Knitting Fish

 

I can't believe I haven't shown you my knitted fish - it's a herring, to be more specific. Others who have been knitting fish all seem to feel compelled to give them names that begin with H. I must admit I've felt the same pull but have thus far resisted. 

Why on earth might one take up such an activity? We have a local museum, The Old Low Light, which requested that the community do so for an upcoming display about women's work on the Fish Quay. For this they want loads of herring - they don't care what colour - and they provided a pattern and even offer if it was needed.  

At the end of the pattern using the normal wool, the author suggests knitting a fish out of plastic. I'm currently cutting up bags to make 'plarn' (plastic yarn). In the meantime, I stuffed my fish with plastic. I know that some of the members of Tynemouth WI craft group are knitting fish as well as the Age UK knitting group I belong to. The display will be quite interesting, I think, and surely all of us who have contributed will want to see it.

This heritage centre is all about the fishing industry which has played a significant role in this coastal area. Up until Brexit, the North Shields fishers was Europe's main supplier of prawns. I've no idea what has happened to that since given the difficult customs arrangements that delay the delivery of fresh seafood. 

The name Old Low Light refers to a building that formerly was the lower lighthouse. In the old days, ships coming into port needed to line up the high light and the low light in order to navigate safely. The high light is now a private home. 

We are fortunate to live in an area with such rich history - and to be given the opportunity to knit fish!

Murder on the Home Front

I first met Murder on the Home Front as a Netflix programme, which I really enjoyed. It plays up a potential romance between the author and her boss, which isn't mentioned in the book by the same name, memoirs of Molly Lefebure. These stories take place in London during WWII. I was lucky enough to get the book from my local library. While it took a while to get used to her writing style, by the middle of the book I was hooked. Bill even read it since it met his criteria for 'Very British' and 'not too sad'. Mind, the story is pretty sad for the bodies involved, but not for the main characters. 

Of course, being set in the 1940s and British, I did run across some words and phrases I didn't really know. So I've looked them up for this:

fruit & junket - according to Wikipedia this might also be called fruit & curds & whey. Made with sweetened milk and rennet. Not high on my list of things to try, but apparently quite a common dessert in the past.

dimity posy - couldn't find this online. Dimity is a type of cotton fabric woven with cords along the length (warp). It was generally used for household items such as bedding or curtains. Originally made from silk or wool, since the 1700s it has been made with cotton. A posy is a small flower bouquet (aka tussie-mussie, or nosegay - particularly if flowers are scented). Doilies were traditionally used to wrap the flower stems. My guess that a dimity posy is a nosegay wrapped with dimity instead.

prie-dieu - a type of prayer desk used for devotions. Wikipedia talks about these being found in churches and sometimes used in part of a wedding ceremony, but I recall that this referred to one seen in a murder victim's house. 

rexine - is a trademark name for a type of artificial leather, used in upholstery and for book covers, car dashboards and, for a while, teddy bear paws. It must have been widely used during the war as the author refers to it as 'the inevitable rexine'.

Bakst - probably refers to Léon Bakst, a painter and costume designer in Russia. 

Imagine an ornate alcove, rather than an actual room, with a big window for the said relatives to look through at ... ah, yes, at poor old Joe, or Liza, or Harry, stretched out on a magnificent bier between two giant standard lamps, against an exotic backcloth reminiscent of Bakst. Dramatic concealed lighting heightens the effect. It is certain that Joe, Liza and Harry never lay in such splendour all their lives; rickety old beds, seedy bedrooms, were no doubt their lot, damp and uncomfortable. But now that death has robbed them of all feeling and all pride here they lie, in the most sumptuous style imaginable. The relative of the deceased invariably express immense gratification.

The Dun Cow and Father Time

I'd not appreciated Durham is a World Heritage Site, though I have visited Durham Cathedral and appreciated the view from its rooftop.

On our recent family walk there was a big metal cow with a stone marker mentioning footsore monks, a cow and a couple of milk maids. So I took a photo to look it all up later. 

Apparently Durham Cathedral is built on a shrine to St. Cuthbert, a local 7th Century Christian hero of sorts, having converted a lot of Danes to Christianity,  The story goes that several monks - this is in the 11th Century - were moving his coffin back to Chester-le-Street (sort of a suburb of Durham) when the waggon carrying his coffin stopped and refused to move. After a three-day fast and prayer session, it was revealed that the coffin should be placed a place called Dunholm, but they didn't know where this was. About this time one or two milk maids came along (the story varies), searching for a misplaced dun (defined as a neutral grey-brown - I'd call it taupe) cow. She/they directed the monks to Dunholm and there they built a white church which eventually became the site of Durham Cathedral, a Norman structure that replaced it. 

I always forget what a really big guy Martin is. 

