More 3's

Yep, some more 3's and again it's all good.

I managed to track down my entry in the 19th Edition of Burke's Landed Gentry Volumes III and IV. It's not a huge entry, but then again it isn't insignificant either as there are only 7 Bennett's listed. I have partially read the entry on-line, but I managed to obtain a copy of Volumes III and IV and was able to peruse at leisure. I will add the full listing details to my Biography page on this Blog.

I also managed to track down a photograph of my father when he was serving with the Auxiliary Fire Service in 1940 in Swansea during the Second World War. The family oral history is that dad served with the AFS, but I have yet to acquire any physical evidence.

Sidney Allen Douglas Bennett had volunteered for the infantry and was based in France on the outbreak of War. Unfortunately Sid Bennett fell ill with Scarlet Fever and was given a Medical Discharge from the Army. However, determined to do his bit 'for King and Country' Sidney Bennett joined the AFS in Swansea. It was great being able to track the image down in a book that I read at the National Library of Wales earlier today.

The third thing is that the lovely Mr Tister is back home for upwards of 12 nights.

Independence Day

Most people will know that the 4th July is Independence Day across the Pond. As well as being an important anniversary for our American cousins, the date also holds fond memories for me. You see I was promoted to the giddy heights of Leading Fireman (the then correct term) on the 4th July 1986. I have always thought of that date as my Independence Day. Trying to gain promotion from the mass of firefighters was never going to be easy.

I had two written examinations to pass before I could proceed to the next bit. I struggled with the theoretical examination and managed to pass one paper and to fail the other. So for the next twelve months I worked really hard to understand that which I previously could not grasp. The examinations came around and I passed the paper. Which was all well and good, except I went and failed the paper that I had passed twelve months earlier. Then I met Mrs B and her Dad. A lovely man, the Dad that is, and Don set me on the straight and narrow. I remember living in our flat in Maindee in Newport South Wales, when I opened the results letter from the Fire Services Examinations Board after my third attempt at the Leading Fireman theoretical examination. I also remember all the whooping and shouting when I read that I had passed both papers.

This was all well and good, but in many ways it was also only phase one of the process. It simply meant that I was now eligible to sit the practical examination. Which was no mean task, as it involved detailing and controlling other firefighters undertaking physical drills contained in the Manual of Firemanship Drill Book, along with convincing several examiners that you could explain accurately and to a great level of detail two items of equipment selected by the Board. Which meant understanding technical notes, having working experience of the selected equipment, and grasping the detail in yet another Manual of Firemanship Book about equipment. But it didn't stop there, as other Manual of Firemanship Books contained this and that detail about those or other pieces of equipment and you had to know all of that as well. The thing is, I passed first time. No fluke mind you, simply sheer hard work and determination to succeed.

So there I was, now qualified for promotion to the rank of Leading Fireman. Only qualified mind you, there was no guarantee that I would ever get promoted. Then on Independence Day I was shortlisted along with four others for one vacancy at New Inn. And to be absolutely blunt about it, I was the underdog. There were four front runners of which one of two were certain to get it, and I was there for the ride. I went in first and after the interview I was ushered into a separate room. One by one the others joined me. In my ignorance, when the senior officer came in and called out my name, I truly thought that I was getting a bollocking. Hey ho, congratulations and all of that. The panel with the Deputy Chief Fire Officer and Elected Members deemed me suitable and I was duly appointed.

So you see; Independence Day means different things to different people, and not just in the United States of America. I hope that you had a lovely day, as lovely as the day I had all those years back, and again on the 4th July when I relaxed, reflected, and enjoyed time with family and friends. It was a great day, as indeed the Fourth of July should always be.

Two Blogs

I'm working on two Blogs at the moment. This one on line, and the Second in WORD. I have mentioned previously the importance of oral history being placed in written form so that our descendants know a bit more about us and what we were up to and why.

The same position applies to the Internet. What we write on an electronic Blog is as vulnerable as oral history. The demise of a provider or its server and what was written is lost. It's continuity is no different than oral history in that the stories rely upon the memory of others and their desire or willingness to communicate those stories. I have therefore copied and pasted the whole of this Blog from 2008 until April 2011 into a WORD document.

