The other day while having a coffee in one of our favourite cafés, Sharon and I were delighted to be joined by two friends. One of those friends is a favourite professor and mentor from my days as a music student and the other was his life partner who is just as delightful. This is the second time this has happened in as many months. Every time we talk there is such a rich and humorous exchange of ideas on a variety of subjects.
Sharon and “C” got into their various experiences with their recent eye surgeries and the positive and negative emotions evoked from their experiences. I didn’t hear much of that conversation because on our side of the table we were having our own conversation. I always love talking with and listening to “K” and I believe he delights in it as well. The time before I had intended to send him an e-mail to express how our conversation had actually elated me and had altered my mood for hours afterward. I forgot to do it, of course, but this time I was determined to let him know how much he has meant and still means to me.
I was reminded of a message I received from a former student who I was quite fond of. I had found him on Facebook and he messaged me back with a series of re-acquainting stories and ended with this message: “You had a huge impact on my life, Ian!”
I wanted ”K” to hear a similar sentiment from me. He surely already knew. Most teachers are aware of that special connection. I have been fortunate to have had many great mentors and have been lucky enough to have been a mentor to several myself.
As we were wrapping up and taking our leave I heard Sharon say to “C”:
“Aging is a series of losses and adjustments”
Which struck me as quite profound.
”K” and I had talked about career moves and loss of loved ones through death and/or neglect and loss of various abilities including changes in eyesight, mobility, location, etc. and Sharon’s statement rang so true for both conversations.
Sharon has experienced this through her job as a home-care physiotherapist and more recently through her father’s illnesses and death and the erosion of her mother to the afflictions of aging.
“K” and I had talked about losing our parents and several colleagues and several contemporaries. I, also had the experience of my kids leaving the nest and needing less of me. I have lost some ambition and some skill through realizing I can’t do it all.
My older brother who showed me my first guitar chords can no longer form those chords because his fingers are distorted by arthritis. My fingers may be following. I recently saw Bruce Cockburn whose arthritis requires him to use two canes to walk. He talked freely about having to adapt his style to accommodate the physical changes befalling him. he’s still great by the way.
We all lose things, seeing them drop away from our reality until the only thing left to lose is our own life force.
At twenty I knew I would live forever. In my forties my dad stopped living forever. In my fifties my mum stopped living forever. Here I am in my sixties and I see more of my musical and literary heroes stopping living forever. It is starting to sink in that maybe I won’t live forever.
On Monday as I drove home from my eldest daughter’s thirtieth birthday celebration I was overwhelmed by a cloud of sadness suddenly realizing that I would not see my children grow as old as I am now. I couldn’t help that feeling or that realization. Reality sucks. I have my strategies for coping. I am a creative person. I revel in imaginary worlds and escape into art.
Now I adjust more than I want to, but probably not as much as I need to as the years flash by. Realizing this is like a sudden growth spurt of several inches.
My mind is expanding as my spine is contracting but my heart remains constant.
As a teenager I made extra spending money by doing gardening chores for some of my mum’s friends in the countryside around the town of St. Sauveur-des-Monts, Quebec in the lower Laurentian mountains. One friend of hers in particular gave me lots of work keeping her “Canada lilies“ under control. I had to dig up these obstinate orange monsters and divide them and replant the halved plant and dispose of the other half in a designated compost heap a short wheel barrow trip away. Mrs. Henderson had perhaps two dozen of these plants whose root systems were huge and intertwined. Cutting the roots with a spade was a particularly satisfying feeling and I am happy recalling this memory.
My story is not about plants, though, it is about teenage lust and paralyzing self-loathing.
Next door to the Henderson’s was another friend of my mum’s named “Hope”. Hope was a single mum and had several kids. One of those kids was Kathy. Kathy was a year younger than me and because of zoning went to a different high school. I only ever saw her from afar at the Bell theatre in Morin Heights or at community events like Canada Day or la fète St. Jean Baptiste.
One day as I was working on the lilies I saw Kathy out of the corner of my eye setting up a chaise longue on the balcony of their chalet and discretely kept watching as she slathered her limbs and torso with sunscreen as she prepared to sunbathe in her bikini less than sixty feet from me. She looked perfect. Blonde, already tanned, nubile. I was smitten in that dumbest of ways because we were really just strangers and I lacked the skill and/or confidence to do anything about it.
