This man broadened my horizons

AJS**

This is my maternal grandfather. He was a serious, studious and bigotted man. Born in Sunderland he was a Mackem although he would have never claimed that title, in fact he would have probably disowned it. He was the sort of person that always wanted to better himself, as he saw it. He and his wife, my mother’s parents, hadn’t done too badly for themselves.

Grandad joined the Royal Navy before the first world war, possibly lying about his age, and that was his job until he was invalided out during the second world war. He had been a wireless operator and had served mostly, from what I gather, around the UK*, the Mediteranean and Northern Europe.

I was the first grandchild on both sides of our family, so as you can imagine I was the centre of attention for at least 18 months, and I think if truth be told I remained perhaps a little bit special for the rest of their lives. I was always made a fuss of. I was very lucky to be loved so.

He was a mass of contradictions. Nobody really knew what his politics were although his views were very bigotted. He believed in discipline, the rule of law and the status quo. He would sit in his rocking chair, on one side a pile of Daily Telegraphs on the other his aging wireless. The wireless that only transmitted people that spoke with a frog in their throat, or so I thought. The dial displayed stations and transmitters from far away places; Light, Third, Droitwich, Hilversum, London, North, Athlone, Brussels, Toulouse and Moscow to name but a few. As a little lad everywhere that wasn’t Bury St Edmunds was a strange land filled with strange people.

"A grand old painter died today"

Almost eight years before I was born and on this day in 1947 George Thomson passed away. In the 1911 census he was registered as being a painter and decorator but according to my mother he painted murals on the walls of theatres and cinemas in and around Dundee. I have no way of knowing whether or not he actually did paint murals but I like to think he did. I also like to think that's where  my artistic desire to create comes from.

George is buried, in view of the Tay, in the churchyard at Longforgan, Perth and Kinross, Scotland; 5 miles west of Dundee. George was my great-grandfather.

Oh Moses! - Murder in the family - Update

I've been meaning to write this blog post for quite some time. Back in 2011 I wrote a blog about my great, great grandfather Moses Whiting. He sadly murdered his youngest son, and as a result spent the rest of his life in Broadmoor. I speculated in my previous post the Moses might have had Huntington's Disease. But my theory about my great, great grandfather having Huntington's Disease might well be wrong.

About a year and a half ago I was contacted by a member of the Binks family. William Whiting, my great grandfather (Moses Whiting's son), married Elizabeth Binks. Elizabeth Binks was my grandmother's mother. My grandmother (and subsequently my father) had HD. Perhaps it didn't come from the Whiting line after all?

So when Moses in a fit of pique murdered his young son it might well not have been due to HD. Or maybe by some cruel twist of fate both sides of the family had the disease; either because HD was a bit more common in this region, or because it was a tight-knit community and some family connection occurred at some point before the birth of Moses. We will never know the answer.

Do you want to be in my gang, my gang, my gang?

Events don’t happen in isolation. Life on earth is an ongoing chain reaction with the past influencing the present and the future. As humans many of us like to categorise or compartmentalise bits of life. We want things to be black and white. But life ain’t like that. It's never that tidy. Pigeon holes are dangerous, and the human race is at its most dangerous and downright despicable when sections of it are tribal.

When people belong to a tribe all rational thinking goes out of the window. If you are not in a tribe you are the enemy. The tribe stifles creativity. The collective noun for sheep should be tribe. Tribal members are just one of the herd. They are no longer individuals. The tribe allows for easier manipulation. Tribe members become the foot soldiers to carry out the dirty work of those that pull the strings. In this country those pulling the strings are the white male English elite.

Countries, family, religion and sport are the main culprits when it comes to the creation of tribes. Tribe members, or sheeple, take the view that their tribe is the most important thing in the world and non tribe members are somehow worthless. Fascism loves tribes

I’m all for collectivism in the sense of working together for the common good, but I don’t see that in doing so your identity should be governed by the collective.

I think that events this week have reinforced my belief that tribalism is a parasite that is going to slowly but surely destroy the human race.

The world would be a better place without countries, 'family', religion or sport. Tribes divide. We need to learn to live together before it's too late.

I choose my blog titles very carefully by the way.

