Hunting The Dead In A Beautiful Place

One of my favourite things to do is to hunt down the dead.

Ancestry research is great fun. If you like puzzles and you like mysteries, this is a pastime that is as much thrilling as it is enlightening.

Rob and I pulled up alongside the Waikumete cemetery in Auckland on a warm Saturday afternoon. We had called ahead during the week, so we had a fair idea of where Great Grandfather x3 Foley was buried.

We squeezed through the overgrown hedge and found ourselves in one of the oldest grave sites of early New Zealand. A beautiful, sloping green field dotted with the grey, crumbling headstones of our ancestors. Many were still in good repair, but many were rusty and broken and fallen, overgrown with grass and briar roses, where the earth had sunken around the buried coffins, and the concrete sealing some of the graves had lifted away from the foundations, cracking and twisting through the hundreds of years of sun and rain and nature's ceaseless and unfettered march.

As Rob explained to me, the cemetery employees, as a government-owned entity is responsible for the upkeep of the grounds, not for the upkeep of the graves. That is left for family to tend to, and as the years pass, and family pass too, the dead are forgotten and abandoned. It's only when we, the young and the living wish to seek our roots and familial connections that we look for them again and come to find the final resting places of our kinsmen.

On my mother's maternal side, we have a rich oral and written history, but on her mother's father's side there is not much information at all. I think my Great Grandmother's family had a strong and large unit of aunties and uncles and cousins and a close bond with their Maori heritage that it dominated the family stories and connections, but in the last month I found myself wondering about my mother's grandfather and his origins, so I began a little digging around to see what came up.

Stephen Foley, my Great grandfather died a couple of years after I was born, and as I hunted around I discovered that his grandfather and grandmother, John and Hannah Sarah Foley immigrated to New Zealand among the first early settlers of the 1800s, and they came from Ireland.

We had always suspected we had Irish blood, not the least because throughout my lifetime people would always refer to the dark ring around my green eyes as being Irish. The legend goes that if you have that, you have Irish blood.

Well, now I've proven it. My Great x3 grandfather was Irish. His wife was Welsh, and they came to New Zealand to start afresh. He was a book binder, and he died in Auckland in 1893 and was buried in the Roman Catholic Division of the Waikumete Cemetery.

But as Rob and I wandered up and down, we failed to find the Foley headstone.

The old part of the cemetery is not very well organised. We were told John Foley was buried in Row 1, plot 63, so we wandered up and down, checking. Some graves were unreadable. There would be moss grown over the etchings or the words had faded into oblivion. We couldn't be sure if we were looking at our family member's headstone or not.

So we drove back to the office. Twice.

If I had the job of working in a cemetery I would be so interested if people turned up looking for an ancestor. I would love to help in the hunt, doing what I could to assist, but the staff at the Waikumete Cemetery were either extremely bored, depressed or just didn't love what they did for a living, because we had to go back twice to find the information. The second time we struck a different staff member and she was more helpful, if slightly bored, and brought out a large ancient cardboard plan of the old cemetery. We had to use the magnifying glass to find the written number on the tiny, faded squares that represented the plot sites, and when we did find it, it was the one part of the old, worn cardboard sheet that had torn and worn away, just like the graves. No markings. No number. No record. The upkeep and record keeping is very poor, in my opinion. This needs to be rectified as soon as possible to preserve history for future generation.

What had happened to my Great great great grandparents original headstone, I do not know. The cemetery had a record of the etching with their names and dates of death, but there was nothing that remained to physically mark the graves, other than a slight indentation in the earth. John's wife Hannah is buried in plot 61 - also unmarked, and John's grave is a double grave, his daughter Elizabeth dying 6 years before him, 4 months after her mother, in 1887. When John died, he was buried on top. Why did Elizabeth, my Great great Aunt and her mother die so closely together - within a few months? This is another piece of the puzzle.

We did find them - we know where they are buried now, but there is nothing to mark it, other than this old tree that grows over the site.

We photographed the graves beside.

and recorded the site for our future reference.

I am going to look into getting a small marker for John and Elizabeth and Hannah. It doesn't seem right that the two people who gave us the privilege of being new Zealanders don't have anything tangible to remember them by, other than their genetic gift of their many descendents. I hope we can rectify that.

John Foley born 1814, County Carlow, Ireland

Book Binder. 

