So who really is my father ....... Bryan or Ron ???

Please don’t be shocked by the title of this story as I in no way have any doubts at all as to my true parentage. But this is the story of a small family 'incident' that I would give anything to have been around to have seen played out in real life. One can only imagine the reactions of one particular person involved in this story when they found out the truth …….

This story begins way back on the 26th of December 1941 with the birth of a tiny baby at Nithdale Hospital in Dover Street, Mataura, in the deep south of New Zealand. It had been a difficult labour lasting over 48 hours for the mother of this baby, but with the eventual arrival of her beautiful son I am sure that a lot of the pain and discomfort (and the fact she had missed out on all the Christmas festivities) had all but been forgotten.

My father, Ronald Herbert ENGLISH
1941  -  1978

This baby boy soon passed through his childhood and eventually grew into a very handsome, dark-haired young man who went on to marry and have three children of his own. But the story of his early childhood must have caused not just him, but the rest of his extended family also, and even perhaps the whole township of Mataura, quite a bit of confusion.

The baby in this story was my own very much-loved father, who was always known to me as Ronald Herbert ENGLISH. But it turns out that he hadn’t always been known as Ron and spent the first five years of his life being called Bryan.

My father was the second son born to my grandparents Robert and Elizabeth (nee RENSHAW) ENGLISH. Elizabeth’s parent’s Herbert and Bessie RENSHAW had emigrated to New Zealand from Scotland in 1926 with their three children who were aged 15, 13 and 6 at the time. But eight years later when her youngest child was almost 13 years of age Bessie surprisingly found herself expecting another baby.

Bessie gave birth to a baby son (who would have been my great uncle) on the 4th of November 1934 and he was named Bryan RENSHAW. Bryan was born several weeks early and although he was quite small he was in good health and was feeding very well. But two days later he died unexpectedly and was buried in the Mataura Cemetery.

Robert ENGLISH with his second son
Bryan ENGLISH, aged about 3 yrs

My grandmother Elizabeth, who was 21 years old at the time of her brother Bryan’s birth and death, never forgot her baby brother and throughout my childhood she would often mention him to me and told me about how much his death had affected her mother Bessie. So seven years later in 1941 when my grandmother gave birth to her second son she very proudly named him Bryan Herbert ENGLISH, named after her baby brother.

So Bryan ENGLISH grew from a baby to a toddler and then into a gorgeous mischievous little boy and before his parent’s knew it he was almost five and ready to begin school. To start school he required his birth certificate so his mother Elizabeth went down to the place where his birth had been registered to get a copy of this certificate. But no copy for Bryan’s birth could be found. They checked and then re-checked through all the records and eventually came out with a registration for a baby, born on that same date and with the same parents. But he had been registered as Ronald, not Bryan.

Bryan / Ronald ENGLISH with his
grandmother Bessie RENSHAW

I would imagine by this point my grandmother would have been getting very concerned and just a wee bit annoyed with what was happening. Her beautiful little boy had not been named after her precious baby brother like she had previously thought. But who was to blame?  She didn’t have to look far for the culprit though, the person who had gone down to register Bryan’s birth. But why had he done this and why the name change?

It turns out that my grandparents had initially forgotten to register their son’s birth. When this mistake was eventually realised Bryan was almost eight months old and so my grandfather Robert went along to register the birth. Not long before this the family had been notified that my grandfather’s own brother, who was away overseas fighting in World War II, was ‘missing in action’. And the brother’s name …..… what else but Ronald ENGLISH !!! My grandfather had taken it upon himself to register his son, now eight months old, with the same name as his missing brother. But he didn’t dare tell his wife !!!!

Now five years later the truth had come out. One can only imagine the conversation (or possibly the argument) that occurred when the truth was discovered. My grandmother was heart-broken with what had happened but at the beginning of the school year in late January 1947 she took Bryan along to school, handed him over to the school mistress and told her “his name is Ron”. And from that day on my father was called Ron. Members of the wider family eventually grew accustomed to his new name but there were members of the community who still called my father Bryan right up until the day he died in 1978 aged 36 years.