In those days, I had a six pack and often worked shirtless. I continued working and needlessly flexing certain muscles in hopes of luring Kathy into my orbit. Talking to her was out of the question because she was a Goddess and I was not. As I write this I am being re-traumatized by the pent up anxiety I experienced at the time. I had desire to meet this girl, but was missing the information that even though a goddess, she was just a teenager like I was and was sending off the signals that she was approachable. I feel like such a coward admitting my social impotence here. I was clueless and felt worthless.
I returned several times to the property to continue gardening, but the weather never seemed to reproduce the perfect conditions of that first day, and Kathy did not reappear. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
In the fall, I headed off to University in another province and got on with my life as did my pals from this era. Eventually Got married, raised a family, etc.
Thirty years or so later I was back in St. Sauveur attending a funeral for the mother of one of my friends and ran into Kathy’s mum “Hope”. We struck up a conversation and I nonchalantly asked how Kathy’s life had turned out. I let out that I had had a crush on her that summer. Hope exclaimed “YOU had a crush, boy oh boy, Kathy had an overwhelming crush on you that summer and couldn’t figure out why it appeared that I had no interest in her!” Doh!!!!
I have often used this story in my teaching to children. Essentially, we never know what someone else may be thinking. It isn’t a great idea to put others on a pedestal so as to make them seem unapproachable.
So, it happened once again last night. I’m not inherently stupid, but I seem to repeat stupid things. It always comes as a surprise to me even though it is not surprising. It’s like Russian Roulette with the fuel gauge. I usually win, but sometimes I don’t.
It never happens in a safe place like a side street or a parking lot, no it is always somewhere highly visible and slightly dangerous.
My first encounter with running out of gas was on the Ville Marie Expressway east bound just before the exit for Atwater. I was with my friend Mike and I had just picked up $500 from a music store (Frank Quinn’s)on Décarie. Frank had sold my Fender Twin amplifier for me and paid me what was owed. We were headed toward “music row” on Craig Street where there were several music stores to browse. Browsing with $500 in a music store is dangerous for me. Back then (when I was still at University) it was a fortune.
There were no cell phones back then, so we had to wait for a response from the surveillance routière cameras to alert the towing. The tow truck had a canister of gas on board and got us up and running. He said he only took cash or credit card, and did not have change for $100. I only had the five c notes, and had no credit card, so he trusted me and gave me the address to remit my debt. Probably around $35. Whew.
The second time I ran out of gas was on the way to the Brandon Jazz Festival with a car full of music students in the middle of a Manitoba winter. You’d think a teacher would have it together to ensure the car was gassed up for such a voyage, but no…. While we were pulled off on the shoulder of the Trans Canada Highway one of the other cars with more of my students passed us, laughing, waving and smiling and apparently oblivious to our predicament. One of the students from my car volunteered to hike over to a nearby farmhouse and came back with fuel.
As if this wasn’t enough, the third time was with my first wife and our unborn first child on the way to the Royal Victoria Hospital as we rounded the reservoir on Docteur Penfield. It was only on our way to birthing class, and not “showtime”, so Emma wasn’t born in the car…. I was sufficiently shamed into having the car more ready. A harbinger.
Several years passed until my next episode. I was returning from work in the very east end of the city and was to rendezvous with my young daughters at Westmount library. They had just started to walk there after school alone and although they were safe and had walked there with friends and their friend’s mum, they were still young and vulnerable and I had to be on time. I was running late and knew I was low on fuel, but decided to gas up after I picked them up.
There probably isn’t a worse place to run out of gas than the Ville Marie Tunnel. Ironically within a km of where I ran out of gas the first time. I know the sensation and acted quickly to take the nearest exit (Atwater) I managed to get to the side and was starting to walk toward toward where I knew there was a filling station when a guardian angel pulled up beside me and offered to give me a lift to the station at St. Jacques and Atwater. I was super thankful and couldn’t believe my good fortune. I put a deposit on the canister and filled it and was preparing to walk back when the same man tapped his horn and indicated he’d drive me back. There are some good humans on this planet.
I swore I had learned my lesson this time and vowed to myself to never ever be put in that position again.
Well, that lasted a while, but the next time it happened I was on my way to a gig in Ottawa and didn’t want to fill up in Montreal as the gas was always between 15 and 20 cents cheaper per litre in Ontario. I planned to fill up near Hawkesbury where there is a huge filling station just off the highway. Undershot it by one km. I ran out of fumes within sight of the station… in the rain.
