Giving Our Ancestors A Voice

19 Friday Feb 2016

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The Hare & Hounds Photo by Keith Talbot

My love of writing, combined with an obsession for family history, led me to a new and unexplored place of learning last year. I signed up for a short course with the University of Tasmania, “Writing Family History”, which has opened up a whole new world to me, one which I’ve been edging around for years, that of giving my ancestors a voice.

As any addict of tracing their family will tell you, during the hours of research into our beloved, yet unknown ancestors’ lives, our imaginations provide a running commentary of how they may have lived their day to day lives, how they felt during times of joy and heartbreak, and the words they no doubt would have spoken. We hear their accents, we feel their pain …

… we begin to love them. And when that final discovery of a death certificate is unearthed from amid the millions of archived records, we often shed a tear, crying over the loss of an ancestor we have grown to love. That forgotten man or woman born decades ago, whom we have travelled a paper trail journey of their worldly existence with … that final written proof of their demise is a blow to our soul.

The view from Werneth Low, Photo by Keith Talbot.

During the first six weeks of the Writing Family History course, minus a break during Christmas, students were asked to write a short story of a moment in time, no more than two-hundred-and-fifty words in total, in which we would bring our ancestors to life.

At the conclusion of the six weeks, our final task allowed us to let our hair down and write to our heart’s content, bearing in mind the limitations of our heart’s rampage must be reined in when one-thousand words of our story – their story – had been reached.

As I sat at my computer one morning, poised to begin my first one-thousand-word draft in which my three-times great-grandfather would play the lead role in my imagination, I found that the voice inside my head was that of my mother. Mum took over at the keyboard, she had her own story to tell. And here it is ~

King Walter Meets The Queen

Her hands trembled, opening the envelope. She’d been waiting for the post daily, knowing her sister would send the newspaper clippings from England when they were published. Such excitement, and in her own family too!

She carefully removed the letter from the envelope, opened the pages, and neatly folded within a letter, she found the clippings she had been waiting for.

Annie settled herself in a chair in the kitchen, a freshly brewed cup of tea beside her. Opening the newspaper article, she recognised her brother immediately. He hadn’t changed that much in the eighteen years since she’d left England and sailed to Australia. The faces of loved ones are always remembered, no matter how many years pass by.

Saved and treasured.

There was Walter, all smiles. Annie read the article with great anticipation. He’d donated three-quarters of an acre of land from the farm to plant a thirty-foot tall sycamore tree. There was a plaque unveiling too, by the Queen of England!

If only there had been someone at home to share this with, Annie thought to herself, as she looked at the photo of the Queen, smiling at Walter, holding his outstretched hand…good heavens, she held his right hand, the one he’d lost three fingers on! The Queen seemed not to have noticed, by the look of her relaxed smile. Annie chuckled as fond memories of her brother flooded her mind. Thank goodness the Queen always wore gloves, she probably hadn’t even noticed.

Annie smiled, remembering how Walter had always looked after her, like a second father. His son Billy was only three years younger than her, and even though Walter had his own home and family, he’d always made sure their larder at home was full of fresh food from the farm. She hadn’t even been aware of the Great Depression in the nineteen-thirties, thanks to Walter’s generosity.

Cow-heels for stew, eggs newly laid each day, fresh vegetables, creamy milk fresh from the cows, and, oh dear, those chickens she had to pluck! Annie shook her head, as she recalled those days of her childhood, trudging up the hill to Ash Tree Farm, rugged up against the cold. She must have been a sight to see, heading back home to Hyde Road, a lifeless chicken dangling from each hand, still adorned with feathers. She shuddered, wondering how she’d managed to clean and cook the dead birds for her family, without even so much as a grimace.

As she refilled her empty teacup, Annie recalled her childhood, how she’d been expected to help out, especially when mam became ill. Children in those days were to be seen and not heard, do their chores and question nothing. In some ways a hard life, yet many fond memories lingered.

Her thoughts turned to her mother, as the ghosts of the past continued to invade her mind. Walter had always treated her mam well, made sure she never went without. Walter wasn’t mam’s son, but oh she would have been so proud to know he’d been presented to the Queen! And their dad, well, she imagined he would’ve had to tell all his cronies at the pub all about his posh son if he’d lived to see the day.

