Welcome to my perfumed garden

Had a funeral. My beloved Uncle Maurice collapsed and died of a massive heart attack last week. He was 69, my Mum's (much) younger brother, born during the Sheffield Blitz and never seemed to lose the love of life ever after. The one thing the vicar said that rang utterly true, platitudinous though it was, is that he lived life to the full - dear goodnight, he did! In fact, it was what probably killed him in the end but there's no harm in that, I'd rather go out with a bang living life like he did than drag on into my 90's never having done a damn thing.

It was at Grenoside, same as Mum, same as all her family; a gorgeous day. Uncle M was a popular man and it was literally standing room only, but we're English, goddamit so there were no embarrassing displays of emotion, just the usual low-key, controlled affair, lady vicar, Madonna lilies. We got some good music and some happy memories and it all passed off as well as these things can ever be expected to when you've lost someone very dear so suddenly and unexpectedly.

Tea was, as per,  at the Clock House. The last tattered remains of the Foster clan were all there and I was able to drag the names of a couple of uncles out of my auntie Ann (the last Foster standing) which enabled me to finally find my Grandpa's family in the records and add them to the family tree.



So, Great-Uncle Percy (ooh, me gran didn't like him at all, apparently, I wonder what he did? Wonder if he had a touch of the Uncle Maurice? *G*) and Frank (played the saw, used to play the spoons at weddings) - such details are not, alas, on the census (and, oh! What an omission! I think such things should be on the census. I think I might write a letter to The Times on the matter) but being older than Grandpa, they were on the 1901 census and gave me the toe hold I needed and inside an hour I had them back to the late 18th Century, and by teatime - thanks to a lucky mesh with someone in Illinois' ready-made tree - had them back to 1601.

The Fosters (foresters!) came from Edwinstowe, a place I know well, in the midst of Sherwood Forest and currently serving as the repository of tea rooms, antique shops, quaint pubs and gifte shoppes in the service of the Robin Hood industry.

I also find myself unexpectedly related to Margaret Drabble and AS Byatt.

Discovered the usual illegitimacy and a clutch of dead children in one family in a single year (1853), which a bit of googling seems to connect to a cholera epidemic in Sheffield. They were 4, 5 and 6 years old, I can't begin to imagine the horror of it, tbh.



Such was my day. I hope you're all well and keeping out of mischief in my absence ::gives teachery stern and all-knowing look around the room::