The 300 pages have been given a title page, and an introduction. I have begun the next phase whereby I try and explain why I wrote what I did. This is being achieved by writing a link between entries or to explain a group of entries. The links are in a different font than the original Blog so it is clear what has been added. The original photographs have also been embedded into WORD. All in all it's an attempt to contextualise the writing and help our descendants to understand what it was all about.

The finished work is being bound in a leather dissertation binder. The idea being that it sits alongside my ongoing Family History work when that is complete. Two books that will inform others about us.

Season 7

I know that I am supposed to be writing about Isandlwana and its aftermath, but I have been a tad busy of late with that thing that doesn’t get mentioned here. Don’t worry, there’s no Super-Injunction in place on me, and I’m not a rich personality, although my personality may sometimes be a bit rich. No, it’s more of a case that while things could be resolved I see no reason to dig a ditch. Dialogue and negotiation reduces tensions and deescalates the rhetoric from both sides. Talking is good and can solve many problems. I suppose that sometimes it also causes a few problems as well. People have to be talking from the same storyboard, and repetition has to be accurate. The African tradition of oral history relies upon the accurately recalling of the stories and trying to ensure that events are not lost in time.

We were chatting about family history last night, and some of the things that we told one of our daughters she had never heard. Some of course, for various reasons, simply cannot be published, but quite a few of the stories brought about a few laughs. So maybe it’s (life) not that bad after all. I thought that this would be a good time to post a trio of family stories and try to link them in some way to create a bit of interest. So here goes, I was thinking along the lines of a few common denominators; wheels, reduced numbers, and my bro.

Four wheels

The 2011 grass cutting is Season 7 for my petrol driven lawnmower. It’s a lovely thing that I found in the skip when I was visiting my brothers quite a few years back. I asked if I could have the lawnmower and although the answer was ‘yes’, there was at the time two significant downsides. (1) It wasn’t working, and (2) my lovely new Volvo with its light coloured leather upholstery was stuffed full of Daughters University stuff from England being brought back home to Wales by yours truly. So we tipped out any residue oil and petrol, covered the backseat leather with blankets and somehow managed to manoeuvre the lawnmower into the S40. About a week later and only £20 lighter, the missing 4th wheel was welded back onto the axle, and a new fan belt meant that the lawnmower worked. Here we are in Season 7 and as the lawnmower fires up first time at the start of each Season, I am extremely grateful to my bro. It’s not that I couldn’t afford to go out and buy my own, no it’s not that at all. The gratitude is all about salvaging someone else’s junk, and making good use of it for many years to come. Indeed, there’s a fair chance that the lawnmower may get a spray job this winter ready for next Season. Maybe red with sharks teeth or some WWII air art.

Three wheels

The second of my trio of family blasts from the past is about my father driving a road roller. These lumbering beasts of a machine have a solid turning rolling wheel at the front and two large fixed wheels either side of the main body towards the rear. Three wheels and no rubber, the driver sits high up in an almost open cab and if they are lucky have a sprung seat. Yes folks we are talking ‘big’ road rollers here, and not the diminutive ones often seen these days. Now don’t ask me what my brother was doing in the cab with dad, it doesn’t make any sense as the cabs only have a single seat. But nevertheless bro was with dad in Swansea trundling down a very long hill. Except that the trundling became a sort of freefall as the brakes on the road roller failed. Now I’m reasonably intelligent and understand physics and the like, but what I cannot explain, is what possessed my father and brother to determine in an instant that bro should jump? It doesn’t make any sense at all.

Massive road roller with massive front wheel is sort of going to demolish anything that it hits. I suppose the only vehicle that would create a similar impact would be a Centurion tank. Bro jumped and broke a bone or two and was lucky not to be crushed by one of the rear wheels. “And the road roller?” you ask, well come on folks do I really have to explain? Gravity ensured that it rolled onwards to the bottom of the hill, and its mass meant that it demolished a wall. For my part I am grateful that bro or dad did not come to an early demise.