Returning to the present, and Annie read further into the article. The Queen had thanked Walter for the land, to which he’d replied, ‘It’s a pleasure.’ Imagine that, they’ve quoted my brother in the paper, Annie thought, bursting with pride, especially after she read that Walter was the uncrowned ‘King of Werneth Low’.

What a job it had been for Walter and Mary Ann after their publican’s licence came through, renovating the pub next to the farm when they first moved to The Low in 1928 with young Billy.

With no electricity and no tap water, they’d had to collect water from a nearby well. Never mind water though, all Walter needed was his beer and ‘his’ chair in the pub, and he was happy. Annie laughed as she remembered Walter’s saying, ‘More Drink, Less Talk.’

The sound of the front door opening jolted Annie back to the present again and the ghosts of the past disappeared.

‘Sam!’ she called, rushing to her husband to greet him as he walked through the front door. ‘Edie sent the newspaper clippings, you should see our Walter with the Queen! ‘Ere, I’ll boil the jug and make another cup of tea…come on then, sit down!’ she ordered. Finally, Annie had someone to show off her brother’s day of glory to.

…………………………………………….

I have the newspaper clippings Annie received from England, dated 1967, lovingly saved between the pages of a photo album, which I inherited. Annie, the storyteller, was my mother.

In another newspaper article, celebrating Walter’s fifty years in 1978 as publican of the ‘Hare and Hounds’, Walter was quoted as saying ‘…the highlight of his life was in 1967 when he was introduced to the Queen during her North West tour.’

Fifty Years…

As a child, born to an English family after they immigrated to Australia, I became fascinated by the old stories of England. I looked forward to rainy days when mum and I would share cups of tea and I would curl up beside her and say, ‘Tell me stories about England, Mummy.’

‘I have no more stories left to tell you!’ she’d complain, and I would ask her to tell me the same ones again. Mum and I were opposites, she wanted to make new memories, whilst I longed for the old stories, the history.

Tirelessly she repeated them, humouring her strange daughter who was totally besotted by cold old England, the country Annie had wanted to leave, ‘to get warm’.

I write this story, one of many told to me by my mum, to pass on to future generations, to those strange little children yet to be born, who will also ask their parents to tell them the stories of the olden days.

……………………………………………

Uncle Walter in ‘his’ chair at the pub, with mum’s sister, Edie, who sent her the newspaper clippings.

The Daughters of Samuel Mottershead and Annie Mansfield

28 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by Jo Mottershead in Bell, Bryce, Keevers, Knox, Mansfield, Mottershead

≈ 7 Comments

To the outside world we all grow old. But not to sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other’s hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time. ~ Clara Ortega.

As a child growing up in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney in New South Wales, Australia, my parents would often take me on an outing to see the “Three Sisters”, a mountainous landmark in Katoomba, where the majestic formation of rocks juts out into the depths of the Grose Valley.

Mum would tell me I should call the “Three Sisters” by the names of my own three sisters, Anne, Christine and Vivien. Being a child I thought this idea was great fun, and even as I grew older I could never see the “Three Sisters” without remembering my own three sisters.

Naming the rock formations after my own sisters became even more apt as the years went by, my sisters were my rocks, giving me strength, wisdom, love, advice and friendship, for which I am eternally grateful. In so many ways, I have been blessed by the structure of the family in which I was born, having four female role models throughout my growing years, all of whom would nurture me, in their own individual ways, as mothers do their children.

Each of my sisters has their own unique personality and their own individual looks. None of us can see any physical resemblance to each other, even though we have occasionally been told that we do look alike. Apart from all being similar in height, (I may be just a tad taller than the others), and we all eventually ended up having varying shades of brown hair, that’s it – that’s where the similarities end.

A sister is both your mirror…and your opposite. ~ Elizabeth Fishel.

Annette (February 16, 1942 – December 3, 2007) was “Miss Independence”. She lived her life under her terms and made it very clear that there was no room for compromise.

Anne enjoyed the independence of earning her own income, working from home after her two children were born, even though back in the early 1960s, when she first became married, it seemed perfectly acceptable for a woman to be a homemaker. Anne enjoyed having a nice home, she just didn’t choose to be tied to the obligations of a home, in fact, she resented being tied to anything!

