valeriesbookofme

As I have written before, there was very little that I knew about my extended family. However, two  things I DID know were (1) that my maternal grandfather had served in the Boer War and that (2) a great uncle had died in WWI. Like so many other treasures that have been discovered thanks to genealogy and the opening up of records, in the years since I began tracing my family roots I have added to those two sparse facts. First, my maternal grandfather. Tracing how and where he served in the Boer War was a challenge until I found out that, instead of living in Scotland as he had always maintained, he had grown up in a small village in Lancashire called Hoddlesden. According to the 1891 census, he was still at school at the age of 8 but his brother, aged 10, was already a warehouse boy at the cotton mill and his other brother, aged 13, was a reacher in. There is no doubt that, in the years that followed, Grandfather went to work at the mill too. Then the Boer War happened. According to

I can't say I have any particular unexplained memories. Mixed-up ones like some friends have mentioned--things that you believe happened but that no one else remembers. But those are not memories in the way I think of as "unexplained," that is, that you just don't know why you remember them. Still when you are in your 60s you have been through so many experiences, most of which you DON'T call back from whatever brain cell they are stored in, that you wonder why certain experiences stay with you so strongly. It's understandable the memory would stay though if there were strong emotions attached. For example, the early morning that the telephone rang saying that my mother had taken a turn for the worse. Sixteen year old me struggling to get dressed while my dad tried to convince me not to come with him. And then the call that came again as we were just about to leave that we needn't rush, she had died. Me, sitting on the couch, screaming silently in my hea

I participated in trick or treating from the time I was about 3 until I was 13. I don't remember any fancy costumes; I think my mom usually cobbled things together from my older sister's party dresses. I do remember one year dressing in a kind of Chinese Mikado-type outfit. It was always so cold in Montreal on October 31st that we wore coats over our costumes anyway. And we carried paper shopping bags that we had to take great care to watch--too often the bottoms would become wet and break apart. Kids didn't trick or treat after the age of 13 back then. I am continually surprised to see older kids--and now adults--trick or treating nowadays. Last week I handed candy out to a Crusader who was probably 70 years old! Although we no longer trick or treated, there were often Halloween parties to go to. Bobbing for apples and lots to eat. Spooky Halloween stories. I do have one funny Halloween story from when I was an adult. I decided to dress as Irma La Douce for a single

A series of shelves in my living room currently symbolize my "time capsule." In each cubicle there are mementoes of happy times, trips, people I loved and love, books and CDs. I have taken photos tonight, November 4, 2013, of the cubicles as they are currently constituted. So many trinkets, china figures, photos I am so glad that I have a few items that I grew up--the penguin and rabbit families, the elephant, the marble horse bookends, three small watercolors prettily framed. And I have photographs of family--cousins, nephew and family, my darling daughter, and my wedding day. Two Lladro figurines, one that I gave a friend's parents and my friend returned to me after their deaths. The other a gift from my husband one Christmas, which means a lot to me because he is not in the least sentimental yet he saw the figurine in a shop and remembered how much I cherished my other. Mementos from our trip on the Queen Mary--a photograph and a tea pot.  A santon (woman in

The story of my maternal grandparents, Mary Cate Reilly and Harold Gilbert Torrance, is one of secrets and lies. I don't mean to sound blaming or judgmental by writing that. They doubtless had very good reasons for hiding where they came from, not discussing it with their grandchildren. I have a few secrets and lies in my life as well. And, to be fair, there is one grandchild who may have known more about them than their two younger, being ten years older, but sadly she died before I--the only person in my family really interested in family history--could ask her. In fact, except for a cousin, all of my mother's side of the family, including my mother, died before I became interested in genealogy.  My maternal grandparents died when I was young--my grandfather when I was 2.5, my grandmother when I was 16 and my mother a few months after my grandmother. Complicating matters, when my grandmother was alive she and my father had a falling out so I didn't see very much of

My parents were 40 when I was born and my grandparents were in their mid to late 60s. Thus, by the time I was 5 I had lost one grandparent, my maternal grandfather, and the others seemed "old" to me. Another reason why they seemed old was because, well, that generation was old by the time they were in their 60s. Unlike myself who, I hope, is energetic and, well, young. My paternal grandparents both came from Dundee, Scotland in the early 1900s.  Grandma was born in 1878, Grandpa in 1879. My grandmother was an only child and I think a bit wild. When I started delving into family history in my 30s, I discovered that she had had an illegitimate daughter who was brought up by my great grandmother. My father claimed that he had always been told she was his cousin but, honestly, I think he knew in his heart of hearts that Davina was his half sister. My grandmother was quite beautiful as a young woman and my grandfather, who lived a few blocks away from her and her parents in Dund