Also, the word 'dun' is old English for 'hill' and 'holme' is Norse for 'island'. (So my house, which is named Seaholme by the builders, means I live in Sea Island?). In medieval times this word was Latinised to 'Dunelm'. There is a chain of department stores called Dunelm around here. Somewhere in Norman times, Dun Holm was changed to Duresme. No one seems to know when it became Durham. The name Dunelm is apparently hallowed by those associated with Durham, it being the official name of the Bishop of Durham and it refers to any degree earned from the University of Durham. 

So the cow represents the lost Dun Cow - and I believe there is a coffee shop in Durham by that name.

A bandstand with an interesting weathervane grabbed my attention from across the river. Fortunately our walk took us past it on the way back and I got a better photo. Bill knew all about it, having lived in Durham for several years during his childrens' early years. 

The weathervane is a copy of one at Lord's Cricket Ground, London. It shows Father Time removing the bails from the wicket. The quote below is 'Lest Time Bails You Out'. This has something to do with one of the rules of cricket: "After the call of Time the bails shall be removed from both wickets".  I gather there is a cricket ground near this location in Durham. And one can buy a copy of the Father Time weather vane from the shop at Lord's for £400. I wouldn't even attempt to explain one thing about cricket, as everyone I know says it is terribly complicated. Also the games last for days. All I know is that the players wear white.

I take it that this is another of those upper class signifiers of Conspicuous Leisure, having the time to understand and enjoy cricket. 

My Historical Life

Some of my (distant) cousins and I get together via email occasionally to share any small new finds - we found most of the major stuff - and just to check in generally. We are scattered from Ireland to Scotland, New York, England and both the east and west coasts of Australia. We were discussing what we would be looking for first when next year the 1921 British census is released. That got me to wondering when the 1950 US census will be released: 2022! I may have to disappear for most of next year...

One of my cousins was saying that she'd turned her attention for once to her husband's family history. She described his family as dysfunctional but didn't say why. Aren't we all, I'm thinking. She said that her mother-in-law was finally opening up about the family and that an uncle was gathering family photos, remarking that no one had ever wanted them before. We all treasure our skeletons far above all the 'normal' folks in our families so my cousin may manage to turn that family's self image around. 

I have always been in awe thinking about my grandparents and all that they survived: WWI, the influenza pandemic, the Great Depression, WWII, the polio epidemic and the pre-antibiotic era, not to mention that women only got the vote in the US in 1920. I've been a bit excited - weird, I know - to be living through a pandemic myself - and I was damned determined that Bill and I would survive. Then I got to thinking that actually I've lived through a lot of other things. 

I was in the third grade when JFK was assassinated (I skipped first grade). I remember having our Spanish lesson in front of the television when the principal came in and changed the station from the PBS channel to show the news about it. We were all sent home early that day. I remember thinking I should be happy to get let out early but I was sad and a little bit scared about what all this meant.

My generation at school narrowly missed the Vietnam war. I remember growing up hearing all the foreign names every night on the news and double digit reports of deaths almost daily. I was nearly numb to it up until high school when I realised people I knew might be in those casualty figures. A lot of my friends would be going to college and thus exempt, but not everyone could make the grade - or afford the tuition. 

Then there were the civil rights rights, the assassinations of MLK and Bobby. My parents were sympathetic to the plight of black people but we worried about whether the violence might impact on us. Judge Luther Bohanon determined that Oklahoma schools would be desegregated and this led to a certain amount of violence in high schools. Something like three deaths occurred in the early 1970s. This led to high school councillors proposing that kids could graduate early if they avoided study hall periods and earned extra credits in summer school. This charted my future: I took English Literature one summer and Algebra the next and I graduated in 1972 rather than 1973. I turned 16 two weeks after graduation and grown up life began for me when most had to wait until 18 or 19. I stumbled a lot.

I remember the US Presidents during my lifetime, though I can't name them in order. I didn't take much interest in politics - it just made people yell at one another - until Clinton. People were outraged at the influence Hillary Clinton had with her husband. I thought that sounded like a great reason to vote for him even though I knew nothing about his policies. I've learned more about the political history of the US by reading John Kenneth Galbraithe's World Economy Since the Wars and Barack Obama's book The Audacity of Hope. I was fascinated to read about things that happened during my lifetime that I only heard in passing at the time. 

I'm conscious that in the 1990 census I found myself as the main bread-winner who was also the Responsible Person in the family. My then husband had brought me a surprise 20-month-old step-son 17 days after our wedding and then informed me that 'child-rearing was woman's work'. So when I filled out the census form, I put myself down as head of the household. No doubt his son's descendants will remark that I must have been a difficult person. With any luck, I'll live long enough to see the release of the 1960 (76), 1970 (86) and maybe even the 1980 (96) US censuses!