Meet Fred

This is Fred. He's a dapper dude. I suspect this is what passed for cool in December 1920, and it still looks cool today.

Who is he?

Well he's definitely a relative of mine. We* think he's Granddad Garrard's brother. If this is so it makes him my great uncle. I don't ever remember meeting him. In fact I know virtually nothing about him. And in a way I'm fine with that. I'm not overly bothered about family history. I've done the odd thing on here about family but it doesn't figure greatly as a driving force in my life. I don't get the being tied genetically is more important than being connected with like minded people thing.

The gene pool is fickle and cruel sea, as It's interesting how someone as handsome as fred can mutate into an ugly bugger like me. Nature is without emotion.

I'm tempted to invent a fable around this photo and perhaps one day I will. But for now I'll let him rest in peace.

*My mother and sisters

Ann Kaide

On this day in 1909 my Nanna S was born in Dundee. My Nanna [sic] was like a second mother to me. I was the first grandchild and was spoilt something chronic. Sadly she died in 1974 at too early an age. I miss my Nanna.

Just after my father died I found a load of family photos thought to have been destroyed. I was over the moon I can tell you. In amongst the photos were a number of my Nanna. Here’s one of her at the age of 48:

My dad loved his life!

I’ve never really understood the point of funerals. I’ve always questioned the need for them. Much to most people’s bemusement. And please don’t tell me that it is about saying goodbye because it is not as the deceased is long gone. I’ve also never understood the need to worship the dead like so many people do. By worshipping the dead I mean the very existence of a grave and the tending there of. Or, the laying of flowers at a roadside, or where people have fallen. What is that all about?

I think that it is about people being in denial. Denial that their loved one has died and denial about their own mortality. Most people can’t seem to grasp the concept that death is final. They are desperate to believe that there is more. Now I can’t prove that there isn’t more, the same way that I can’t prove that there isn’t a large blue elephant with pink spots floating around on a fluffy cumulonimbus, but given that there is no evidence for either, both would seem highly unlikely.

The trouble is that most people tend to become highly emotional around death and rational thinking goes out of the window. Questioning the necessity for a certain type of funeral or a funeral at all would seem like a pointless exercise.

We buried my father yesterday. He died on 10th March as a result of a heart attack he’d had two days before. It was a CofE funeral and a burial beside the village church. Not what I would have chosen but they were his wishes. I was asked if I would like to read a lesson. I declined but said I would be happy to say a few words. Which indeed I did. I thought I would share those words with you:

In many ways father and I were like chalk and cheese. He was a very practical man, good with his hands and could turn his hands to most things. I am a DIY numpty. He loved sport, whilst I can’t abide it. He accepted tradition and superstition and I challenge it. But, stood together there was never any doubt that we were father and son. We had the same boyish good looks. We both had the large Garrard ears or lugholes as he would have said. We shared mannerisms and both had the same laugh. In fact it is the laugh I am most grateful for, because it was from father that I inherited my wonderful sense of humour. He gave me the ability to laugh at the most ridiculous things, and to see the funny side in much of everyday life. Father could tell a good story as well. Much better than I could ever hope to. As kids we would always be laughing about something with dad. There was always laughter in our house.

Growing up he rarely called me Paul it was either boy or the slightly enigmatic Lard-head. These were terms of endearment that I happily answered to.

I have so many nice childhood memories involving dad that it’s hard to single one out. The Christmas I received a Scalextric set was one of note. I’m not sure who derived the most pleasure from it. The track took root on the dining table and we would spend hours racing against each other, both of us equally excited and enthusiastic. One big kid and one little kid. Kids in their element.

Father was never prolific in telling us off. I remember in my teenage years the first time that I came home rather the worse for drink. Rather than scold me he laughed. He knew that I was learning the hard way. He was shrewd enough to know that a life lesson has more effect on a teenager than the words of a parent. And he laughed again.

I remember father was always very keen on swimming and despite my general disinterested in sport it was something that we had done together both in my childhood and then later when three generations of the Garrards went to the pool; Dad, myself and my son.

Something else that we had in common was our love of good ale. I treasure the memories of the few beer festivals that we attended together. Both as eager as the other to try something new.