It wasn’t until around my fifteenth birthday that I felt that Anne saw me as a person she wanted to get to know. In her younger years, she seemed to have little time in her life for children, even though she had children of her own.

As Anne matured, however, she showed kindness towards everyone. The rebellion of her youth subsided and she became the most caring of people. Whilst mellowing though, she never fully lost her quick wit or the trademark spark in her personality.

Anne and I became great friends and shared a special bond that can best be described as a relationship of being sisters, best friends and worst enemies, with just a smattering of mothering on her part.

We would talk for hours on the phone, sharing opinions, not necessarily always agreeing with each other, but that was okay. I learned a lot from my eldest sister.

On October 27, 1962 Anne married Bruce in the Presbyterian Church at Springwood, NSW. They had two children, Jeffrey and Jenine, but were later divorced in 1977.

Bruce has been a part of my life since my earliest memories. To me, he was and always will be my brother, such is the affection that I feel towards him. I’m sorry his marriage to my sister didn’t last, but that was a decision they had to make. For me, I always have and always will regard Bruce as an important and close member of my family, and he knows that.

There are two other men in my life, who I also regard as my brothers- David, the husband of my middle sister Christine, and Adrian, husband of my youngest sister, Vivien. Like Bruce, I have never known a time in my life when they weren’t there. All three of these men are a part of the secure family unit I grew up in. Nothing will ever change the love I feel for each of them.

Sisters are different flowers from the same garden. ~ Unknown.

I looked forward to times when I could have a sleep-over with my sister Christine when I was young, and we all still lived in the Blue Mountains. I always had the best time with David, and Chris and I would spend time together looking through her jewellery and trying on her clothes and shoes (which were always way too big for me!) Chris had longer hair than my other two sisters back then and she would let me play hairdresser on her hair.

Chris was the sister that I could have deep heart-to-heart talks with when I reached my teenage years. I could tell Chris my deepest, darkest secrets and she would never be shocked by anything I said, betray my trust or laugh at me.

Not long after my parents and I moved north to live near the border of New South Wales and Queensland, Christine, David and their two baby sons moved south to Tasmania.

In Tasmania, Chris and David became parents to two more sons and over the years, Christine’s busy life and the distance we lived from one another did not allow us to keep in touch as often as I would like. But when we speak on the phone, no matter how long it has been since we last spoke, we just pick up our conversation as if we only spoke the day before! That’s just the way it is with us.

An older sister helps one remain half child, half woman. ~ Unknown.

My youngest sister, Vivien, is the sister I see most often and also talk to the most. Vivien lives about six hour’s drive south of me and all of my children are the closest to her out of all their aunties.

But that’s how Vivien is. She’s the Mother when your own mother isn’t there, I know she was to me, and perhaps still is at times. She nurtures and protects and loves and cares for just about everyone.

When I was young and I stayed at her home, we would go on outings, perhaps just shopping or for a walk, but I always enjoyed whatever we did. We would cook together and I would lick the beaters when we made a cake and when she tucked me into bed at her place at night, I would think it was the cosiest bed I had ever slept in!

Just last year, when I spent a couple of days with Vivien at her home, her grandson told me about the things he and his grandparents did together and I felt like a child again. I could relate to his stories and told him, “I used to do those things when I spent time with your grandparents when I was a little girl!” He and I have a lot in common.

And when I went to bed at Vivien’s home, even as an adult, the bed I slept in was still the cosiest bed in the world.

My own son, who visited Vivien with me last year, agrees that Auntie Vivien’s house is the coolest place to visit! My sister is loved and adored by multiple generations.

A younger sister is someone…who needs you…who comes to you with bumped heads, grazed knees, tales of persecution. Someone who trusts you to defend her. Someone who thinks you know the answers to almost everything. ~ Pam Brown.

The youngest of Sam and Annie’s daughters is me…..and this is my story here …

It is through the different personalities and relationships that I have had with my three sisters that I believe I have learned the true meaning of what it is to be a part of a close family. Although there is age and distance between us, the bonds of sisterhood can never be broken.