And now I've lived through Trump and Brexit. We are now in the Covid Pandemic and the sixth mass extinction (climate change). It will be interesting to see how things unfold. 

Had you ever considered your Historical Life?

Threads of Life

 I've just finished a book that I found very moving. Threads of Life by Clare Hunter speaks about not just historical sewing but about the experience of women. It's difficult to describe further without quoting long parts. 

I did fold down one page to return to. It lists the textiles Mary Queen of Scots brought with her on her return to Scotland from France:

For her voyage to Scotland Mary had packed ten cloths of estate (the ceremonial cloths which hung above monarchs' thrones emblazoned with their coat of arms), forty-five bed sets, thirty-six Turkish carpets, twenty-three suits of tapestry, eighty-one cushions, twenty-four tablecloths and a variety of embroidered wall hangings. There was her own wardrobe of fifty-eight dresses, thirty-five farthingales (hooped or padded underskirts), several cloaks and shifts, petticoats, stomachers, drawers and coifs. They encompassed thousands of metres of luxurious fabric: embroidered, appliqued, braided, beriribboned, fringed, tessellated and studded with jewels.

Never mind cloths of estate, she had me at fifty-eight dresses. I wonder how many pairs of shoes she brought?

At the end of the book the author lists websites that hold images of some of the things about which she wrote:

Bayeux Museum: https://www.bayeuxmuseum.com/

Conflict Textile Collection: https://cain.ulster.ac.uk/

(https://cain.ulster.ac.uk/conflicttextiles/)

Craftivist Collective:  https://craftivist-collective.com

Embroiderers' Guild: https://embroiderersguild.com

Foundling Museum: https://foundlingmuseum.org.uk

Hunterian Museum: https://gla.ac.uk ( https://www.gla.ac.uk/hunterian/about/video/)

Judy Chicago:  https://www.judychicago.com/

Peace Museum: https://www.peacemuseum.org.uk/ 

(search for textiles)

Peoples' History Museum:  https://phm.org.uk

(banner-display)

Quilt Museum: https://quiltm.org.uk

AKA The Quilters' Guild Museum

(oh, the shop! - and the close ups of items in their collection!)

Sewing Matters: https://sewingmatters.co.uk

(sadly, this is not a secure site?)

Smithsonian Institution: https://si.edu

(search textiles)

National Museum of African American History and Culture:  https://nmaahc.si.edu

Textile Society: https://textilesocoety.org.uk

Victoria and Albert Museum: https://vam.ac.uk

Visual Arts Data Service: https://vads.ac.uk

(search for textiles and enjoy the amazing close up views)

L S D

I was reading yet another Lord Peter Wimsey novel one night last week when I came across a reference to old British money: £ s d. The first symbol is of course for the Great British Pound and I vaguely remembered that the 's' stood for 'shillings' but I was thinking the next word should be 'pence' but there was a 'd', not a 'p'. I asked Bill to look it up on his phone and he came up with the fact that the £ symbol originated with the Latin word "Librae" and that this is where we get the abbreviation for a pound (weight) as lb. After that he came up with 's' is for solidi and 'd' is for denarii but that got me no closer to shillings or pence. 

So I scribbled a note to myself and looked it up. Of course it's not very simple, not simple at all. 

According to Wikipedia, while the words to referring to the coinage of course are Latin and therefore to do with the Roman Empire, the definition of the amounts and the relative value between the coins was introduced by Charlemagne. The term Libra comes from the Latin for 'balance' as in balancing scales. This makes sense as Charlemagne decided that his pound weight would be roughly 490 grams, which is what a Libra weighed. The current pound weight in Britain is about 454 grams and no longer has anything to do with the weight of a GBP coin. Charlemagne's system was prevalent throughout Europe until the decimalisations that occurred in the 1700 and 1800s. Except of course for Britain where they didn't change over until 1971. The (new-ish) United States was one of the first countries to change to a decimal system, in 1792.

Under the old system there were 12 pence in a shilling and 20 shillings (or 240 pence) in a pound. Somewhere along the line I thought someone told me there were 17 pence in a shilling and when Bill would brag about how good some member of his family was at adding columns of money in his head, I was truly in awe. Multiples of 12 are a little less daunting, but I'm sure most folks are forever grateful for decimalisation (or would be if they thought about it). 

Interestingly, or so I thought, in the middle ages, only denari were actual coins, made of silver. Librae and soldi were just used as accounting terms. Over time (and inflation) in Britain, as elsewhere, other coins began to be minted (guineas, crowns, farthings, half-pennies, etc) but the original terms were still used in accounting.

All well and good, but I still didn't understand how one got from 'soldi' to 'shillings' or 'denarii' to 'pence'. So, back to Europe, in France they called these coins livre, sous and denier. In Italy they were lira, soldo and denaro. In Germany, however, the names were pfund, schilling and pfennig, which gets us closer to the English names.