Now fast forward to January of this year. He was so happy the day he reached his eightieth birthday. To him it seemed like a major achievement. And indeed it was. A few weeks prior to his birthday he had said to me in quite an earnest but enthusiastic way “You know, I like my life. I really enjoy it”. I was well moved. Here was a man whose body had been ravaged by HD and still he was happy with his life. I think it was the most inspiring thing that he had ever said to me. I certainly won’t forget it. It is the overriding memory that I shall carry with me always. My dad loved his life!

Oh Moses! - Murder in the family

If you have a blog or a website you will know what hours of fun can be had from looking at the ‘search statistics’. These are the terms that people enter into a search engine that then bring them to your site. I like the serendipitous nature of it all. Some search terms are quite bizarre but I do like the strange but small degrees of separation that link sites around the interweb. But little did I know that when I looked at the statistics a few months ago where they would lead me or what would be revealed. It shocked me I can tell you, which is one of the reasons it’s taken me a little while to write about it.

One of my blog posts that gets quite a lot of hits is about a visit I made to Chatham Dockyard. Most of the hits seem to be generated by the bit about a Stanley Spencer exhibition. But I also wrote about the rope-making factory that they have there. In the piece I happen to mention the Haverhill Rope Works, a business that my great-grandfather William Whiting had a part share in. It was a search for ‘Haverhill rope works’ that lead me to discover quite a shocking fact. There can’t be that many people that knew about or would want to search for the Haverhill rope works. My curiosity was such that I had to find out what else came up apart from blog when I searched. I was not surprised to find the Museum of East Anglian Life came near the top for they actually have a rope making machine from the Haverhill factory. My blog was listed at that all important Nº7 spot. Just above was an entry entitled ‘William Whiting 1864-1941 - Haverhill Whitings’. I was intrigued. I had to visit this site. The site in question turns out to be a lovingly researched reference by Simon Hutchison who is like me descended from Haverhill Whitings. There on the page in question was mention of my great-grandfather, along with his wife and children, one of whom was my grandmother and several other great aunts and uncles that I had known.

It was then that I noticed Simon's mention of Moses Whiting “William was the eldest child of Moses and Emma Whiting. He was born in 1864 in Burton End, Haverhill, where he appears on the 1871 census. By this time he has two sisters, Emma and Alice, and a brother, John. Another brother, James, was born in 1874 but two years later tragedy befell him when he was murdered by his father.” In a sad and cruel irony great-great-grandfather had broken one of the commandments allegedly revealed by his namesake. That commandment was ‘thou shalt not kill’. It would seem that my great-great-grandfather had committed murder by taking the life of his own son, and by the newspaper account that Simon Hutchison references, it is a sad, sorry and macabre tale.

The newspaper report about the incident and in particular the coroner’s hearing suggests that there was a history of madness within the family: “The prisoner’s awful affliction is certainly hereditary, for a long list of attempted suicides, and, in fact, suicides which have been committed by various members of the prisoner’s family are mentioned.” The report makes reference to Moses in the court saying that he did not take the slightest interest in the proceedings and spent most of the time shuffling back and forth on his seat. Later on in the hearing there is reference made to Moses possibly suffering from Delirium Tremens although it was stated he had not taken drink for three or four weeks. There is also reference to the brother of Moses being in an asylum. Despite the jury’s verdict of “Wilful Murder” it is clear that this poor soul, my great-great-grandfather was not in charge of his mental faculties when he took the life of his two year old son.

Thankfully Moses did not face that most abhorrent of punishments, the death penalty, but instead the poor soul spent the rest of his days in Broadmoor. I have no doubt that Broadmoor was no picnic and that he suffered under a regime that probably neither recognised what his condition was nor was able to treat it particularly effectively.