Two wheels

Family stories should be about our oral history becoming embedded into written form so that future generations know a bit more about their ancestors. I giggle when I recall the lawnmower and road roller stories as they say a bit about fortune and misfortune and interpretation of events at that moment in time.

Who would have thought that the lawnmower in the skip would have been repaired so cheaply and go on to give excellent service for many years to come. And a bit like putting the thing in the skip, why on earth did bro jump?

I suppose on both accounts, decisions were made at each moment in time based on the information and assessment of that information by those that were in a position to make a decision.

We had a family member who died in a bike crash, and I remember as a young man, I wanted to have a motorbike. Well nothing strange there then, because girls and motorbikes were the order of the day. Given that I wasn’t able to get and keep the one, trying to get the other seemed at the time to be a good idea. When selecting a two wheeled story linked to my bro, I could of course have written about my butchers bike from my Saturday job, or bro standing the terms so that I could buy a Carlton 5 speed racing bike while I paid him back from my Saturday job, of which I am also extremely grateful.

But the thing is I found a guarantor for that motorbike purchase and I am extremely grateful that bro changed their mind and stopped the bike idea stone dead. Because if he hadn’t: then it might have been me travelling downhill without brakes and ending up in a skip.

Sense of Duty

Yes of course I am thrilled with the listing in ‘Burkes Peerage and Gentry’. Especially as I often portray myself as ‘a lad from the gasworks’. I am without any doubt; a Crindau Boy through and through. But the truth of the matter, is that members of our family have often been referred to ‘as having a posh accent’, and one that does not correlate to our South Wales origins. I was born in Swansea and our arm of the ‘Bennett’ Clan moved to Newport Monmouthshire (Gwent) as the motorway and road network improved in the 1960’s. Not because the road improvements facilitated migration, but because my father worked driving a road roller. As the road windfall ceased, Sydney Bennett became a guard with British Railways. Again, geography and circumstance played its part, as BR had a depot in Newport Monmouthshire.

Migration for work in South Wales was not only a 20th Century thing. My research into our family history shows ‘shipsworths’ migrating from Swansea towards Newport Monmouthshire and Risca as part of the property construction boom. Although one unfortunate soul, at a very young age, found himself down the coal mines when that part of the family put down roots around Risca. There probably wasn’t enough carpentry work to go around, and the handing down of skills to a younger generation of family members was starting to cease. Education and the coin became the order of the day.

The provision of education is quite interesting. When you look at the early Census records, they show that our particular arm of the Bennett’s had sufficient money to provide education for a child rather than sending them out to seek work. To put that into context we are talking about the turn of the Century. So maybe an entry in ‘Burkes Peerage and Gentry’ is not that farfetched after all. The building industry was thriving and Granddad Bennett as a Master Mason and Head of the Clan had built up a significant size building firm.

Ernest Llewellyn Bennett enjoyed the trappings that his success brought. I know that in 1917 our family had a motor vehicle. Not many people had a car in those days, and the occupants of passing vehicles in South Wales would certainly have waved to one another. It maybe a family myth, but my father often mentioned that he had a pet monkey as a child. I also know that he displayed a sense of duty to ‘King and Country’ and as the storm clouds of war gathered, my father enlisted in the Army. Sydney Bennett was present in France during The Phoney War. That period from 1939 that had little action while a standoff existed on that front. Sydney was struck down with Scarlet Fever and after 18 months of illness and convalescence he was medically discharged from the Army. However his sense of duty was intense, and to serve his King and country, Sydney enrolled as a firefighter for the rest of the Second World War.

To be quite honest, Sydney Allen Douglas Bennett deserves a place in ‘Burke’s Peerage and Gentry’ far more than I do. But I am nevertheless extremely grateful, and I also know that he and others in our family would be very proud indeed.

Burke's Peerage and Gentry

If anyone reading this Blog is signed up to Burke's Peerage and Gentry, then I would love to see a copy of the full text assigned to my name, so that I can check it over and let them know if any of the details are wrong. You can contact me via rba@hotmail.co.uk

:-)