valeriesbookofme

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