Now over ten years into my new life, smooth sailing, happy camper,etc.
We were On the 20 returning home after having gone to separate dinners in town. Sharon was at a pot luck with her photography class and I was with good friends a few blocks over. I picked her up after dinner and we were catching up and I forgot my mental note to fill up before heading out on the highway west. We nwere almost at our exit and I had just finished reminding her that we were scheduled for our flu shots in the morning. She had forgotten. I had just remarked that it was unusual for me to be remembering when I felt the Jeep losing power and I knew what was happening and put on my flashers and reached the shoulder.
Handily there was a sign directly in front of us with the exclusive number to call for roadside assistance. I called and within minutes a truck appeared and laid out flares and blocked off the lane beside us as we awaited the towing. Pretty smooth way out of trouble. I Paid with credit card and sufficiently shamed (Sharon posted it) and financially punished to stay out of trouble and maybe this time will have learned my lesson.
Role reversal is a technique used in therapy meant to develop empathy and put yourself in another’s shoes.
In my life I have seen many guide dogs leading humans who had little or no eyesight. Where I went to University was across the street from the Canadian National Institute for the Blind. I never dreamed or ever considered that one day I might be a “Seeing eye dog”.
One of our two Shih-Tzus completely lost his eyesight around a month ago. It seemed all of a sudden that he started bumping into things and stumbling into hazards like stairs. This may have been as a result of his recently diagnosed diabetes and/or pancreatitis. The sudden need for Sami to be dependent and protected from falling down stairs and needing to be carried in both directions has put me in the role of seeing eye human. I carry him outdoors for his morning relief and several times throughout the day as well. Before we realized he was blind (day one) I put him out in the back yard with the other dogs and when I went to let them back in the two other dogs scrambled through the door, but Sami was not with them. This wasn’t unusual, the dogs sometimes went round the corner of the L shaped yard. After a while, though, I became concerned he wasn’t showing up or responding to my voice. He usually came when he was called. I went over to the side of the house and he wasn’t there. Sami is a real home body. He is not a runner, he was not in the yard and the gates were closed. We checked indoors thinking maybe we were unaware that he came inside. Another pass of the yard and a sideways glance revealed that he had fallen in a window well. The basement windows are below ground level. He was quietly lying in a bed of leaves and I pulled him out. So weird he didn’t bark or whimper or anything.
I have been amazed at the ability of this little creature to adapt. Without language, I can’t be sure if he understands what has befallen him, but I am sure he accepts it. He wags his tail for meals and he still enjoys being petted and going “walkies”. He just gets on with his job of being a dog.
It is an honour for me to be his eyes. He has learned to traverse the two steps to get back into the house. He follows my voice and as he nears the step I say “up” and he is able to hoist himself up and enter the house. He often gets disoriented inside the house and frequently bumps into walls or chairs, but has learned to walk gingerly and he doesn’t hurt himself, he just flinches and changes direction. Sometimes he is completely at a loss and just stands facing a wall and waits for me to point him in the other direction. He never complains.
This new symbiotic relationship has brought me closer to him. I always liked Sami. He is quite the character. I now love him to the same extent I loved another dog in my past named Stardust. We are hoping to provide him with quality of life as long as we can. Sharon is the primary caregiver as far as syringes and pain meds go, easily the more difficult task, but I do most of the physical work of lifting and overseeing his movements.
Dogs give us so much. They are loyal companions and warm comfort. They teach us so much about life. Too bad the deal is that they don’t live as long as humans. I have mourned many dogs (my own and friends’ and family dogs). It is never easy, but mourning a loved one is far better than not having a loved one.
The little rascal just climbed the stairs, so I better go and see what he’s up to and bring him back to safety.
I had an interesting but disturbing exchange with a man last evening. He was painting a hallway near where I was going. I noticed he was wearing a school board shirt from a local board and struck up a conversation. He explained he was moonlighting and added that being a parent was expensive. I asked how old were his kids? He told me they were ten and seven. I exclaimed “you’re missing Hallowe’en” to which he replied “We don’t do Hallowe’en, we are Christian!”
Now, I was brought up Christian and this concept was news to me. He went on about how Hallowe’en gave a foothold to Satan, etc. My opinion of this man did a complete 180. The remainder of our conversation was of him spewing his dogma and me trying to politely escape. I felt like he was no longer human, but a programmed automaton. There was no room for anything else. An idea free world.
