Final Resting Places: - Ronald Herbert English

Sitting high above the township on Crawford Road, just outside of the small Southland town of Mataura, sits the Mataura Cemetery. It is a very quiet place, with the only noise being the occasional passing of a car or farm tractor, or the bleating of a lamb from the surrounding paddocks.

Block 5, plot 185 in this quiet, peaceful cemetery is the final resting place for a person who long ago meant the absolute world to me. My eyes would light up when he walked into the room ….. I wanted to go everywhere with him ….. and I often waited along at the corner of our street for him to finish work so I could walk home with him. 

But all too soon this childhood love was over. I had only just turned seven when my dad, Ronald Herbert ENGLISH, died unexpectedly. My dad is now resting peacefully in block 5, plot 185 in the Mataura Cemetery, a place where I still frequently go to visit him, just to talk to him and feel close to him once again. 

My dad with his older brother Evan
(please click on image to enlarge)

Dad was born in Mataura in December 1941 and spent his whole life in the town. He was the second son of Bob and Lizzie (nee RENSHAW) ENGLISH and he had one older sibling, my uncle Evan. Dad was educated at the local primary school and then continued on to Gore High School, where upon leaving school he ventured to the local freezing works, one of the main employers in the town, to seek employment. The boss at the freezing works was a friend of my grandparents and he told my dad that he would not employ him in the freezing works as he had too good a brain for that, but instead offered him a job in the company office, which my dad accepted.

In March 1968 my dad married my mother, Maureen EGAN, the eldest daughter of Doris and Jack EGAN. My mother was a primary school teacher and her father Jack was the principal of the local primary school. In the years that followed my parents were blessed with three children; firstly Stephen, then myself, and later on Julie arrived on the scene too. And my parents were happy. 

As was the norm in the 1960’s and 70’s, Mum stayed home to look after the children while Dad continued to work at the freezing works. In his spare time Dad loved to go duck-shooting or fishing, he loved to play rugby, tennis or golf, he loved gardening and harness racing, and he particularly enjoyed spending time out on the farm of his good friend Barrie Cullen who lived just outside of Mataura on Terrace Road.

My dad with my older brother Stephen
(please click on image to enlarge)

After many years in the freezing works office Dad did finally venture into the actual processing part of the freezing works to work, and at the time of my birth his occupation is listed on my birth certificate as wool-pullers assistant. But he wasn’t content with just “working on the chain”, a term used locally to refer to those working along the production line at the freezing works. He had aspirations of going higher so went away to Lincoln College and re-trained, this time as a meat inspector. When he came back he was employed by M.A.F. (the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries) to work at the Mataura freezing works as one of their meat inspectors.

Life was once again back to normal for our family and as much as I can remember from back then, we were a normal, very happy family. But all too soon life was to change and our quiet happy life would be shattered.

My dad, Ronald Herbert ENGLISH
(please click on image to enlarge)

Dad began to experience frequent severe headaches and upon seeking medical treatment was sent for a brain scan. And when the results of the scans and the tests came back our world was turned upside down. Dad had a brain tumour !!! 

But it was soon discovered that the brain tumour was a secondary cancer and the source of the cancer was actually his kidneys. A double blow !!!  Because I was so young at the time I am a bit unsure about the exact time-frame of what happened next. All I can really remember is that Dad immediately went into Wakari Hospital in Dunedin where treatment was to happen. However, within a very short time of him being in hospital he suffered a traumatic brain haemorrhage and passed away. 

My dad was only 36 years old and within the space of a few short weeks we had gone from a normal, happy and loving family to one that was completely devastated. My mother was only 31 years old and was left to raise three young children, aged 9, 7 and 3, all on her own. And that she did, and made a wonderful job of it. My brother, sister and myself are now all grown up and if our dad had still been alive today he would find himself the proud grandfather of five beautiful grandchildren.

I missed having my dad in my life when I was a child growing up. And I miss him still, and will until the day comes that I pass from this world and get to join him in Heaven. I am especially sad that he never got to live long enough to give me away at my wedding, that he never got the chance to meet my wonderful husband, that he never got to be a part of my children’s lives and that my children never got to know him and love him too.

Block 5, plot 185, Mataura Cemetery
Ronald Herbert ENGLISH  (26 Dec 1941  -  9 July 1978)

Thirty six was too young to die. And the seven years that I got to spend with him was not enough time for me. Sometimes life just doesn't seem fair. Dad has now been gone for more years than he actually lived, and his three children are now older than he ever got to be. 

My dad is never very far from my thoughts. I will continue to visit his grave in the Mataura Cemetery for the rest of my life. I will continue to remember him and miss him, and I will continue to love him .....…… forever.

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.