My great uncle, Ronald ENGLISH
Pte 19981 2nd NZEF
1918  -  1981

As to the fate of my grandfather’s brother, it turns out that Ronald ENGLISH (Pte 19981 2nd NZEF) had been captured by the German’s in Italy in early 1942. But the family spent 12 months not knowing what had happened to him as he had simply been listed as 'missing in action'. It was late January 1943 before a capture-card was received notifying the British Army that Ronald ENGLISH (P.O.W. #140941) was being held prisoner at Stalig XIA (also know as Stalig 314) near Altengrabow, 90km south-west of Berlin. Although he was eventually able to write to his mother Helen (nee McCALLIE) ENGLISH,  she went to her grave in early 1944 not ever seeing her son again. Ron did in fact return home to New Zealand in November 1945 after the end of the war.

But back to the story of my own father, Ronald Herbert ENGLISH, also know as Bryan ENGLISH. I still struggle quite a bit with the decisions made by my grandparents way back then. Why did my grandfather go behind my grandmothers back to give their eight month old son a different name. What on earth was he thinking? And I also struggle to understand my grandmother’s decision to take her son Bryan along to school at the age of five and tell them that his name was Ron. Would it not have been far easier for her to have changed his name legally back to Bryan, the name he had grown up with and was so used to?

I often wish I could have been a fly on the wall that day way back in late 1946 when my grandmother arrived home to confront her husband about the registration of their son. My grandparents were a very kind, quiet and loving couple but I’m not so sure that Grandma would have been quite so quiet or loving that day when a simple trip along to get a birth certificate turned into a nightmare.

Happy 100th birthday Grandad

Today, the 24th of November 2014, marks what would have been the 100th birthday of my maternal grandfather, John Francis (Jack) EGAN.

Jack was born at Otautau in Western Southland, the eldest child of Hanora (nee COSGRIFF) and James EGAN, farmers from nearby Wrey’s Bush. He had two younger sisters, Molly and Kathleen, and a younger brother James. Jack’s mother died when he was only four years old and his childhood after that was quite unsettled, being brought up by his elderly grandmother and his father. After his mother’s death his younger siblings were taken away to be raised by others so Jack very rarely saw them. 

St Kevin's College Dux 1933

After his grandmother's death in 1926, and with his father becoming blind after a failed operation, at the age of 12 Jack was sent away to boarding school at St Kevin’s College in Oamaru. Here he excelled academically and also on the sporting field, showing talent in many different sports including cricket, rugby, tennis, athletics and shooting. He became Dux of the college in 1933.

While a pupil at St Kevin’s College he captained the 1st XV rugby team and also the 1st XI cricket team. He eventually went on to play provincial rugby at fullback for both Southland and then Otago, captaining the Otago rugby team during the late 1930’s. He captained the South Island Varsity rugby team, then the NZ Varsity team, as well as captaining the Otago cricket team.

Otago rugby captain 1937

Jack attended Otago University and then Teachers Training College. After an initial teaching post to the Hawkes Bay he returned south and spent the rest of his life either teaching or as headmaster in primary schools throughout Otago and Southland, including at Nightcaps, Kaiwera, Wendon, Hokonui, Balclutha and Mataura. 

Jack married in December 1944 to Mary Dorothy (Doris) SCHULTZ. They had a very happy marriage and went on to have a family of four children; Maureen, Dorothy, Paul and Brian.

Lieut. J.F.EGAN
NZ Army 1939 - 1945

Jack came from a long line of hard-working Irish immigrant families and he had a very strong work ethic, a trait which he tried to pass on to both his children and his pupils. He enjoyed giving back to the communities in which he lived and often organised the production of stage shows and musicals, coached sports teams, served on numerous committees and even spent some time as an elected member of the Mataura Borough Council.

My grandfather John Francis (Jack) Egan died on the 20th of October 1977, while still serving as the headmaster of the Mataura Primary School. He was aged only 63 years old. I was only six years old at the time and have only a few vivid memories of him. But from what I can remember of him as both my grandfather and also as the headmaster of the school I attended, he was a kind man who was firm but fair. Right throughout his career as a teacher, and then later as a headmaster, he very quickly gained the admiration and respect of his fellow teachers, his pupils and the whole community. 

Doris & Jack EGAN, about 1975

I would love to have had my grandfather in my life for a longer period of time as I was growing up. From what I have been told he had a great knowledge of our family history that unfortunately was never written down to be passed on. I think that him and I would have gotten on so well together and I can even picture in my mind conversations that I would love to have had with him that sadly never got to take place. 