Died aged 80 years, April 16, 1893 in Auckland, New Zealand

His wife,

Hannah Sarah Foley, born 1820, Glamorgan, Wales

Died, aged 66, 7 February 1887
Occupation: Domestic

Their daughter Miss Elizabeth Mary Foley (buried with John)

born in London, 1857

died in Auckland, 30 May, 1887 (age 29 years)
Occupation: Domestic

Buried in the Roman Catholic division of the Waikumete Cemetery, Auckland

Row 1, Plots 61 and 63.

Ten Things To Love About Kate Sheppard

Today is election day in New Zealand.

I voted yesterday, in the midst of my busy schedule. It is a privilege I will never take for granted.

In 1893 Kate Sheppard petitioned the government for the right for women to vote, and won. She sent a ripple round the world and other countries soon followed.
But New Zealand was the first country to grant this for women. That is something to be enormously proud of.

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Kate won this for us. We remind ourselves of her valour and courage and New Zealand's ability time and time again to lead the world in human rights by having her face on our $10 note. So today, in honour of the woman who fought for my right to vote, I thought I'd list ten things about Kate that I think are interesting and noteworthy.

1. Kate helped establish the New Zealand Women's Christian Temperance Union. It was from this that she and her supporters formed the petition for the right to vote.

2. It took three petitions to the government to get the vote for women passed.

3. Kate was a devout christian.

* I note that as an important fact, because I do believe, in spite of many people these days mocking it and abusing it, that christianity is behind much of the beliefs and freedoms of the western world, and is the only 'religion' where women are on an equal footing with men.

4. She married a grocer, and had one child, a son.

5. Once the right to vote was passed, Kate only had 10 weeks to get as many New Zealand women over the age of 21 as possible to register. In spite of the short notice, nearly two-thirds of women cast a vote. 61%!

6. Kate was born in England, but emigrated to New Zealand when she was a teenager.

7. She made some pretty amazing statements. This being the most famous,

"All that separates, whether of race, class, creed, or sex, is inhuman, and must be overcome."

8. My oldest daughter shares a birthday with her. March 10. That makes me smile.

9. After winning the vote for women in New Zealand, she travelled to America, Canada and England to meet with the suffragettes in those countries and encourage them in their fight for social reform.

10. She died in Christchurch and is buried in the Addington Cemetery.

Her obituary in the paper said this of her:

"A great woman has gone, whose name will remain an inspiration to the daughters of New Zealand while our history endures."

So, I hope that if you are a kiwi you will get out there today and do what Kate and those women who went before us fought for. The right and the privilege for women to have a voice in political matters.

photo credit: Christchurch City Libraries via photopin cc

Turangawaewae

I am sitting outside on the deck of the Caretaker's cottage this afternoon. Looking out over the beautiful Hauraki Gulf and thinking about how blessed I was to be born a New Zealander. What a fortunate birth indeed.

We are about halfway through our summer holiday at the family bach (beach house), and already I have grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of the waves on the beach, of having lunch at 3 o'clock and dinner just before sundown.

Just before Dawn this morning from my bedroom window.

One of the greatest gifts that my husband has given me is the gift of his family. When we come out here to the bach, we are surrounded by cousins, second cousins, cousins once removed, nephews and nieces and more cousins. There are several baches on the property, so we're all spread out and have our own spaces, but the beach is the common meeting ground, where we park ourselves under our favourite Pohutukawa tree with our books and our thermoses and our snacks and our beach chairs. Sometimes we sit there in silence, just taking in all the beauty of the day, and sometimes we sit there and chat and have lovely conversations about life.

I love that every year my children get to have fun with their extended family.

Boating, fishing, swimming, sand-castle building, water-skiing, sea-biscuiting, sailing, games of cards, shrimping, climbing over the rocks, walking through the bush - it's always the same every year, and every year we grow more and more attached to this place.

And it's not that it's because it's such a beautiful beach and an amazing place to stay - but because it is our Turangawaewae.

It's the family relationships that we are building upon every year, since these kids were babies and since their parents were babies. They all grow up together. They all play together and know each other so well. They are friendships they will have for life.
That's what I especially love about coming here.
It's giving our children this treasure of each other.

Here are just a few of my favourite photos from the last week or so.

