I set off for Liverpool with a lot of good memories from my childhood. The journey itself is only a matter of 45 minutes but hair-raising insofar as I don't know my way through the City centre and parking was a nightmare until I got the hang of the one way system.
By the time I reached the parking bay I had sweat buckets of distress because I simply hate being inside those awful low roofed parking buildings with their constant spiralled lanes and the ever increasing frustrated drivers ahead of or behind me...all looking for an empty bay. I took the cowards way out and headed directly to the roof where I breathed untrapped air and delightful rays of sunshine announced my freedom from 'the box' of cars... phew !
It took a while to get all my bits and bobs together but eventually I headed off towards the Picton Library. Its one of the most sympathetically updated, modernised and architecturally re-created buildings in Liverpool with sweeping staircases, modern computers and the like and a really fantastic view of Liverpool from the accessible roof...and it contains ME ! well I should say it stores the records of my ancestors who are directly responsible for me being here in the first place.
I have been researching my ancestry for years and have gotten back to the 14th century for one line and stopped abruptly in the 1830's in another line and all sorts of levels in-between; but mostly I get stopped in a heartbeat when I discover an interesting story.
That is why I am still heading into Liverpool...too many interesting stories. Last month I found my Great Uncle whose life ended abruptly during world war 1, he died a heroes death with his horse, the youngest cavalry sergeant in that awful war; his name was Frederick Morrison; Rank:Serjeant Service No:675624;Date of Death:19/10/1917
Regiment/Service:Royal Field Artillery "A" Bty. 285th and he is buried in Belgium in the wargraves at West-Vlaanderen. So many miles from his home. I still cannot watch the film War Horse it is too close to the reality of his demise. BUT....
it didn't stop there and so currently I am finding the newspapers articles on my Great Grandmother Ada Fisher who won a penmanship award for her copperplate writing and my Mother Dora Morrison won a poetry competition at the age of 11 and was published...so they will go into the added information I am gathering.
Reading this you might have hit the yawn factor..its my world after all and not yours and dusty old info on people you have never met can be really tiresome. The theme however is the importance of being me and the reason these people matter are because they helped to make me who I am. The courage my Great Uncle displayed is part of my inheritance, the forthright attitude of Gran when she was faced with the death of her daughter while giving birth to my mother is displayed in the old family tales of her determination to keep mum alive...so she bought a goat and tethered it in her back garden where it promptly ate all her roses...or my Mother herself who never once told me 'you can't' but instilled in me 'you can'....so Liverpool is a rich source of information for now...soon I will be beyond that and travelling to Cumbria to discover what I can about my Great Grandmothers on Mums side and another journey into Wales will follow for info on Dads side of the family...one day I will be in the Isle of Man and then Australia and America will be on the list............all to discover how I came to have the traits I have, and remember.
Remember those stalwart souls who survived wars and journeys and being sent as a convict to America or Australia, the fighting spirit of my Uncles some of whom died horrendous deaths, others who survived to bring up families.
I like being me.....I also like knowing the lives I came from..............its important.