I would love for him to still be around today to see his grandson Brendan (only 2 years old when he died) carving out his own career as a school teacher and now head of Religious Education at the Catholic secondary school that he himself worked so hard to help fundraise to build. Jack had dreams of his own children being able to be educated at St Peter’s College in Gore, but the building work was delayed and it wasn’t opened in time for any of them to attend. But after his death six of his grandchildren, including myself, did get to be educated there, and in more recent times two of his great grandchildren (my own two children) have also attended this great school. 

Brendan and Bridget, Aug 2014.
Wouldn't Jack have been so proud of these two !!!

Besides rugby and his family, two of Jack’s other great loves in life were drama and debating. I would love for him to have seen my daughter Bridget (his great granddaughter) scoop the senior debating awards at a recent Catholic secondary school debating competition, with his grandson Brendan also as the debating team coach. And at the same event another Egan family member (the great granddaughter of his cousin) won the junior debating awards. I bet Jack would have been just so proud if he had been there.

Another fullback in the family

And I bet he would have loved to have had the chance to stand on the sidelines and watch my son Mark (his great grandson) playing his favourite sport of rugby in the very same fullback position that he once played in, slotting the ball between the uprights from way out wide by the sideline, just as he did all those decades ago.

I believe it is such a shame that younger generations aren't able to get to know and love those from the older generations, since they often have so much in common but never have the chance to actually meet. But that's just the way life works; - people live and then they die but their genes still live on. My kids may not realise it, but I firmly believe that they have a lot of their great grandfather in them and that his legacy lives on through them and all of their cousins.

I know my grandfather Jack will still be keeping an eye on us all from Heaven, and I hope he is proud of how his family has grown and what they have all achieved. He was a hard working man who gave back to the community as much as he could. I believe he has every right to be proud of his family as it was him who instilled in us all the ethic to work hard to achieve well in this life, the willingness to help out and to give back to others, and the desire to do our best at all times. 

Happy 100th birthday Grandad. I think of you often and really wish I could have spent more years with you and had the chance to have known you better !!!

______________________________

( For the full story of the early years of the marriage of Jack’s parents and the subsequent splitting up of the family please follow this link. )

Thank you Grandma

My late paternal grandmother Elizabeth Speirs ENGLISH (Lizzie, nee RENSHAW) is probably the main reason why I first became interested in my family history. 

As a child growing up in Southland, New Zealand I was very fortunate to live right next door to my grandparent’s house (they were Lizzie and Bob English but from here on I will refer to them as Grandma and Grandad). I was their oldest granddaughter, and one of only four grandchildren, so I guess you could say they probably spoilt me quite a bit. I didn’t mind though and their place was my second home. I spent many, many happy hours with them and I loved to listen to Grandma tell me stories about her childhood and her ‘old country’.

Grandma and Grandad both came out to New Zealand from Scotland as children, Grandad in 1914 as a one year old and Grandma in 1926 as a 13 year old. Grandma came from the small coal mining village of Bothwellhaugh in south east Lanarkshire, where her father and many other family members worked underground. Sadly for her she was unable to visit her old hometown when she went back to Scotland for a visit in 1974 as the entire village of Bothwellhaugh and the surrounding area had been flooded in the late 1960’s when the Strathclyde Loch was created.

Grandad’s family came out to New Zealand from Wigtownshire but unfortunately he never knew much about his family background. He couldn’t even tell me the names of his grandparents or any aunts and uncles that were left behind in Scotland. It seems that for some reason no contact was kept between his parents and any family that may have remained in Scotland. 

My very first memory of actually wanting to know more about my family history came when I was about 10 years old. Grandma and I had been discussing baby photos so I went home and collected my baby album to take over to their place to show them. As is usual in many baby albums or baby books, the first page had a graphic of a family tree that you filled in the names of the parents, grandparents and great grandparents. Mum had recorded my paternal great grandmother (Bob’s mother) as Helen McCarthy. Grandad took one look at it and said “Mum’s name wasn’t McCarthy, it was McCallie”.  And from that moment on I just wanted to find out as much as I could about my family history and those who came before me.

In the last ten years or so it has become so much easier to research overseas from the comfort of your own home. So many more records are being digitised and placed online for anyone with an internet connection to access from anywhere in the world. Scotland would have to be one of the easiest countries of all to obtain records from as many of the old birth, marriage and death records can be found online at www.scotlandspeople.gov.uk. 