Both within the family and without, our sisters hold up our mirrors: our images of who we are and of who we can dare to become. ~ Elizabeth Fishel

Joanne, Christine, Annette and Vivien Mottershead.

Annie Mansfield

27 Tuesday Mar 2012

Posted by Jo Mottershead in Mansfield, Mottershead, Statham

≈ 3 Comments

“The love between a mother and daughter exists in a special place…where “always” always lasts and “forever” never goes away.” ~ Laurel Atherson.

The closeness of the relationship I had with my mother goes beyond words; it extends into the depths of feelings, emotions, and unconditional love, the likes of which I didn’t think could ever be repeated until I had children of my own.

When I gave birth to my first child, a son, I told my mother, “Now I understand how you feel about me”. I corrected that statement when my daughter was born, telling her “Now I really know how you feel about me!” The bond between a mother and daughter cannot be explained in words, only in feelings.

It’s been eighteen years since I last saw my mother, but she never really left me; she can’t. There’s an invisible golden thread that holds us together, for all eternity. A thread that can never be broken…

My mother was pure love … an indescribable love … a forever love. Jo.xxx

Annie Mansfield, born Bredbury, Cheshire, England.

June 5, 1921 ~ August 30, 1993.

Annie on the left, with a school friend, 1933.

Annie was confused as a child, constantly wondering who all the men were in her house. Of course, she knew one of the men, her father, Walter Mansfield, but as for the others, she wasn’t sure. She knew them by name, and they would visit her home often. It wasn’t until she grew older that she understood the structure of the family she had been born into …

Annie was the eldest daughter born to Walter Mansfield and Edith Lillian Statham Potts Mansfield. Her younger sister, Edith, came along three years later.

Her father had previously been married to Martha Shaw and they had eight children. Martha passed away in 1915, and by the time Walter had married Edith, and Annie was born, Walter still had five surviving adult sons.

Annie on the right, with her friend, Lily, who remained a lifelong friend, taken 1935.

Her mother, Edith, had been married to John Lowe Potts, who had also passed away in 1915, leaving Edith with two young sons and a young daughter. With another two teenage boys in the house, it was little wonder that Annie felt surrounded by men. Annie adored her big sister Lily Potts (the only girl) and always had an understanding that Lily was her sister.

During the first ten years of Annie’s life, she vividly recalled the days she spent with her mother. She often reminisced about their regular trips to Yorkshire to visit family, and her carefree days playing on the Yorkshire Moors. She had no clue who the people were she visited in Yorkshire, all she knew was she was loved and safe when she was with her mother.

Her brothers lived nearby to her home and Annie remembered visiting her brother, Walter Mansfield, to collect newly killed chickens, which she carried home and was expected to prepare for cooking. In her older years, she would shudder at the recollection of plucking chickens!

She also vividly recalled the day she was christened, being dressed up in her “Sunday Best” and walking to the local St. Mark’s Church in Bredbury, situated next door to the school she attended, where her christening took place.

Annie is on the left, with her father and younger sister, Edith.

She had a particularly close relationship with one of her brothers, Bill Potts, a son from her mother’s first marriage. Bill joined the army and spent much of his time in India and he later moved from Cheshire to live in the south of England. During Bill’s travels, however, he and Annie constantly stayed in touch with one another.

When Annie’s mother took ill, she knew something was terribly wrong. There came a time when she was forbidden to go upstairs to spend time with her mother and was delighted one day when one of her brothers told her that he would take her upstairs to see her “Mam”, as she called her.

She hadn’t bargained on the sight of her mother, laying still and cold in the bed, and even though at ten years of age she did not understand the concept of death, she felt petrified. Annie later recalled the terror she felt and realised that she had run downstairs, even though she didn’t feel her feet hit the stairs, such was her freight.

Unfortunately, that was the day that Annie’s idyllic childhood ended. Whether through grief, or another emotion unknown to Annie, her father would often leave her alone at night, coming home in a state of drunken stupor, which he would have no recollection of the next day. Annie had also become cook and housekeeper for her father.