Walking Backwards Into The Future

Walking backwards into the future. A strange turn of phrase. A concept unusual and foreign to much of modern society, but this is something that the Maori culture of New Zealand embrace. It is central to many of the foundational values that surround the importance of family and history and culture within Maori.

And it is something that I value and believe, and one of the things I love about having Maori blood running in my veins.

I was taught this by my grandmother as she was taught it by her grandmother. We grew up with the stories of our ancestors. We knew them through the memories of those who came after them. And this is something I wish to pass on to my children, in a world where individualism and self-interest are hotly pursued, and I believe at the expense of valuing the past, remembering our histories and loving the people who have lived before us and who have given us so much.

Yesterday, we went up to Auckland to go to the funeral of the last of my husband's Lees uncles at St Mary's-In-Holy-Trinity in Parnell, part of the Cathedral. Rob has two elderly aunties still alive, and well into their 90's, but Uncle Ted was the last of his father's brothers.

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When you enter a church so majestic and incredibly beautiful in it's wooden framework high above our heads, and stained-glass windows, soft lighting and row upon row of solemn pews, there is a real sense of awe and, funnily-enough, a deep emotion of thankfulness.

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Here we all were to celebrate the life of a wonderful and much-loved man, a son and brother of a wonderful and much-loved old generation of family who have nearly all gone now, and yet their heritage lives on in their many descendants. My husband's family is large in number, and it is lovely to belong to a large and wonderful extended family.

As I sat in the seat between my sister-in-law and husband and behind my son and another brother and sister-in-law, and as I looked out over the heads of the people in front of me, and recognised many, many faces of my dear in-law family I began to feel such an overwhelming feeling of thankfulness.

Looking up at the ceiling of that beautiful church as we listened to the wonderful tributes I couldn't help but think of how this is what New Zealand is, this is what our country was founded on - tradition and family. These two things are what make our little country great.

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These beautiful old churches, built by the God-fearing pioneers of our country who bought with them the values and traditions that our families and our nation were built upon. And how that is slowly being whittled away, how those same values and traditions are now mocked and belittled in the pursuit of self-belief and self-importance, in the modern credence that man is god. Or even in the subtle devaluing of the importance of family ties, beliefs and connections, and taking it all for granted.

And the tragedy it will become  if it all disappears, this old New Zealand, taking so much treasure and heritage with it. The buildings will still be there, but the soul will have gone from them.

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And it reminds me again of my Maori heritage and the importance of walking backwards into the future. Of remembering those important people in our past who lived so that we might live. Of valuing the heritage that they have left us in this country and in the faces of our family who surround our lives.
Friends and acquaintances may come and go, and they do, but family never does. As I said to my son while we were driving up to Auckland, these people have known you since you were born. They have known your father since he was born, and they will know and love you all your life until you die and even then, they won't stop loving you. Death shouldn't be the ending of that. They are a constant presence in your life, no matter where you go and what you do.

It is why I felt it was important to take my son to this family funeral.

I want him to hear the stories of his old uncles and aunties and to know his cousins and his second-cousins. As he grows older I want him to be aware of the family that he comes from, to have a sense of belonging and identity in the history of this country and the history of his extended family. This is what I believe to be important. Not forgetting what has gone before us, but building upon the lessons and love and traditions of those much-loved people, talking about them, remembering them, loving them and their children, and in doing so passing it on to the next generation.

Walking backwards into the future indeed.

photo credit: Carol Green via photopin cc

photo credit: tarboxje via photopin cc

photo credit: Bert Kaufmann via photopin cc
photo credit: Light Knight via photopin cc

A Love Affair with a Classic Little Ship

Occasionally, my daughter will ask me the question, "if you had all the money in the world, what would be the first thing you would buy?"

Impossible question really, because I will never have all the money in the world, but it's a fun thing to contemplate, and dream about.

And my answer is always the same.

I would buy a classic New Zealand yacht.

My grandfather - one of the true gentlemen of the old generation - was an Airforce man. But he loved the sea and he loved boats. Growing up in Marlborough gave us access to the Marlborough Sounds, and when Grandad retired from the Airforce he took on a job looking after the Sounds property of the Todd family, which included their beautiful classic New Zealand yacht, The Viking.