I thought about all the kids I have taught whose parents’ religious convictions kept them from participating in fun events or social ceremonies that were contrary to their beliefs. Some who were not allowed to play, sing or hear music….. others who were not able to have birthday cupcakes, etc. no dancing. No Hallowe’en…..
It saddens me that there are huge swaths of humanity who are blinded by ideology that restricts and controls their behaviour to such an extent that festivity is alien to them. Straight and narrow flies in the face of my belief that we are meant to rejoice in our lives and the wide vista of the planet we inhabit.
Last night, after this encounter, as I drove slowly down a residential street in NDG festooned with creative, spooky and hilarious decorations and looking left and right at little goblins running from house to house with their parents in tow (and sometimes better costumed than the kids) my heart was warmed at this harmless and charming activity that pulls neighbours together and celebrates life in the face of and in spite of death.
I recently discovered a great place to walk not far from where we live.
I love walking in the woods, but I live in deep suburbia. We have a park very nearby where we walk the dogs and sometimes I walk all alone just to gather my thoughts. Nice park, but not the new one
When I lived closer to Mount Royal I’d go there to walk and/or cross country ski, but not as often as I would have liked to. Pay parking was a deterrent.
There are several places out here on the West Island where I can go and walk, but alas, my vignette for parking expired and I haven’t renewed it yet. I will as winter approaches so I can park and ski at Cap St. Jacques and on Ile Bizard.
The park I “discovered” is called Centennial Park in DDO. There are tons of activity areas: a dog run, etc. but the area I like is the trails in the woods and around the man-made lake. As a young girl, Sharon played in the area that is now the park. She said the area was all farmland and woods before the neighbourhood got built up. She said she thought the park opened in 1976. I asked her if her math was off because the Centennial of Canada was in 1967 when her dad bought their home a few blocks from where the park is today. Turns out it was commissioned in 1967, but took 9 years to complete.
The park comprises 48 hectares and surrounds a lake. At various places along the trail you’d swear you were in the Laurentians. I spent a good portion of my early life near and in lakes like this and the surrounding brush offers fragrant reminiscences that warm my heart.
The walking paths in Centennial remind me of a particular walking path in Oxford, U.K. where the author C.S. Lewis walked as part of his routine. His walk is called Addison’s Walk. My brothers and I toured Oxford in the spring. A tour that concentrated on Lewis and Tolkein…Heroes of ours. I have posted a virtual tour of this lovely promenade that is both entirely rural, but bordering on the bustling urban campus of Oxford University.
If you delight in nature (like I do) a park like this one is a true blessing. Not only does it provide body-care exercise, but mind-settling scenery and, bonus… it keeps one “regular” (nudge,nudge, wink, wink, say no more, say no more!).
I am so thankful to have this resource and I wish I had visited earlier. I regret that the geriatric Shih-Tzus no longer have the stamina for long walks.
The other night we decided to have Shish Taouk takeaway and I went to one of the local restaurants to order and pick up our meal. I had the misfortune of being in line behind a “difficult” customer. The middle aged woman had a flyer in her hand and wanted the “Friday Special” which was a clearly marked coupon. She then proceeded to ask for a substitutions, which was not part of the deal. The employee very patiently explained to her that the special said pretty clearly that she had a choice of three salads, but the one that the customer wanted exchanged would be an extra two bucks. The woman started to really fuss and complain about the “lousy service” etc.
After she finally got the order placed, she pointed to another coupon in the flyer and asked to order that as well. The employee politely explained that only one coupon could be used at a time per customer. By this time there was now a significant line up behind me and the “difficult” customer and several employees were now distracted from their preparing and were weighing in on the argument. The woman then wanted to “see the owner, then the manager” neither of whom were there. She then pulled the “I am Lebanese and could have gone to any one of the other Lebanese restaurants nearby”. She then screamed that she would “call the head office” and tell them how rudely she had been treated.