At age fourteen, Annie was invited by a friend, Harold Barton, to go to the local Guy Fawkes Night celebrations, on November 5, 1935, where they would eat treacle toffee, see the fireworks and keep warm by the huge bonfire. Harold introduced Annie to his cousin, Sam Mottershead, who had come from Manchester for the night. Sam and Annie were inseparable, from that night on.

On Sam’s bike, 1951. Annie never had a licence to drive.

Another huge blow hit Annie when two years later, she lost her beloved sister, Lily Potts, through complications of diabetes. Sam also had become great friends with Lily, and the two took her loss very hard.

By this time, living with her father had become unbearable for Annie. She told Sam of her misery and he questioned her in disbelief, as he had great respect for Annie’s father. Annie asked Sam to stay with her at home one night until her father arrived, to witness what she knew would happen.

True to form, her father arrived home, and in his drunken state, found no kind words for Annie, who apparently reminded him of her mother.

Sam told Annie she should speak to his mother about boarding at their house. She remained living with the Mottershead family until after she and Sam were married, in 1939.

In 1941, with Sam in the army and overseas fighting during the Second World War and their first child on the way, Annie moved home to be with her ageing father.

Annie and Sam’s firstborn child, Annette Mottershead, was born on 16th February 1942, in the same room and bed in which Annie herself had been born twenty years earlier. The midwife had been called but didn’t arrive in time. Annette was born with only Annie’s seventeen-year-old sister Edith present at the birth.

Annette became a big sister when Christine was born in April 1945, during the same year Sam was discharged from the army. Sam had spent so much time away that when he finally came home for good, Annette didn’t realise that he was her daddy. When Annie told Annette to kiss Daddy goodnight, she followed her usual routine, which was for her to climb up onto a chair to kiss the photo of Daddy on the sideboard.

In June 1946, Annie and Sam’s third daughter, Vivien, arrived and in 1951, the family of five immigrated to Sydney, Australia.

Christine’s wedding dress and Joanne’s flower girl dress were both made by Annie.

When they arrived in Australia, one of the first purchases Annie made was a Pfaff sewing machine. She had been taught how to sew by her Auntie Lily, a sister of her mothers, and she made all the clothes for her three daughters using the sewing machine. When the girls were married, Annie made wedding dresses, bridesmaid dresses and flower girl dresses, along with doing all of the catering for the weddings.

When Annie and Sam’s fourth daughter Joanne came along, Annie continued the tradition of sewing beautiful clothes for her to wear. As Joanne also showed an interest in learning to sew, Annie patiently spent hours teaching Joanne everything she knew about sewing, (between multiple cups of tea!) on her trusty Pfaff sewing machine.

To this day, Joanne still has her mother’s one and only sewing machine bought in 1951.

After all the girls had left home and Sam and Annie had moved to the far north coast of New South Wales, Annie found more time to pursue her other interests, cake decorating and crochet.

Annie insisted she was a “Jack of all trades and master of none”. Her family, however, knew Annie to be capable of any task she set her mind to. Annie underestimated her own abilities profusely!

Annie and Sam celebrated fifty years of marriage in 1989, with Golden Wedding Anniversary celebrations at the home of their daughter, Vivien.

After the death of her own mother, while still a child herself, Annie lived what some people would regard as a hard life, but she never gave up pursuing her dreams. Her strength of character saw her conquer the most trying of times, as she continued to care for her family with love, strength and compassion when others might have given up the fight. Annie was the driving force in keeping her family happy and close, the one who everyone turned to if they needed a shoulder to lean on, and an ear to listen to their woes. Annie always had time for those she loved ~ always.

At the christening of granddaughter Emma, 1993.

Annie left us on Monday, August 30, 1993, but the family traditions she created during her lifetime have remained. Sam said the memory of his wife lived on, every time he looked into the eyes of one of their daughters.

“My mum is a never-ending song in my heart, of comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune.” ~ Graycie Harmon.

Samuel Rubery Mottershead

23 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by Jo Mottershead in Bell, Bryce, Keevers, Knox, Mansfield, Mottershead, Thompson

≈ 3 Comments

“I look back on my childhood and thank the stars above, for everything you gave me, but mostly for your love.” ~ Wayne F. Winters

My father was the best father in the world. Isn’t that what every daughter thinks about her Daddy? Well, I’m not sure whether they really do or not, but for me, my father was the best father ever.