I was surprised to learn that pence is another plural for penny, in addition to pennies. So all those times I've got confused and called a pence a penny, I was right after all. Or I would have been fifty years ago, as with decimalisation Britain began to say 'one pence'. Oh well.

Since Wikipedia took me no further about these names, I turned to my old friend the etymology dictionary.  To start with, solidi / solidus means 'solid' - as in a solid metal coin. So obvious, right?

Also, the old English scilling comes from "Proto-Germanic". The German term might either come from a word for 'to resound or ring' or possibly from a word 'to cut' as perhaps one might carve a shield, which has similarity to the face of a coin. I'm rather partial to the things being named for the jingle they make in a pocket. The ending 'ing' is a Germanic term for a 'fractional part' (also in farthing), which makes sense given that a shilling was a fraction of a pound.

The word denari is Latin for "containing ten", which sounds great until you remember that there were 12 denari in a solidus. Perhaps there was an earlier decimal system that time has buried? No one else seems bothered about the difference between ten and twelve, so I've no idea.

The etymology of pence is useless so I looked up penny. Tracing the beginnings of that word takes us through middle and old English and Northumbrian p-words to our old friend Proto-Germanic - also Dutch, Danish, Swedish, not to mention Old Saxon and Old Frisian and of course Old Germanic p-words - and finishes by saying, "a word of unknown origin". But it was a fun ride.

On this particular evening when I was asking Bill to explain "£ s d" he turned around and asked where the symbol for USDs - $ - originated. Since I read books, not internet devices before sleeping, I just left him with 'I've no idea.' 

But I looked that up too.

Preston Cemetery

We took a five mile walk the other day and happened to pass Preston Cemetery, which was closed a few weeks ago. We've both enjoyed runs through here in the past and so we took an unplanned detour to visit again. There are always local people in there to walk, not just to mourn. I did keep a sharp eye out for any possible burial services going on to give them a wide berth. I'm pleased to say we saw none that day.

It seems to me that cemeteries here in Britain are quite different than the ones I've been involved with in Oklahoma. For one, cemeteries here are run by the local authority, not privately owned like in the US. The newer graves seem to be located in one area and those grounds are reasonably well kept. We noted a lot of graves covered with not just flowers, but stuffed animals, small statues, a variety of 'interesting' plant pots, mostly empty, what we agreed was a lot of garbage. However part of me wondered who gets to decide what is an appropriate way to mourn? I just know that in the cemeteries where my parents and grand parents are buried you get one fixed plant pot for flowers and that is it, doesn't matter how big the stone, they like their grounds tidy.

We noticed the older graves had less decoration but many had the grave outlined with a raised bed filled with gravel or coloured stones. The latter tended to be scattered, probably by magpies which are known for being attracted to shiny objects. 

The really old graves were in a section where the grass grew as high as the grave markers. Good luck finding an old grave in there. This is a common practice which is justified as 'good for the birds and bees'. I don't doubt it is. I suspect that most family members have ceased visiting these graves and that is why the council gets away with this. Or perhaps there is in the burial contract a specified number of years the site will be maintained?

Some years back there was a problem with these old stones being knocked down by kids hanging out at night in the cemetery. I believe the gates are now locked at night but there was a period when all local authorities had a programme of moving fallen or loose stones, either to the perimeter wall or placing them flat on the graves. This was in the name of 'health and safety' but some of those stones were definitely vandalised, which I find scandalous. I suspect the main activity of the kids was drinking or drugs, but part of me wonders how many babies have been conceived in cemeteries around Britain. Almost has a kind of symmetry, that.

One of the pleasant surprises we had was discovering a couple of military grave areas, one for WWI and another for WWII. They were lovely and neat with flowers planted between the largely identical graves stones, with some older stones mixed in. More than just tidy, elegant was the word that came to mind. Bill said this would be the work of the War Graves Commission, an organisation I never knew existed. I've been here almost 25 years and I'm still learning about my adopted country.

Turns out it's the Commonwealth War Graves Commission and there is a lovely little video that shows largely what they are about and looking at the map showing the breadth of their commitment worldwide, it's pretty impressive.

Easingwold - Part III

This is my final post about our last weekend of freedom before life changed so drastically. We were attending the Long Distance Walkers' Association AGM. They are good at finding inexpensive and interesting accommodation, in my experience. This year we were at the Cabinet Office's Emergency Planning College, an odd arrangement of old and modern that one often finds here in Britain. I never did explore the area much given the short time we were there, but we pulled into an estate called The Hawkhills, checked in at a rather grand building and were housed across the car park in a somewhat modern building, using a card for entry at multiple points.