At this point I spoke up and said “I was a witness to this entire transaction and at no point was any employee rude to you, and in fact, it was you that was belligerently trying to get more than was possible from the coupon.” She turned to me and said “ I can’t see how this is any of your business!” To which I replied that “seeing as you are yelling falsehoods in a small space, threatening staff, and have delayed the orders for eight people in line, it is now everybody’s business. You came in with an agenda to get as much as you can for as little as you can and were browbeating the server who is just politely doing his job.” She then reverted to a grade two bullying tactic of attacking my appearance. She sarcastically said: “have you looked in the mirror recently?”. I took it to mean she was attacking my appearance, so I replied in kind: “Listen Karen… unlike you, I like who I see in my mirror, he knows right from wrong and treats people properly.” She then (miraculously)shut up, paid her meal and left. I whispered to the cashier: “I hope she chokes on it!” The cashier nervously stifled a giggle and all the employees mouthed “Thank You” as well as the people in line for standing up to this bully.
The cashier whispered she would not charge me for the potatoes which was kind, but unnecessary.
My takeaway from this incident: These workers are all recent immigrants and are reluctant to rock the boat for very good reasons. I used my privilege to champion their cause because I could.
I feel sorry that there are people out there that are so selfish and full of entitlement that they feel they can push others around.
I’ve been curious about my British roots since forever, but after joining Ancestry.ca and a previous trip to the UK where I mysteriously felt like I was at home on a molecular level I felt an urge to delve farther into our roots. As I was looking up stuff I encountered a facebook group called “World of Hanchett’s” which, despite the misuse of an apostrophe, opened my knowledge up exponentially. I met several Hanchetts and other variants (Hanchant) online who are much more passionate and skilled at this genealogy tracing than I am. Their interest and e-mails helped me immeasurably in planning and understanding. In particular, Leland Hanchett has written many historical books on this very subject.
It all started with this picture that was in my filing cabinet in a manila folder called “Dad”. I knew this was a photo of my great grandfather’s monumental mason business. I scanned the picture and started googling using clues like: Hanchet;stone mason; Finchley; East Finchley etc.
I found this next photo in Pinterest and bought it.
This photo had more clues. I got satellite views of High street and scanned up and down to no end. On a hunch I looked up East Finchley Historical societies or something like that and sent the picture asking if they knew the actual address on High Street. Within the hour I received a response… 79 High Road.
“Hello there.
My name is Ian Hanchet and I am writing from Montreal, Canada in search of my roots. My great grandfather was Walter Alfred Hanchet whose stone carving business was on High Road in East Finchley. Seeing as many of my ancestors apparently came from the area around Oxford, I am writing on the off chance that there might be a connection here. Thank you for your time.”
Within the hour I received a response… “79 High Road. Now a Lebanese restaurant.” I thought “how cool to go to England and have a meal there. Maybe they’d let us into the basement and see stuff that was too cumbersome to move out”… First I got brother Mark interested in this idea, then we invited brother Guy along.
The best laid plans of mice and men…. The pandemic bankrupted the restaurant and it was closed. Apparently squatters moved in and it is now boarded up and secured. It is “To Let”. Disappointing, but affirming as well. Everything changes.
The neighbourhood of East Finchley is a colourful, bustling place with visible minorities seemingly in the majority. Many foods from the middle east.
The Diary
Sunday May 14th -Monday May 15th I squeezed into a “red eye” sardine can with wings and promptly dropped a noise cancelling ear bud which rolled backward as the plane was ascending. I had to use my ipod earbuds, but music was impossible with the noise floor so high from the airplane.
They were set in Ireland and in England (I know Dunkirk’s in France)respectively. I used English subtitles to increase my understanding as the earbuds suck. It was a happy coincidence that as the soldiers and sailors evacuated from Dunkirk were arriving safely in England our plane was approaching the white cliffs on the English side of the channel. too far southwest to be Dover, but so what!
Monday May 15th I had a few hours to kill before Guy’s plane landed. Struck up a conversation with some Scottish travellers…oy vey.. Anti Maskers etc. Fortunately I found an escape before I had to go all Rob Roy on them… The train system is connected to the airport which is totally awesome. Direct train to Cambridge.
Train To Cambridge
Didn’t need “Findmybrother” Mark was where he said he’d be in Cambridge.
Mark was the only one insured to drive the rental, so he got to white knuckle it on the “wrong” side of the road. Guy and I got to practice our roller coaster yells as designated back seat drivers.
Uh yeah!