He was the strongest, kindest, most loyal, bravest man who ever existed. When Dad was with me, I was completely safe from all harm. Nothing could hurt me when Dad was there to protect me. When we were together I was indestructible and so was he.

Why didn’t I ever tell him that? He needed to know that nothing could ever harm him, that he could fight dragons with his bare hands and still survive.

Maybe if I had remembered to tell him that, he would still be here today …

There’s one thing I do know that he knew. He knew how much I loved him, just as I know he loved me too. And for that, I thank the stars above. Jo. xxx

~ ~ ~

Samuel Rubery Mottershead, born Manchester, Lancashire, England.

March 29, 1920 ~ August 16, 1998.

Baby Sam at 13 months of age.

Samuel Rubery Mottershead (Sam) was the eldest son born to Samuel Mottershead and Florence Edith Thompson. As a youngster, he was the wild child, the one who ran away with his mates on an adventure, forgetting to mention to his mother where she could find him.

The day Sam was born, he was blessed with fearlessness, a quality that remained with him throughout his entire lifetime. Nothing worried him; he never panicked; he never cried. He remained calm, logical and composed in all situations. That was the Sam the outside world knew.

But there was another side of Sam that his close family knew. A compassionate, gentle man who loved cats and would do anything to protect an animal from harm. And an intellectual man, spending hours researching topics of interest, or helping his daughters with their homework.

Sam in kindergarten. He is in the second row from the back, the fifth boy from the right.

He enjoyed his school days, as school satisfied his thirst for knowledge. A highly intelligent and inquisitive man, his mind retained knowledge and detailed facts with a precision that others only dreamed about.

At only fifteen years of age, Sam met the girl he would spend the rest of his life with, Annie Mansfield. From the time they met they were together, and married four years later on October 27, 1939, in Stockport, Cheshire, England, just eight weeks after Britain and France declared war on Germany.

Sam & Annie, 1940.

Sam had initially wanted to join the navy, although his final choice was the army, in which he became a paratrooper. He was proud of the fact that he had flown in hundreds of aeroplanes, yet had never once landed in a plane!

The years of World War II were not easy for Sam. His compassionate side could not tolerate the cold-blooded taking of human life that he witnessed and on a few occasions he was known to go AWOL (absent without official leave). Ultimately, he suffered from a condition then known as “war neurosis”, (now post-traumatic stress disorder) and shortly after a six-month stay in the hospital, Sam was discharged from the army in 1945.

Between 1942 and 1946, Sam became the proud father of three girls and in 1951, the family of five emigrated from Cheshire in England, making their new home in Sydney, Australia.

At the migrant hostel.

Living in a migrant hostel when they first arrived in their new country may not have been an ideal situation, but it was a beginning. Before too long, the family had a home of their own, a motorbike for transport which was soon upgraded to a car, new furniture, the girls began their new schools and Sam was employed, working in his chosen trade as an engineer welder.

The family in Australia, 1955.

By the 1960s, Sam and his family, (now four daughters, as I had been born), moved to the Blue Mountains, to live in a family home that Sam helped to build. Sam could turn his hand to anything he set his mind to; building, structural gardening, painting, car repairs or welding. He was a man who could fix or make anything.

Sam & Annie at the wedding of their daughter, Anne.

Throughout the 1960s, Sam continued to work as an engineer welder and by the late 1960s he had accepted a position building pumps and working in the mines, just outside of Sydney. He saw his three eldest daughters all married and settled into lives of their own. Now, Sam was ready for a change.

A workmate had decided to move his family to the northern New South Wales area, to become self-employed in a general store and takeaway food business. This idea appealed to Sam and so the family, now with just one daughter at home, was on the move again.

Whilst living in a caravan at Ballina in northern New South Wales, Sam fell in love with an old general store, opposite a busy railway station and on the main Pacific Highway, in Murwillumbah, N.S.W. The old building appealed to his sense of history, and the projected income appealed to his pocket!

The family spent three years working seven days a week in the general store, much to the dismay of Annie, who was not impressed with either the long working hours or the old building they now called home. Sam’s instincts regarding the business being something of a “gold mine” proved to be accurate and after three years they were on the move again, this time just a few kilometres further north, to Tweed Heads, on the border of New South Wales and Queensland.