I'd heard of this Emergency Planning College from a former college who worked in ... emergency planning, a former ambulance driver. His job was to represent the health service at meetings of police, fire and ambulance types to plan what to do in the event of major catastrophes like bombs, chemical accidents and ... pandemics. I was rather gratified to see the place for myself even if it was 12 + years after my retirement.

The reception and meeting rooms are in this building

We were given a room for disabled people which while not very attractive probably did have the advantage of more space. Neither of us were excited about the wet room arrangement, but it turned out this was inflicted on everyone. The closet space was pretty generous, but the hangers were as usual scant. However, the kettle and the hair dryer worked fine, the bed was comfy and the view from the window quite pleasant and private.

The view from our room - and the window was quite large. 

As I said at the beginning I had my doubts about coming to this gathering and there was the odd hint of something different, mainly large pump bottles of hand sanitiser at the front desk and in the dining hall above where you picked up a tray at the buffet.

It took me many shots to get a sideways view of this bird, a pheasant, I believe.

On Saturday night there was a speaker, a mechanical engineer who had served on nuclear submarines for a couple of decades but, retired from that, now led groups on mountain walks and travelled the world. He began his talk saying it was be about motivation and change, which interested me, but it ended up being more about submarines and walking, which he felt would more interest his main audience - I had a brief chat with him on our way to our respective cars. The main thing I remember was that the LDWA president greeted him with an elbow knock, which made everyone laugh nervously, before introducing him. Of course there was no social distancing at that point as the concept was yet to be introduced.

Just past reception, notice board on right, heading to the dining hall.

Elbow bumping clearly wasn't going to take off very quickly, though. On Sunday morning I sat knitting in reception waiting for the official business meeting to end. I noticed a young couple arrive and be greeted by the staff with handshakes all around. I suppose old habits die hard. 

No idea what was upstairs. Likely too grand for the likes of us.

Before sitting down to knit, I looked over the bulletin board showing courses to be held in the next week (I rather doubt they were). I considered the coming pandemic and had the ridiculous thought that it was about time we had a real event instead of just a bunch of boys (because they are mostly men) running around 'practicing'. At least the training might be put to use, though judging from the government's performance to date, they didn't train the right people. 

Even Bill remarked on the oddity of a fireplace in a hallway.

Apparently there is an even grander building somewhere on the grounds which I never saw. There was the occasional reference to 'the Love family' who were in coal mining in County Durham, whereas The Hawkhills is located in North Yorkshire, which is just south of County Durham (which is just south of Northumberland, except that in 1974 they invented a new county called Tyne & Wear, but lots of people ignore it - North of the Tyne is Northumberland, south of it is Durham). People would mention this other building and 'the Love family', and Bill knew they were in coal mining in Durham.

I believe behind this grand window is the kitchen - which produces excellent food.

It took me a while to find anything about this Love family other than a Mrs. Katherine Love had a cottage hospital built on the grounds in 1893, but couldn't find anything else about her. I did find a mining history website that linked the name Joseph Horatio Love with Brancepeth Colliery in County Durham. I was astonished to read the the colliery opened in 1840 and didn't close until 1967. With a male name I eventually found this great website, which I gather is a collaboration between universities. It indicates that Durham University has 2 boxes containing 107 items to do with the Love, Pearson, Ferens and Marshall families. 

Another mysterious - and rather twirly - staircase.

Part of the description includes: 

"Joseph Love (1796-1875), son of William Love, a miner of New York, near South Shields, County Durham - they are wrong, New York is near North Shields, Northumberland - married in 1825 Sarah, daughter of Isaac Pearson, timber merchant, of North Shields, Northumberland. Joseph Love became a wealthy miller, shipowner, property developer and colliery owner, associated in particular with Chester-le-Strett, Shincliffe and Willington, County Durham and Durham City. He was a generous supporter of the Methodist New Connexion.
Joseph and Sarah Love had one son, Isaac Pearson Love, who died in 1854, leaving an only child Joseph Horatio Love, born in 1853, who subsequently lived at The Hawkhills near Easingwold, Yorkshire. Isaac Pearson Love's widow Sarah (nee Stephinson) in ca. 1857 married Robinson Ferens (died 1892), originally a draper of Durham City and Willington, County Durham. Robinson Ferens became a member of the Methodist New Connextion perhaps in ca. 1857. After his marriage he was appointed manager of Joseph Love's collieries. He later joined with Love as a partner in developing new collieries and after Love's death in 1875 had sole direction of the collieries, becoming wealthy."

Several such rooms extended from the one with the buffet.

Just goes to show how marrying well can change one's fortunes. Almost makes me want to go down one day and find out how the Marshall's tied into the story.  

A little porch where I had my breakfasts when Bill was off walking.

Better yet, I'd love to return to Easingwold and explore further. 