We checked into our rental in Steeple Bumpstead which brother Mark found for us. It was an excellent choice! We were hungry and thirsty so we hiked the hundred yards to the Fox and Hounds
Lovely reception from the locals, but sadly their kitchen was not open on Mondays. A customer called The Red Lion for us and ascertained that their kitchen was open. A kind gesture. We went over to what was to be the first of many Red Lions we encountered on our travels. The beer was better than the “Bangers and Mash” which we had nostalgically mis-remembered as a delicacy from our grandfather. To make matters worse, we paid for it twice by mistake. Glad it wasn’t paid for by deservedly getting indigestion!
The food helped us get a good night’s sleep until the wee hours of the morning when the birds…
da Bumpstead boids
Tuesday May 16th the roots trip gets under way. On our trip to Shudy Camps we passed a sign for Hanchett toys. Had to stop! The toy store is no more, it specialized in wooden apparatus and other specialty items. We spoke to someone at the attached equestrian school who said it didn’t survive the pandemic. One of my reprobate friends altered (photoshopped) the picture an improvement which I cherish.
We found Shudy Camps which is little more than a crossroads with a church. We were walking around the graveyard looking for ancestors…turns out they were all dead and their name tags faded or fell off….Hanchet Hall in the upper right corner
Hanchets lost in time.Dust to dust.
Extract from ‘Magna Britannia – ‘Cambridgeshire’ by Daniel & Samuel Lysons, first published 1808.
SHUDY-CAMPS, in ancient records, called Shudee-Camps, and Scode-Camps, adjoins to Castle-Camps, being 14 miles south-east of Cambridge, and about 13 south of Newmarket : it was sometimes called Parva-Camps; and appears to have acquired its present name form the family of Shudee, who, in ancient times, possessed the manor, and gave the hamlet of Northoe to the monks of Ely.
The manor of Shudy-Camps was held by the family of Hanchet, in the reigns of King Edward I. and King Edward II. of the family of Playz, as heirs of the Montfichets : at a later period, it was successively in the families of Cholmeley and Bentley
A short walk from the church is the Hall. Obviously the Hall has been added to over the past half a millenium, but the land and part of the structure would have been my family’s. I wanted to knock on the door, but my brothers felt I should respect the present owner’s privacy.
Next stop was Saffron Walden where it was Market Day. The library faced the market so I went in and found someone on site whose volunteer job is to help with the archives. I found some stuff, but saved the site for later.
We had lunch at the Crown an upscale pub. We were in an annex whose walls were covered with pictures of bombers from WW II. There must have been an airfield in the vicinity during the second world war.
We had passed Hanchett Hall, Haverhill on the way back to our base. We had seen a picture of this house in our book “The English Ancestry of Thomas Hanchett”, My brother Guy’s log has a more complete accounting I have put the link to it again. https://guyhanchet.wordpress.com/2023/05/31/hanchet-brothers-roots-tour/
– We ate at yet another Red Lion in Sturmer. We needed groceries, so headed back to Haverhill for some silly photos of Hanchet End and Hanchett Village. Throughout all the reading and archival stuff I have been through it seems that One t or two t’s or several other variants were common. Someone told me that a T was added to the Hall fairly recently to be in line with Hanchett End etc. Easily rectified…lol. Again, my brothers didn’t think it’d be “in good taste” to hang my rear end out for a gag shot. So?!?!?!?
On Wednesday May 17 we went to Bury/St. Edmunds in the morning and met with Kevin Emsden who runs “Hanchets Monumental Masons” Kevin’s father and my great-uncle Walter Arthur Hanchet’s son were partners. He had some interesting tidbits. They kept the name because it was respected and Hanchet had cachet..
On to Cambridge University.
Cambridge University
Renovations at King’s College precluded our visiting this hallowed hall. We did hear another choir through an upper window rehearsing an anthem. All three brothers have choral experience, so it hit us viscerally.
Why we really came to Cambridge was to re-enact the beheading of our ancestor. They wouldn’t let me on the plane with an ax…(philistines) and I couldn’t get one in time in Cambridge so Mark improvised with a baguette.
In Cambridge Market Square where John Hanchach lost his head for his part in the 1381 Peasant’s Revolt.
“Following the peasants’ uprising in 1381 and John Hanchach’s subsequent beheading, it is not surprising that members of the Hanchet family kept a low profile. As a result, the living members of the family started to spread out to places not formerly associated with the family name.”