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The Todd's generously allowed us to stay at their place many times, and we have so many happy family memories tied up with that little Bay, including jaunts out to the Viking, where my father would row around the carved Viking figurehead, a Norse-looking man with flowing gold locks, and pretend that it talked to us.

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When we were older, we'd swim out to her as she lay at anchor, lazily turning on the tide, and we'd clamber up her sides and sunbathe on the decks. The sound of the sea lapping against a boat is one of my most favourite sounds in the world. It instantly transports me back to those halcyon childhood days, and warm, sunny afternoons out on the Viking.
Grandad and Sir Bryan would go off for days at a time on sailing trips, across the Cook Strait, along the coasts of New Zealand. And so it was on the Viking and in the Marlborough Sounds that my love of the sea and old ships was cultivated.

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So, when my ship comes in, it's an old sailing ship for me.
Here is a much-loved photo of my Grandad; Roy Spencer, MBE, on the Viking.

When the Viking left the Marlborough Sounds and was on loan to the Maritime Museum in Auckland, we went to see her one day, while Nana and Grandad were staying with us. We laughed at the "Do Not Touch" signs on the sides of her, remembering those days in the Bay when we played on her. We had tea and drinks down in the cabin with her owners and got to see the amazing work they had done inside of  refitting her walnut-wood-lined walls to the rich gold tones of Kauri.
She is a beautiful little ship and unforgettable.

In all my life I have never owned a boat, until this last summer when we bought a little sailing ship for our children.

 

And it's not the Viking by any stretch of the imagination, but it has a sail, and there's nothing like the romance of a sail and watching a little boat cut smoothly through the sea. And at least it's a beginning in my goal towards a bigger little ship.

I haven't seen the Viking again for over fifteen years. But everytime I pass a marina in Auckland, I am always looking for her.

photo credit: jotter2 via photopin cc

photo credit: RichKnowles via photopin cc

A Daughter of the Captain of Fortrose

On a windy, freezing cold night we blew into a country bed and breakfast in the heart of the Catlins. It had taken some finding in the dark, with four children sleeping in the back.  As the hostess came over to our little cottage to welcome us, I opened the door and said hello.
"Are you  a descendant of the Captain?" She asked smiling widely, as she handed me some extra blankets.
I nodded, thrilled. "Yes, yes I am." I replied.
"Let me shake your hand." she said.
I was rather thrilled to find that my Great great great Grandfather James Wybrow was still respected and revered by the community over a hundred years later.
We had come to the Catlins to find him.

 

James Wybrow, the son of a hardened criminal, and convict parents was born in Australia in 1814.

He came to New Zealand as a young man and worked in the whaling trade in Southland.

I love my family history - not for the tedium of reciting dates and times and places, but because I see them as real people. I have a connection to them. Their blood, whether good or bad, runs in my veins. I love the stories behind their lives. The family legends and the family pride. In fact, I love family history, even if it's not my own family. I do believe that every life is extraordinary. Every single person that has lived on the earth has a story to tell. There's a richness in the past. There's a strange feeling in getting to know your ancestors and who they were. Like reaching back into time and grasping hold of their courage and their love and their struggles and their strength and taking some of that for yourself. Like the years slip away and they are there before you. We were their future. We were their hope of a better world.

James comes with his own legends. A larger than life man, who widowed with three young sons, married my Great great Grandmother, Elizabeth Newton. A Stewart Island girl, daughter of a Maori woman and a Scottish man. She was 13 when she married James. Thirteen!

I have heard that he was good friends with my G, G, G, Grandfather George Newton. Maybe they used to work together in their business of whaling and timber milling. I imagine him sailing over to the Island in a little boat and getting to know the family. Apparently, my family - my Maori family on Stewart Island had a reputation for their hospitality. Nobody ever left their home empty-handed. And so I think of James meeting the young girl, Elizabeth and taking her for a bride. How young is that, to be marrying and perhaps raising three young boys who were not her own.

James and Elizabeth moved to the lower part of the Catlins and set up their  home. They founded the little seaside village of Fortrose.

Picture source here.

One of the stories about James gives testament to his humanity and his kindness. When the SS Tararua was wrecked off the coast of Waipapa Point and all on board were lost, James wrapped himself in coils of rope and anchoring himself to the beach helped to bring in the many dead bodies of sailors and men and women and children. The account tells of the nightmares he endured for many months afterwards. What a dreadful task, but one that makes me feel proud of him.