As I pointed out in a previous post my father has HD. Huntington’s Disease is a particularly cruel disease that attacks parts of the brain, it affects different people in different ways, generating a number of symptoms including aggressive behaviour, involuntary movements and a whole host of others that are equally unpleasant. My grandmother Elsie, the granddaughter of Moses also had HD. HD is hereditary. Unfortunately I don’t know if my great-grandfather William had it, and it is possible that grandma received her faulty gene from her mother, but William selling his share of the Haverhill Rope Works at an early-ish age and moving to a different town suggests that he may we have had the disease even if it was never identified as such. My mother has told me that when my grandmother apparently first showed signs of HD relatives had said it as ‘nerves’ and suggested there was a history of ‘nerves’ in the family. Whilst I can prove nothing, I suspect it was grandma’s father William that had HD, and that it had been passed down from his father Moses. Every mention of Moses in the newspaper report points to behaviour consistent with Huntington’s disease. He was probably never diagnosed at the time with it because the first thorough description of the disease, by George Huntington, was only published four years before in 1872, and in the USA. There is no cure for HD. The only treatment is a range of drugs and dietary aids to help subdue the effects of its onset. Treatments that poor Moses would never had a chance to receive.

It doesn’t bear thinking about how tormented, ridiculed and abused a number of my ancestors must have been. They must have suffered terribly at the hands of people who I’m sure were quick to look at superstition for answers to why they displayed the symptoms that they did. No wonder it is alleged that a number attempted and some committed suicide. It could be that I have this awful condition, and whilst there still is no cure I am thankful that the treatment I will receive if I do will be so much more humane than the punishment presumably metered out on many a poor Whiting in years gone by.

I will never know if my grandmother knew about the murder in the family but I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t. Unfortunately in his present condition I don’t feel able to discuss it with him. My mother certainly didn’t know about it and she is confident that if father did know about he would have shared it with her whilst they were married. I am thankful to Simon Hutchison’s painstaking and comprehensive research into the Whiting family history for bringing this to light.


Updated here on 27/5/17

My father has HD, HD has my father

People usually look at you with a blank expression if you mention HD, or Huntington’s Disease. Most people have never heard of it, unless they’ve had some experience of it; perhaps from having met someone with it, worked in a caring profession or have family members with it. I suppose because it is not as widespread as something like Alzheimer's or as well known as MS. It is a genetic disease that is passed down directly from parent to child, and it cannot skip a generation. My grandma had it and now my father has it. And for all I know it could be me next. In grandma’s day it was known as Huntington’s Chorea, the Chorea describing the erratic limb movements that are one of the symptoms and characteristics of this cruel and wasting disease. This BBC web page offers a concise but reasonable explanation of what the disease is all about. For a more detailed information go to The Huntington's Disease Association.

As children we watched grandma’s deterioration with both bemusement and amusement. One occasion amongst many that will stick in my mind for ever was at a family tea party when grandma picked up the left-over crusts from my cousins plate, popped them into her mouth, eating them instead of her intended target, the untouched sandwich on the plate in front. It is to my eternal shame that I admit that we laughed heartily at this incident. Kids can be really cruel.

Grandma died at a relatively early age. She was in her early sixties. She was lucky enough, if I might be permitted to describe it like that, to die of a heart attack. She was spared the horrors of physical deterioration and then dying through painful complications brought about by HD. I’m not sure my father is going to fare quite as well. At almost eighty my dad is now on a definite downward spiral. Wasting away. I won’t go into detail as I don’t feel that would be right but as a son that has not always been that close to his father it is still very disturbing to witness. I’m pretty sure that all my life I have been a disappointment to my father. I was never really that interested in sport, diy or outdoor pursuits. I’ve always been the arty and cerebral type. Puny but philosophical. I’m not sure dad has ever understood what makes me tick, a feeling that is mutual. That said I still feel for my dad. I witness his bewilderment and frustration. It is as if he’s strapped in to a mysterious and scary roller-coaster ride. He has no control over the journey and he’s not totally sure of the destination. Sadly as a spectator I’m pretty sure I know where that destination is.

Given that my father has HD there is a good chance that amongst me and my sisters some if not all of us could well be struck down by this horrible disease. There is a test that would determine if I have the faulty gene and therefore could potentially develop the disease. But as there is no cure or any way of delaying it I don’t see the point of having the sword of Damocles hanging over me. I prefer to get on with life rather than worry greatly about if and when the symptoms might show. Besides something else could well get me before the HD works its magic. We are all mortal and we all have to deal with that fact in our own little way.