Both Grandma’s and Grandad’s maternal sides have been relatively easy to piece together using these old records and I have managed to amass quite large families for them both. Their paternal sides however are proving to be brick walls at the moment. Grandad’s father (William ENGLISH, born in 1877) has remained very elusive with no trace of him or his family in any records so far. And Grandma’s father (Herbert RENSHAW, born in 1885) has a Scots-Irish background with little to no progress made on that branch either. But I will keep looking and searching for them and hopefully one day I will make the breakthrough that I have been seeking for so long.

Grandma and Grandad on their golden wedding anniversary, 26th February 1988

Grandad died in 1996 and Grandma in late 2000. Since then I have discovered so much more about their families, in fact Grandad’s maternal McCallie side is huge (thanks to his great grandfather who had 18 children, but that’s another story for another day). I only wish that they were both still alive today so I could share with them what I have found. Probably the thing I would most liked to have shared with Grandma was to show her a video that I located the year after she died. “Bothwellhaugh, the Drowned Village” was a 30 minute documentary made by the BBC that featured old home movies shot in the village in the early 1960's. I wish so much that she had been alive to have watched this movie and to have seen her old home one final time. Grandma loved her family and she loved Scotland so much and I know for certain that she would have been absolutely thrilled with my research and what I have found.

So thank you Grandma for giving me this love of family and of our history, for filling my heart with a passion for Scotland and all things Scottish, and especially for instilling in me the desire to want to know more and to pass the stories on.

___________________________

Footnote: Oct 2016 - I have just found that the link for the video of "Bothwellhaugh, the Drowned Village" no longer works and the video has been removed from YouTube. However, I have found another film that shows images of Bothwellhaugh (Lost Village of Bothwellhaugh), still quite good to watch but unfortunately not as good as the original film. 

From where it all began .........

My story begins in the small Southland town of Mataura. I grew up there, my parents and both sets of my grandparents lived there, and for the first 18 years of my life, this was my world.

The mighty Mataura River roared through the middle of town. Standing proudly on it's banks on either side were the large industrial factories of the paper mill and the freezing works, which in their day employed thousands of local workers. Mataura was often thought of as the poor-relation to the much-larger neighbouring town of Gore. Mataura was a relatively small town, it wasn't pretty and it wasn't wealthy, but to me it was home. It was the home of the working-class people; people who worked hard and often played hard, whether it be on the rugby field or the bowling green. Townsfolk of Mataura enjoyed living there. They took pride in their homes and tended their gardens with care.

Mataura viewed from the north (taken in the 1960's)

But time hasn't been kind to Mataura. Over two decades have passed since I moved away. I haven't gone far, and on most days of the week I still travel through the town, but other than to pop into the butcher or the petrol station, I rarely now stop. The paper mill closed down in the 90's and now sits as a sad, decaying reminder of what used to be. And the freezing works, whilst still operating, has downsized enormously and large parts of it are currently being demolished.  The large buildings that once welcomed travellers passing through town on SH 1 (and also dominated the view from the street where I lived), are now all but gone. Just another sad reminder of happier times now long ago.

And while some of the familiar faces that I grew up surrounded by are still there, the majority of the townsfolk are now strangers to me. Some houses still stand as proud and as beautiful as they ever where. But many others are now showing their age, and the families that once loved them and cared for them are gone. I doubt there would be many places in New Zealand where you could buy a cosy 3 bedroom home in good condition for under $80,000 or even under $65,000. You can in Mataura. Yet not ten minutes up the road in the township of Gore, the same house would sell for triple that price. I take my hat off to the Mataura Community Board who are always looking at ways of attracting people and businesses back to the town. At times it seems like they are fighting an up-hill battle and I don't envy the job they do. I do hope that some day in the not-too-distant future Mataura will once again be the bustling, happy town that it once was and that once again people will find it an attractive place to bring up their families. How this might come about in the immediate future I am not sure and I certainly don't know what the long-term answer is to bring Mataura back to life.

My dad and all four of my grandparents are buried in the cemetery on the hill over-looking Mataura. Someday I may join them there as although I no longer live in Mataura, it will always hold some of my fondest memories and to me it will always be home.

____________________

(Please note; these two photos aren't mine and were "borrowed" online from www.nzmuseums.co.nz)