After another three years had passed, Sam had had enough of being self-employed and went back to working in his old trade.

Just before retiring age, the factory in which Sam worked closed down. Not satisfied with sitting at home with his feet up, Sam soon found further employment working in the kitchen at a local club.

In 1993, it came as a huge blow to Sam when he lost his wife of fifty-three years, Annie. They had celebrated their Golden Wedding Anniversary in 1989, with a get together of their daughters, their daughter’s husbands, all the grandchildren and one great-grandchild. Photos of the celebration can be found here … A Golden Wedding Anniversary Celebration.

Sam survived for five years on his own, staying active by teaching himself how to cook, joining Neighbourhood Watch, buying a bike for bike rides to the beach, going for long walks and regularly spending time with his family and friends.

It was very sad to see Sam in his final year or two, as the once brilliant mind gave way to slight dementia. He remained, however, living independently in his own home at Tweed Heads, up until his final day, when he joined Annie.

Sam and his wife, Annie Mansfield, leave a legacy of their four daughters ~

And twelve grandchildren ~ Jeffrey, Jenine, Troy, Steven, Scott, Mark, Andrew, Mathew, Ben, Hayley, Emma and Adam.

Twenty-one great-grandchildren and four great-great-grandchildren. ❤

Sam aged 17, with Annie, 16.

A Golden Wedding Anniversary Celebration

22 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by Jo Mottershead in Bell, Bryce, Keevers, Knox, Mansfield, Mottershead

≈ 7 Comments

On October 27, 1989, the family of Samuel Rubery Mottershead and Annie Mansfield joined together to celebrate Sam and Annie’s 50th Wedding Anniversary, at the home of their daughter, Vivien, in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales, Australia.

Their marriage took place on October 27, 1939, in Stockport, Cheshire, England.

The following photos tell the story of the day ~

Sam, Annie, their daughters and two youngest grandchildren, Ben & Hayley.

Sam, Annie and their four daughters. I wonder what was so funny?

Daughters Annette and Christine.

Sam & Annies Grandaughter Jenine, holding her son. Mathew. Jenine’s mother Annette is holding Sam & Annies youngest grandaughter, Hayley.

Sam’s brother Bill Mottershead, his wife Fay, Annie and Sam.

All of Sam & Annies grandchildren in 1989 ~ Troy, Jenine, Andrew, Jeffrey, Mark, Scott, Steven, Mathew. At the front, Hayley and Ben.

Sam & Annie cutting the cake. Annie said she was so happy!

Brothers Sam & Bill Mottershead.

Uncle David tickles his neice, Hayley, while big brother Ben looks on.

The whole family ~ Maria, Christine, Jo, Allan, Adrian, David, Troy, Brett, Jeffrey, Andrew, Annie holding granddaughter Hayley, Sam holding grandson Ben, Annette, Vivien, Jenni, Mathew, Scott, Steven, Jenine holding Mathew, and Mark.

Grandaughter Jenine holds her son, Mathew, and her neice, Hayley. The two babies were often refered to as the twins, as they were born one day apart, yet Hayley is the generation above Mathew.

Sam and Annie…So many presents to open!

Sam & Annies four daughters ~ Annette, Christine, Vivien and Jo.

Annie with her eldest grandchild, Jeffrey.

Cousins Troy and Hayley at play.

Annie…”Anyone for cake?”

Chatting with the girls outside in the Bar-b-que area.

Sam and Annie were married just after the outbreak of World War II, and a Sam was joining the army, they didn’t spend very much time preparing for their wedding day and there were no photos taken. They were married at the registry office in Stockport, with Sam’s parents as their witnesses.

After their wedding, they bought fish and chips, which they ate at home. Fish and chips remained a favourite meal throughout their married lives.

The next photo is Annie, wearing the dress she was married in. Annie said an artist added colour and definition to the original photo taken, and the gold coloured bow on her dress was a brooch.

The Family of Jo Mottershead

~ The Mottershead Family Tree, with Photos and Memories through the Branches of my Family.

Category Archives: Mansfield