Like so many young girls, I had one of those pretty cardboard bound books with a padlock and key. Where I could write my "secrets." I think I was about 10 or 11 when I had my first diary. Most of the times I was hard pressed to write a paragraph about what happened in my day. It seemed so mundane. But I did keep diaries, loads of diaries, until I was 20 years old. And a schizophrenic friend of mine found my (unlocked) diary and read some things I didn't want anyone to read. And challenged me on it. After she left that night, I burned that particular diary and threw the rest out. After that, I would keep records from time to time. I have a box of those books and they have no rhyme and reason to them. In fact, I read a few pages this week. I wonder whether to keep them--they don't really hold any clues for ME but maybe someday they might for my daughter and/or my grandchildren.  My diaries aren't as interesting as someone like Pepys or Queen Victoria. I rar

Home "A chair is still a chair Even when there's no one sittin' there But a chair is not a house And a house is not a home When there's no one there to hold you tight And no one there you can kiss goodnight" --from "A House is Not a Home," B. Bacharach & H. David I lived in the same house for the first seventeen years of my life. I posted a photo of that house on my last blog but will post it again: I thought I loved my house. It was certainly a beautiful house. And my parents worked hard on that house. My father, a skilled carpenter and mason, ensured that it was built to his high standards. It was warm in the winters and cool in the summers. I had my own bedroom--something special that many of my friends didn't have in post-war Montreal. And my parents redecorated it when I became a teenager--cabinets where I could keep all my "stuff," a shelf for my record player and portable TV.  My parents planted beautiful flowers

When I first read this week's writing prompt--do I have a favorite season and if so, why--the song "If Ever I Would Leave You" started swirling in my head. Sung by Robert Goulet of course. Robert Goulet was big in our house in the early 1960s. He was Canadian, classically handsome with a gorgeous voice. Anyway, why would I associate that song with this week's writing prompt? Well the song is about love and seasons--Lancelot singing to Guinevere about how he could never leave her at any time. And that goes along with my musings about seasons because my feelings around the changing seasons had so very much to do with love. Montreal, my hometown, has very distinct seasons. Spring is green and softly warm, Summer is humid and hot, Fall is a riot of reds and golds and greens and nippy and Winter is freeze your face off cold. I enjoyed all of the seasons because each held something that I loved. The photo below is of my home for the first 17 years of my life--6797 34th

Ah, you want to know about my physical self? If I said I looked like Audrey Hepburn would you be satisfied? More importantly, would "I" be satisfied? I have always wanted to look like Audrey. Ethereal, gamine, graceful. Sadly, though, I share almost nothing in common with Audrey, except perhaps that I adore Cary Grant and Gregory Peck. So, what DO I look like physically? Well, I currently hover between a size 12 and a size 14. Those have been my sizes for most of my life, even in childhood. I was never obese as a child--I was plump. My slim cousin says that her mother--my mother's sister--told her that my mother always overfed me. My weight I guess was every bit the family topic I thought it was. My fairy princess sister--blonde, ten years older than I and infinitely poised and self-confident--would tease me mercilessly about my weight. Which always drove me face first into the mashed potatoes and gravy. I would literally eat until I felt ill sometimes. And even when I

My mother was in labor for three days before I was born. That was the most significant thing I heard as I grew up. As far as I know, only the doctors were present although my father had been in the waiting room on and off. He said that he was quite annoyed with the doctor when he said that mom wasn't working hard enough at first. And then the doctor said that she wasn't really built for having children. Dad said couldn't he have figured that out after nine months of examinations? I did eventually appear though. I do have a baby photo from the hospital somewhere in my memorabilia mess. Although it could also be my sister as we were both born at the Royal Victoria Hospital (a Gothic pile in Montreal) and there is no date on the photo. Although "rooming in" wasn't the norm back in 1952, I was able to stay in my mother's room after I was born because she contracted erysipelas--a staph-like infection--right after I was born. So I couldn't be in the nurs

I am Valerie May Campbell Ackroyd. I am a child of God. I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I am 61 years old. I am a Quebecois. I am a genealogist. I live in Arizona. I am a woman. I am a wife. I am a mother. I am a grandmother. I work as a substitute teacher. I am a friend. I am a dog owner. I live in a house. I am a reader. I am a writer. I am kind. I am mercurial. I am a traveller. I am a binge eater. I am happy.