950s resides in the happy childhood I experienced in the cute little house furnished by a couple who have now been married 53 years.

Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori

Remembering the fallen

I doubt there is a town on the S. Island that doesn't have some kind of War Memorial. In the Otago town of Oamaru, this is how the troops who fell in Palestine, Gallipoli, Montecasino, and the Pacific - to mention a few, are commemorated.
For some reason this year, commemorating those who died in the World Wars (and all the others in the 20th century), seems more poignant.
My mother served in WWII in the Observer Corps. My Aunt was a WAAF. My great Uncle served in Italy and N. Africa, another great Uncle fought in WWI and lived to the age of 101. The collective memory of these wars is dying out with my generation. Soon there won’t be many people who can say, “I was there”, or even “I remember my parents telling me stories of the war.” Holocaust survivors are dying out. Soon there will be no one to say “I was liberated by the Americans” or “I am the last of my family”.
I have pondered, what does that mean not just for the collective memory, but also for the collective responsibility that we have to remember.

Why I love Wellington - Saturday Markets

A word from our sponsor

Dear Readers, This is a heads up that I have added adsense to my blog, which means that you will see some adverts on the sidebar (below the map). This is evidently a way you can make money through a blog (which isn't my intention for having one). I think this is rather funny, as I don't have a lot of visitors (average about 40 a day currently), so this is a wee experiment to see how many people might actually click on the advert.

Go on, you know you want to:-)