Bits and Pieces

So, I've been busy this past month, since my last post. Doing what, you ask? Well, according to my photographs, my WI craft group was making quilted place mats and coasters. Most of us didn't get past making the items on to doing the actual quilting, but we're having a catch up session in July which should help folks complete their projects. 

The ladies in my other craft group worked on Fair Isle knitting projects. I've not got very far with mine as it requires a clear mind and quiet time. The top photo doesn't show it but the other three projects incorporate the Selbu rose I told you about earlier.

I bought Bill (and myself - he wouldn't like to go alone) season tickets for the 2019 Newcastle City Walks programme for Christmas. We've been on several where I've tried to form a mnemonic sentence to remember the main points to tell about them here. It's a real mental work out, never mind the walking! I've yet to produce any of those posts, you may have noticed. 

As we headed back to the car after one of these walks we passed down a narrow street and I spotted two cafes side by side: The Dog and Scone and the Mog on the Tyne. They charge admission fees to allow you to pet their animals. It's one of the odd things about Europe, animals being allowed in eating establishments. I've never really quite got used to it. I doubt I would order food in either of these locations, but going in to get a doggie-fix rather appeals. 

The names are plays on words: Dog and Scone refers to the Cockney phrase 'dog and bone' (which means phone). Mog is a British term for cat and it rhymes with Fog on the Tyne, which was a popular song by an English rock group, Lindisfarne (the name of a castle on Holy Island, not far from here). All clever stuff. Shame I rarely get in to town. Or to Holy Island, for that matter. Must do better.

Daddy's Birthday

I just realised I don't think about my Dad so much as I once did, which makes me sad. It also seems rather odd since I work at finding his birth father every day for at least a couple of hours. I sometimes get sick of it and feel it is a waste of time but most of the time I'm pretty determined to crack it. I wonder what makes me so obsessed about this. I think it is because I'm trying to replace what someone 'stole' from me. A decade or so ago I had a whole family tree, for at least several generations. Then the woman who snapped an illicit photo at the Minnesota Historical Society came along and 'chopped' my Dad's side away. I'm fighting to get that whole tree back. I think once that's cracked I might go back to having a more normal life, but don't hold you're breath. I only ever manage a faint facsimile of that concept.

I know quite a bit about my Dad's Norwegian mother and she has sparked my interest in Norwegian culture. As it happens, we are learning Fair Isle knitting at one of my craft groups. I subscribe to a newsletter called Craftsmanship and this month one of the articles is about a Norwegian woman, Annemor Sundbo (except that o should have a forward slash on top of it), dubbed 'the sweater detective'. It tells that she approached a man who had a wool mill because she wanted to study the weaving techniques but instead he sold her the mill and along with it came tons (actual tons!) of old knitted items. She studies the patterns in those as well as in old paintings, noting the variation of patterns. She is trying to get the special sheep that were bred for Norwegian wool, said to be especially hard wearing, to be raised again in quantity. 

Three things struck me from this article. First, her passion for all things wool and where that has led her is the stuff of fantasies for many interested in wool / craft / textiles / history. She's written award winning books and I expect I may try to obtain one at some point. Secondly, the discussion about the variation in knitting patterns from village to village sounded much like the knitted ganseys from this part of the world: wives knitted heavy woolen sweaters for their fishermen using the distinctive pattern developed for her village. Should the man be washed overboard and the body recovered, this pattern would aid in having the body returned to the right village. Grim, isn't it? But it makes perfect sense. It also rather reinforces the idea that Sundbo puts forward that there is a 'spiritual bond' between the maker and the wearer. Norwegian patterns have historical, mythic meanings. Which brings me to the third point. The article mentions Selbu, referring to the popular eight pointed flower called the Selbu rose pattern. Selbu is the village from which my Dad's birth mother's family originated. The pattern is now considered typically Norwegian, but Sundbo says it predates the mid-1800s when it debuted in Selbu and actually dates back to medieval times in Europe and even before in the middle east. The octagonal star has been around for a very long time.

From ThorNews, which I am now following!

I've not got very far on my Fair Isle, it being a rather complex pattern in spite of only using two colours on any given row. I've decided to use the Selbu Rose somewhere in this small bag I'm making. Should I live long enough to finish it, I'll be sure to show it to you. It makes perfect sense to use this pattern in my Fair Isle project given that the place, Fair Isle is pretty much square in between Norway and Scotland. And once I have the Selbu rose mastered, I can move on to the Norwegian 'lice' pattern (or not).

In addition to thinking of my Dad (as opposed to his genetic material) I'm also remembering his brother / half-brother, Albert, born one day and three years earlier than my Dad. Albert drowned in the Mississippi River at the age of 24. I have to wait until 2022 to access his adoption records and learn more about his story.