We are up early on Thursday may 18th to get to Oxford University where we are to meet our private tour guide for our C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien tour that we brothers unanimously decided was worth taking a day! Guy has great photos on his blog, so I’ll only post a few. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/02/28/travel/cs-lewis-oxford-narnia.html
There is a faun above Mark and Malcolm’s heads. Mr. Tumnus? The lamppost of Narnia behind them.
I love Oxford. I could spend a year or two here! I was super impressed by Blackwell’s Book store. 2 and a half miles of shelving…https://blackwells.co.uk/bookshop/about
We had greasy fish and soggy chips from Chippy’s takeaway.
Friday May 19th -off day Mark had to work. Guy and I walked around , ate at the Fox and Hounds caught up on some sleep and went into Haverhill for a Turkish dinner which provided us with leftovers for the next evening.
Saturday May 20th -trip to Edgeware (North London)to visit our second cousins at Alice’s home which was her grandmother’s (our great auntie Daisy).
, east finchley -souvenir photos- the old pot’s business- turkish leftovers
Sunday may 21st. hike to Helion Bumpstead the three horseshoes- hike back -mark forgot his phone with the name of the Nepalese/indian resto…in Saffren. by the time we figured out the resto was called Yugo Google maps sent us down two way roads that resembled a paved golf cart path or a one way country driveway lined with hedge that two bicycles could barely pass each other on. The place was a remote semi-rural location and no cars in the lot. we were worried the food might be scrappy because there were so few diners. No need to worry, the phone in, walk in Take Away business was hopping! probably the best Indian food I’ve ever eaten.
Monday may 22 -packing up and drive to Cambridge and train to Liverpool Street station. I find a hat that fits!!!
We had a big dinner planned at Sishoom Shoreditch with nephew Malcolm and niece Simone and Sharon’s 1st cousin Renu and Mark’s wife Denise.
Tuesday may 23 The big item today is a visit to Darwin’s cottage.
We returned to London and walked across London Bridge. It wasn’t falling down. Walked through Whitehall where there is a Jack the Clipper barber shop and a Jack the Chipper Fish and Chips stand. That evening we had reservations to Ronnie Scott’s which is to London what the Village Vanguard is to NYC. Jazz Mecca.
Woodstock. This band and the singers are great
Wednesday my quest was to find Halcyon Gallery for a Bob Dylan Exhibit and get an Art Book of his work. I remembered after the fact that it was Bob Dylan’s birthday.
I then meet Renu at 2 at the Victoria and Albert Museum where she bought me lunch and we walked around the garden and the main floor. This art gallery is amazing, and Renu is a great tour guide and friend! I put my phone observations into this little video
I realized early on in our trip that our scope and time was limited. The Ancestry we followed was strictly Patrilineal. The tree, although interesting is impossible to ever complete. For every male Hanchet there were other mothers, sisters, . I think that on any given day in the UK we probably passed dozens of cousins, but we were unaware of it. I believe everything and everyone is interconnected and if I follow the Do Unto Others… Love thy neighbour as thyself. It’s good.
The diaspora is huge and my Hanchett buddies who narrow things down and seek out headstones are better at it than me. Tombstones don’t talk anyway.
Thanks for joining me on this lame account of our very fun and interesting journey.
Everybody here is old!!!!! How can that be?!?!? I am still 16. I look around and see younger faces emerging dreamlike from older faces. Some of the emerging faces have names that I could recall instantly, others remained murky. We are wearing name tags on lanyards at chest level and none of us are wearing our reading glasses so there is a lot of staring closely at breasts and groping to turn the name tags around because they are only printed on one side.
Some of the faces are vaguely familiar, all of them kind and eager, but belong to people that may have chosen different electives (mine were all artsy). Some belonged to people who entered the high school in grade ten which was when I was entering grade ten at Laurentian Regional in Lachute. One lady rushed up to me and exuberantly exclaimed “ I remember you from Grad!!!!” Which was funny, seeing as I did not graduate with this group. I helped her sort out her error.
I was most interested in the faces I have known since we were all five years old and (due to flukes in geography, zoning, religion and socioeconomic status) were thrust into the same kindergarten class.
There were two Kindergarten classes at our school and pretty well two classes for every other grade up through grade seven. Some kids might be in your class one year and the other class the next year. Even shuffled, we all went to the same birthday parties, some met in cub scouts, Sunday School, municipal sports etc.
