Brothers and Sisters Don’t Change Much

My gggrandfather, Oliver Ridgway, had a sister called Lily.  Lily’s descendants still live and farm in West Monkton (not to mention hold prominent positions in the community).  I have talked on the phone to them and been in contact via email. 

It was a shock to learn about my grandmother, who was adopted out at birth by the Ridgways, but they were very interested and quite welcoming.  They answered as many of my questions as they could with patience and understanding and we promised to keep in touch.  Unfortunately they were unable to shed any light on the whereabouts of Oliver’s first wife, Ellen…but they were able to do so much more than just give dates and names.  They were able to pass on stories and breathe life into a family history that I have only been able to infer from indexes and census records. 

Here is a perfect example of a story my distant cousin wrote in one email:

As a young boy I was told by my grandmother Lily that Oliver was a very good shot with a gun and that he did some competition shooting.  On one occasion when Lily was out in the orchard with Oliver, he threw her hat up into an apple tree.  When asked to get it down he shot it out, putting a hole through her hat.  Brothers and sisters haven’t changed much have they?

No, brothers and sisters haven’t changed much.  This story sounds suspiciously like so many I was told as a child about my father and his sister (Oliver’s great-grandchildren).  They had exactly the same age difference as Oliver and Lily and were raised on farms too.   Dad and his sister were very close (in the same composite class in a small school) and had a somewhat love-hate relationship.  I remember one story about Dad accidentally dropping an iron (when they were literally made out of iron) on his sister’s head from the roof of the play house.  He scooted up a tree and wouldn’t come down. 

Dad is also quite a good shot.  I think I remember going to trap shooting competitions when I was very young.  Dad also recently shot a rabbit in his front yard through the living room window.  One Easter when he was a youth he shot a few rabbits, dressed them up in doll’s clothes and told his nephews it was the Easter Bunny.  I don’t think that went down too well with their mum (or my mum either).

So…I don’t think brothers and sisters change much at all.   

The photograph below is the grave of Oliver’s sister Lily.  Thanks to SB who drove to West Monkton to take it.