British Citizenship

On the 13th of February 2019 I attended my citizenship ceremony, the final step in becoming a citizen of Britain.

There were also two new citizens from Bangladesh, one from India and a married couple from Rumania. Bill and I both envied the Rumanians their EU citizenship. That relates to why, after 23 years, I finally decided to apply for British citizenship. 

Between the Brexit vote and the election of Trump as President of the US I felt the world had become a strange place that didn't feel quite so secure. As an alien with 'indefinite leave to remain' - an amusing British phrase, it began to feel too...indefinite. 

The wooden thing on the table is a holder for the Mace.

I had looked into citizenship years before but, other than the vote and right to live and work in Europe, I didn't see much gain. I already could leave Britain for up to two years and still return, but not for more than two years, and that condition remains even with naturalised citizenship. We talked about living the US at one point but health insurance costs changed our minds. It's cheaper to just visit for a month every few years. So becoming a dual citizen became more attractive, giving me that vote. 

Of course Brexit continues to stumble along towards who knows what end. I told Bill getting my citizenship at this point feels like running to catch the Titanic.

It took me about a year to complete the process, no doubt someone could do it much faster. Surprisingly it cost more than twice that of obtaining US citizenship. One of Bill's Asian friends hearing my plans, sent the name of a solicitor (lawyer) who specialises in this sort of thing. I wasn't excited about paying the legal fee in addition, given I'd be doing the work. Besides, it all seemed mostly straight-forward and do-able on my own. 

The first step was to buy a book about 'Life in the UK' to study (£11.95). It was so 'rah-rah, Britain is great' I couldn't believe if was written by an actual Brit. Nor could I believe I needed to know about the popular culture and sports heroes as well as the usual government and history questions. I did like that it spelled out my responsibility to look out for myself, my family and my environment. 

No English proficiency exam was required of me, but I did have to pass a citizenship test based on the book. I found this very helpful website for study and took the exams and tests there repeatedly. I copied any questions (with their answers) I wasn't sure of into a document that I studied in between taking the tests. When I could get at least 90% pass rate on all of these tests I booked my citizenship exam. 

This part didn't go smoothly because the private company that had the contract for administering these tests was moving offices and was appallingly bad at communicating with clients but at least efficient in refunding money. The first test was cancelled 30 minutes before it was to be held in a building with only construction workers removing rubble. They kindly directed me and an also anxious young man to another building, this one with an accessible receptionist - for an unrelated company. She informed us that people had shown up for the past few weeks for tests cancelled without notice. One poor woman came up from London for nothing. The receptionist kindly gave us a phone number from the internet, which of course was answered with a recording. I went home and drafted a letter to the Member of Parliament for our area and rescheduled the test for a couple of weeks later.

The second test was at least cancelled a few days before the exam and with that email I found a live person to check with about booking future tests. I sat the exam on the third attempt. The actual test took about ten minutes to answer 24 questions. It cost £50 (when booking, not refundable if you fail.)

Next, I had to complete a 31-page application, get two references to complete portions of the form and have a proper passport photo taken (£20). The application asked for ancient history: the names, dates and places of birth for each of my husbands and for my parents. It also required provision of documents: birth, marriage and divorce records, not to mention the pass certificate for the exam. Fortunately I already had all those. The other fun part was digging out information about where I had travelled in the past three years. Had I not been married to a British citizen that period would have been five years. As it was I used Bill's emails, my diaries and this blog to compile a list of travel locations for the required time period to show I met the residence requirements for application.

The local authority in Newcastle runs a 'National Checking Service' which allows one to submit documents and have them photocopied and certified, to send with application rather than sending off originals. This service costs £80. The application fee was £1,330. 

Soon after officialdom received the application I was sent for biometric testing (£20). That was a bit fraught as the website gave different information than the checking service about which Post Office I should attend in South Shields, across the river. Bill kindly drove me down, which resulted in a traffic ticket for using a bus lane. Not even he could figure out how to navigate in South Shields without breaking the rules. I don't count his £30 ticket as part of my citizenship expenses, though it just goes to show there are many obstacles to overcome!

I went to one place only to find it shut. A bit perplexed but not out of ideas, I asked a lady where the other Post Office was and she directed me around the corner. Sadly when I arrived their machine wasn't working. There were a number of other applicants on the same mission though they hadn't the benefit of English as their first language nor, I would guess, two decades of experience in Britain. One large man was being lectured by a stern woman in a suit that he could not threaten their staff and it wasn't their fault the machine was malfunctioning. He did seem quite agitated and I couldn't blame him, though I gather he had left things to the last minute, thus adding to his own stress. I wanted to assure him it wasn't at all personal - Britain does this malfunctioning thing to everyone including its own native born. I think it, in addition to the practice of queuing, accounts for the level of national stoicism.