Shuffling classes at the end of each school year is a humorous ritual I sat in on every year throughout my own teaching career. Kid A and Kid B shouldn’t be in the same class. The mother of kid K doesn’t want K to be near student R. He’s ”Special K”. Student P and student Q shouldn’t sit together. “Mind your P’s and Q’s”.
Suffice it to say we all knew each other pretty well by grade seven. In high school we stuck together at first because in eighth grade we went from 60 kids in our grade to a huge school with probably a few thousand kids some of whom actually smoked, drank, did drugs, had sex, etc. Overwhelming for a young knob to go from top of the hill to bottom of the pile. Seeing familiar faces was a relief then, even if the kid you saw may not have been a friend before. Without all the angst, last night was similar. Friendly familiar faces were like oases.
At this 50 year reunion our elementary school (Dunrae Gardens) was well represented with just under twenty of us there. I managed to talk to most, but not all. Some I have been in touch with over the years, and some I hadn’t seen since 1971 (two years before grad). Many came from quite far away. Cincinnati, Houston, California, Western Canada and mostly next door in Ontario. Striking how few live in Montreal.
Some conversations I wished could go on for hours. Others were not as stimulating. Not everyone has the gift of gab, nor others, the gift of listening. I hope I didn’t bore anyone with anything! Subjects were wide and varied. Common denominators were: dealing with the deaths of our parents, various medical procedures (lol) and grandchildren, DIVERSE subjects such as politics; how lousy the MRHS football team was; band; favourite music; exporting alfalfa sprouts to Saudi Arabia (I’m not kidding…very interesting actually) etc.
What struck me most when surveying the crowd, taking the pulse, was how homogeneous the crowd was. We were 95% white skinned, English speaking, mostly privileged well fed middle class people. I thought ‘we are interlopers in a place that used to be home’. TMR is now predominantly French speaking and to live in TMR these days, requires more moolah than even an Aeronautical Engineer like my dad could muster. My kindergarten teacher Mrs. Sevigny lived across the street from us. I know I couldn’t live there now on a teacher’s income.
Having taught for many years in this city I can assure you that this experience of homogeneity is an anomaly, a throwback to a different era. An era that only exists in fading memories and history books.
One classmate remarked that we were so lucky to benefit from post war stability, relative affluence and an insular environment. Our music was great, our freedoms were many, our problems few. OK Boomer…. We know that on the surface it was like that, but dig a bit and the skeletons come out.
One dear friend took me to task when I said we came from privilege. His parents were blue collar and he grew up in a basement apartment on Graham Boulevard, etc. I said: “Fair enough, did you ever go hungry? Were you sheltered? Did you lack anything?” Right. Privilege.
My own parents were not rich, they were educated, socially active, volunteered, were active in the church. I was fortunate. My family was less dysfunctional than some. Many families held dark secrets: alcoholism; abuse; absentee parents; etc. Easy to hide all that in the surface environment of school..
I loved seeing the classmates that I did, but many of the classmates I also wanted to see were not there. Reunions aren’t for everyone. My old gang is off the grid. I, like them, didn’t really fit school, not because I didn’t love learning, I didn’t like the institution and I am not really a joiner. Ironic that I became a teacher.
Part of me says if I really cared so much about lost friends, we wouldn’t have lost touch. The rational part of me says that our friendship is locked in history and maybe if we met today there would be no bond like before. The kids I played tennis racquet guitar with, kids I pulled pranks with, swiped candy from Deguire’s with, smoked pot with, have all moved on as well.
An interesting thing I noticed on the way out was a picture display of classmates who have died. There were perhaps eight or nine. Maybe as many as twelve. Point is: a relatively small number.
I was also invited to attend a reunion of the second High School I attended. I am in touch with most the friends I made there via social media and the occasional visit. I am otherly occupied on that day, so I declined. The obituary list for my class at that rural regional school was easily double that of my class at MRHS. Pause for thought about the reality of hardships faced on the farm and speeding on country roads and in one case my dear friend who died of loneliness, poor nutrition and alcoholism.
I recognize my privilege and my good fortune to live a life worth living, an examined life, an artistic life. My wife’s cousin and I were discussing Charles Darwin who never needed a job, he was heir to a vast fortune but worked tirelessly on his specimens and ideas and advanced humankind via his writings. I said I was rethinking my ideas on class divide. She said “There’s nothing wrong with privilege, It’s what you DO with it.”
Vignettes and Bagatelles 