Following in footsteps from the past

Mark HURRELL driving 'Sammy the Bull'

Last Saturday was a very big day for my 16 year old son Mark. It was the day he had been waiting on for so long. After six months of driving fast-work he was finally getting to drive in an actual race. It wasn't a totalisator race though, just a workout race, but that didn't worry him. It was his first ever real race and that was all that mattered.

Mark has been keen on harness racing since he was just a young boy. My husband Ross is also a big harness racing fan and has spent many years following the horses. Back in his younger days he even bred and raced a few himself. We have close friends who breed and race horses so his interest in racing has never waned. And now he has passed this love of the horses and racing on to our son. 

Harness racing is the absolute number one favourite thing in Mark's life. Nothing else is as important to him as the horses. He had no real interest in school, and despite the fact I wanted him to stay at school for another year, all he wanted to do was work with the horses. No amount of convincing him otherwise was going to change his mind so last month he left school and began his harness racing career. He has worked part-time in a local stable for the past year but now he gets to spend as much time as he wants there, without the interruption of having to go to school. In the past six months he has learnt so much and has gained so much experience working with and driving numerous different horses. He is now ready to begin the next phase of his career to become a fully fledged race driver. 

Harness racing is not a career path chosen by many. But looking back into my family history I have found several branches of my family involved with harness racing. One branch in particular though, on my maternal side, was right into it in a big way. Let's step back in time to early last century, and it is at this point in time I have found three of my great grandmothers brothers who were all involved with the harness racing world.

William WALLIS (1884 - 1968), Joseph WALLIS (1894 - 1972) and Thorley WALLIS (1901 - 1973) were all harness racing trainers and drivers, each achieving their own fair share of success. They lived and breathed harness racing, much like their great great great nephew Mark does now. Harness racing was only in it's infancy way back when they were training and driving, but looking closely at these photos of them below, not too much has changed. The gear the horses wear is still quite similar, although now days most horses wear some "added extras" that help them out that wee bit more (things such as blinkers, murphy blinds, ear plugs, shadow rolls, nose flappers, spreaders and boring poles). Perhaps one of the main differences is the fact that the harness the horses wear is no longer made of leather, but is instead made of a plastic coated nylon which is much easier to keep clean and doesn't needed oiled, therefore a lot less work.

William WALLIS, pictured with 'John Dillon', date unknown

Joseph WALLIS, pictured with 'Indian Child', 1922

The shape of the carts these horses have on from almost 100 years ago are also very similar to what is still used now days by the majority, although some trainers are now beginning to use 'speed-carts' based on American designs which do look quite different. 

But I guess the biggest difference is the fact that the horses now days are no longer ridden. In early harness racing in New Zealand almost all horses were ridden. Back in the 1920's when the WALLIS brothers were starting out in their harness racing careers, most race meetings would be half ridden races, half cart races. But carts quickly became the norm and ridden races were eventually phased out completely by the late 1950's. It was only earlier this year that I saw for myself for the very first time an exhibition "saddle-trot" (a ridden race) at a local race meeting. It was run to show the spectators the way that harness races used to be run way back in the past and was very interesting to see. 

Thorley WALLIS, pictured in the winners circle with 'First Glance', 1922

 As well as my WALLIS family and a branch of my EGAN family who were all trainers and drivers, my own father and grandfather (Ron ENGLISH and Robert ENGLISH) were huge, huge harness racing fans. Although Dad or Grandad didn't actually work in the harness racing industry, they followed the horses almost religiously and one of their favourite past-times was to attend race meetings all over the countryside (and have the odd wee bet). They both passed away before Mark was born and I wish with all my heart that they were still here now to see him drive. I have no doubt at all that they would be extremely proud and absolutely chuffed with what Mark has chosen to do with his life. And I bet they are looking down from Heaven with huge smiles on their faces, thoroughly enjoying watching their grandson living his dream. 

"The biggest adventure you can take
is to live the life of your dreams."
~~ Unknown  ~~

Happy Fathers Day !!!

I am unsure about the rest of the world, but today in New Zealand it is Father's Day, a day we celebrate and remember, and also thank our fathers for all they have done for us. My own father died when I was seven so I have no real recollection of spending a Father's Day with him, but I’m sure he has spent every Father's Day watching down on us from Heaven. Instead, my childhood memories of Father's Day lie solely around my paternal grandfather, Robert ENGLISH. He lived in the house right beside us and was probably the main father figure I had in my life. So my childhood Father's Days always meant a visit next door to see my grandad and my mother always baked him a sultana cake which was one of his absolute favourites.