The lady behind the counter said I had the choice to wait for the computer guy to come or to go down to Sunderland. I chose the latter. It was in trying to reconnect with Bill that I realised I'd never yet answered my mobile phone in the years  I've grudgingly carried it. I've only ever texted a few times so  Bill and I had several failed attempts nearly worthy of a digital age slapstick before I managed to find him and the car. 

It all went swimmingly in Sunderland: I made Bill park in a car park and walk the pedestrianised street with me to the Post Office and their machine worked fine. After a short wait I entered a booth where I had a facial scan and my fingerprints taken, a rather surreal experience. After that it was just a matter of waiting from three to six months for the official verdict. 

When I got the acceptance letter I had to phone my local authority, this time North Tyneside, to book into a citizenship ceremony - that was free. 

A drawing of the Registry Office that hangs in the lobby. I'm rather sentimental about the place.

The ceremony took place at the North Shields Register office where Bill and I got married eight years ago. I wore the same dress and shoes. It did sort of feel like getting married again, pledging allegiance to the Queen and to the laws of the the United Kingdom. The latter was second nature, I would live by those laws anyhow, but the Queen? Well, I think of her as a symbol and perhaps a wise little old lady. I've been fascinated with her family since I was twelve years old and in any case there wasn't a republican oath on offer, only the choice to 'swear by almighty God' or to 'affirm'. 

The ceremony began with a few tunes on the Northumbrian bagpipes. He didn't wear a kilt, just a shirt and trousers but with a large scarf, perhaps called a plaid, I'm not sure. I recognised the Northumbrian tartan, a black and white check. This was historically quite fitting as we were part of Northumberland until 45 years ago. I noticed piper's cuff links were buttons covered in the same tartan.

The mistress of ceremony was a deputy registrar I'd spoken with on the phone. A registrar's job is sort of a records manager: births, deaths, marriages...and citizenship.  There were also two official gentlemen who gave fairly similar speeches: the Chairman of the North Tyneside Council and a Deputy Lord Lieutenant (pronounced lef-tenant, you know) - sort of a deputy deputy as it were (as in lieu).

The Chairman of the Council, Tommy Mulvenna, was wearing his Chain of Office and was accompanied by a mace-bearer (also a casual civic driver, according to the job advert) who was...carrying a mace. We examined this interesting object later and found the emblem of the Tynemouth Borough Council, one of four and a bit councils amalgamated to form North Tyneside. According to this website about a film made by a local school in 1950:

  The Mace which is now recognised as a symbol of Royal Authority and Civic dignity, was originally a weapon of offence, capable of breaking through the strongest armour. It was carried into battle by Mediaeval Bishops instead of the sword.

The Deputy Lord Lieutenant was there as a representative of the Queen herself. I didn't catch his name but he kindly came up for a chat when the ceremony was over, explaining that we were 'nearly neighbours'. That gave me pause that he knew the name of my street but then I realised that the Queen's representative probably got to see my paperwork. 

The Queen, probably in about 1995, the year I came to Britain.

I asked the Leader of the Council what I might read to help me choose a political party and make an informed vote in May's local elections. Funny enough, he said it was 'all down to how you feel' and didn't recommend any study at all. He said he was once a Lib Dem (Liberal Democrat) but now was with the Labour party and suspected his wife of being a Conservative. I think he was serious, but I'm not positive. 

The speeches themselves were pretty interesting. They touched on the need for us to abide by the laws of the United Kingdom but mostly seemed to welcome our different contributions to the diversity of Britain. 

After the speeches and the pledges came the dirge-iest (that surely should be a word) version of a national anthem I've ever heard. I knew the words from my study. They are fairly amusing in a way. Think My Country Tis of Thee and sing along if you like: 

God save our gracious Queen, Long live our noble Queen, God save the Queen. Send her victorious, happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the Queen. 

It implies that so long as the Queen is happy, it's all good, but then she is a symbol of the country, right? Like I said, the words were no problem but it was s-o  s-l-o-o-o-o-w, when I wanted something a bit more upbeat to fit the cheerful occasion. Never mind.

After all that we had our photos. Shame the Queen got cut out, the photographer doesn't seem to have planned well, though it wasn't his fault the curtains wouldn't shut and the room was set up wrong for photos. Still, I'm content - it was free!

Then we all gathered for a nice cup of tea and a biscuit or a bit of cake. I went around to each of my new fellow citizens to shake their hands and congratulate them - very American of me, I know. They were all pretty pleased with themselves just as I was, and shook my hand, smiling. Except for the Rumanian man. He bowed and kissed my hand instead. 

I do wish Britain could stay in the EU.

We had a G&T at the Grand Hotel before going home to change and attend the Tynemouth Historical Society meeting.