James and Elizabeth had 7 children, one of whom was my Great great grandmother Isabella.

We have a very rare photograph of Elizabeth. Someone sent it to me by email a few months ago. What a treasure.

My own Grandmother said her mother used to talk about her grandmother, Elizabeth, as a warm and caring woman. What a heritage. If there was to be only one thing about you to be passed on to your descendants, don't you think that 'warm and caring' is the best tribute of all. What a dynamic couple she and James must have been. What strength and what leadership. I am proud to be counted among their children. To be a daughter of the Captain.

Aunty Marjorie's Garden Cutting

This weekend we visited Rob's elderly Aunt in Auckland. She has always been an inspiration to me from the very first time he took me to meet her before we got married.

This is a woman who has known tragedy in her lifetime, and never allowed it to dim her faith or her inner joy. When we lost our first baby she was there for me, comforting me with her wise words, her faith in God and her cups of tea. No matter what life has thrown at her, she still holds fast to God, and that inspires me. She is a rare woman in a world of doubters and unbelievers. People admire her because she's in her 90's, and independant and still as 'sharp as a tack', but you cannot separate her from her faith, and that is what I admire her for most of all.

While we were having a late lunch out on her deck in the afternoon sunshine, she snapped off a piece of a large bush that grows by her front door and gave it to me for my new garden. She said that one of her dearest friends gave it to her. I don't even know what the plant is called, and it's not even a particularly pretty bush, but I was thinking how nice it will be to have some of Aunty Marjorie's garden in my new garden. And that got me thinking....

Wouldn't it be nice to take snippings of plants from the garden of friends and family for the new garden.

When we got married 16 years ago, one of my bridesmaids did that for me. She filled a large tub of cuttings from her garden. I lovingly planted them all out in my new little house ...

...but we only stayed there for 2 years before we moved to the South Island. I took some of the plants with me, and they probably are still growing in our homes in Central Otago and Canterbury, but we've had so many moves over the years that not one of the cuttings I took when we left survive now. I even took a cutting of a hydrangea from the Marlborough Sounds property we used to haunt when we were kids, but that didn't last the trip north. So I have to start all over again, and Aunty Marge's plant is the first one for my new garden. We plan on being here for awhile now, with the kids in school and settled here. Plus, we love it so much in the Bay of Plenty, I can't see us moving in a hurry.

Don't you think it's a nice idea, to fill my garden with cuttings from people and places we love. I know it's sentimental, but in a world that has become impersonal and indifferent, I think it will give meaning and soul to my garden.

The Caretaker's Garden

A few years ago I blogged about the little cottage on our family's beach property.
The cottage once was lived in by Rob's grandfather and grandmother. It's called Narnie's bach, and is very basic - just two bedrooms, a small living room, and a kitchen the size of a cupboard and a bathroom. It's over 80 years old already.

But it's very quaint and I just love it for it's cuteness. If it were mine I'd be painting it white with green trim around the windows, and painting the interior white with little red gingham curtains, or something from Cath Kidston, or lovely, light, dreamy, creamy linen!!! For most of the year, the family have a caretaker living in the cottage as security for the beach property, but over January and February the caretaker vacates it so family can use it as extra accomodation.

We wandered up there to visit some cousins and to look at the garden. The caretaker's wife is the most amazing gardener, and going by what I found in the garden, I'd say they would almost be self-sufficient.

Chickens - but I'm told only one is laying which tells me that the caretaker's wife must be a bit of a softy, and hanging onto her aging chooks.

 

I loved all the little paths through the garden that are lined with shells. I think it's a funny coincidence that I'd just been reading one of my favourite Anne books where her gardens were lined with shells too.

So many pretty flowers scattered through the garden....

 

And as if the view isn't enough to look at....

... the caretaker's wife also has some pretty fun artworks around the cottage and garden. Meredith in particular, loved them, and asked me to take some photos for inspiration.

 

 

"Does the song of the sea end at the shore or in the hearts of those who listen"

  

This is an old figtree that Robin's grandfather planted.

 

And a massive Misletoe tree with red berries, but they were too high for my camera to catch ...

Children playing in the garden ... and helping themselves to raspberries ...

The steps that come down the hill to the caretaker's house ...