Today I would like to celebrate and remember all the fathers on every branch of my family tree. Without them our tree would simply stop growing. An extra big thank you must go to all those fathers whose genes make me the person that I am today and whose blood still runs through my veins. These remarkable men; my own father, my two grandfathers and my many great grandfathers further back, have all helped me to become the person that I am and to them I owe a very big thank you. Each and every one of those whose photos appear below makes up a special part of me, and although there is only four of them that I actually ever met, the rest have all had an influence in some way or another in my genetic makeup.

So a very happy Father's Day to those below, and to all of my other great grandfathers further back on my tree. 

But today’s most special happy Father's Day wish must go to the most important father in my life today; - the fantastic father of my children, my husband Ross. For eighteen years now he has always been the kindest, most patient and loving father to our children. Thank you Ross for giving me two absolutely beautiful children and thank you for being the best husband and father that anyone could ever wish for. You are one in a million and Bridget, Mark and I love you so much   :-)

Reflections: ..... and a conversation with my Dad

Last week on the television I saw a list of 'new' words that have been officially recognised as being able to be used in the game of Scrabble. The words are all part of our modern language, many of them are used frequently by my teenage children, and they really got me thinking. The thing that struck me the most is just how much our language has changed in the last twenty years, or even in the last five years.

My own dad (Ron ENGLISH) died in 1978 when I was seven years old. He was only 36 and although it doesn't seem that long ago, the world we live in now is just so far removed from that in which he lived. I miss having my dad in my life, and I especially miss the fact that his beautiful grandchildren never had the chance to get to know him and love him.

My father Ron ENGLISH
(1941 - 1978)

But I often wonder; - if Dad was to walk through my door today, would he even have the slightest clue what my children were talking about? Or would the modern lingo be like a foreign language to him.

So just for a bit of fun I have decided to draw up my own small list of modern phrases and words that have slowly crept into our lives. We think nothing of them now, but what on earth would Dad have thought.

Where else could I start but with the latest trend, the 'selfie'. In 1978 there were no 'selfies'. Nor was there any 'texting', 'skyping' or 'tweeting'.  There was no 'going online', there were no 'downloads' or 'uploads', and 'the web', well that was where the spiders in the garden shed lived.

In 1978 you watched the tele, not 'podcasts', 'MySky', 'freeview', 'YouTube', 'dvds' or 'blu-ray'. There were no 'flatscreens' or 'HD', and if you were lucky you had not just one channel, but two. You listened to an LP, the wireless or the radio, as a 'cd', a 'playlist', an 'iPod' or 'iHeart radio' were not yet part of our world.

Dad played rugby, golf and tennis, whereas nowadays kids play 'X-box', 'Playstation' or 'Wii'. Back in Dad's day you swallowed your 'tablet', not played a game on it, and 'the cloud' was the fluffy thing that floated in the sky. Things weren't 'munted', they were broken, and if you wanted to know something you went to the library to look up the Encyclopaedia Britannica, not pull out your 'smartphone' to 'google' it.

In 1978 you couldn't be 'tagged', 'blocked', 'liked' or 'unfriended', and if you were 'followed' a call to the police may have been necessary. A 'Big Mac' was a large truck, an 'apple' was for eating,  and to be 'photo-bombed' sounds a very dangerous thing indeed. If someone said 'sweet' they were usually offering you a lollie and if the words 'sup', 'skuxx' or 'broski' came from your mouth it would have got you many odd looks indeed.

'Snail mail' existed but Dad wouldn't have known it as such, and an 'internet cafe', 'e-mail' and an 'attachment' were years away yet. 'Generation Y' was yet to be born and an 'anti-virus' was prescribed by your GP and picked up from your chemist. When you went to visit a friend the first thing you often asked was "do you want to go outside to play", certainly not "what's your Wi-Fi password".

In 1978 there was no 'speed-dating', 'rogernomics', 'glamping', 'me-time', 'hoodies', 'Angry Birds', 'Twitter' or 'zumba'. No 'cyber-space', 'couch-potatoes', 'fat-pants', 'puffa-jackets', 'Super 15' or 'flash-mobs'. No 'Big Wednesday', 'gigabytes', 'TradeMe', 'pixels', 'ringtones', 'widgets', 'hash-tags' or 'Facebook'.

The modern world is moving so fast that at times even I feel a bit left behind by it all. Technology is old and out-dated almost as soon as it is released, and it seems that only the young can keep up with it all. 2014 is indeed a very different world from that of 1978 when my father lasted breathed on this earth. I know Dad would have loved to have still been here with us but the modern world just wasn't where he was destined to be.

So back to my first question, ..... if Dad was to walk through my door today, would he even have the slightest clue what my children were talking about? Probably not, but I would sit him down for a nice long chat, fill him in with all that he's missed and help him to catch up.

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.