Fab Feb Photo Collage Festival: Day 8 Girl Guides

Like many young girls of my generation I became a Girl Guide when I was about 10. However unlike many others I hadn’t followed the normal path through Brownies. Joining the Guides was a big deal because in those days it had the reputation of either not being friendly to Catholics, or vice versa. Certainly one of the deciding factors was that the Guide leader of our company was herself a Catholic and would take the three or four Catholic Guides with her to Mass when we went camping.

I don’t know what the rationale of the objections might have been. Certainly there doesn’t seem too much in the Guide oath to be threatening:

I promise that I will do my best:
To do my duty to God,
to serve the Queen and my country,
To help other people, and
To keep the Guide Law.

The equal prominence of the British flag as well as the Australian is interesting yet typical of the era.

Perhaps my joining up had to do with my neighbourhood friend who joined at the same time and whose parents would often drive us to events. On other Saturdays we would walk through the shoulder-high grass along the creek bank with one or other of our parents watching us until we reached the NARM bridge (near the local tannery) and they could see us heading to the Guide hut.

I really enjoyed much of my Guiding experience and learning and passing all the various tests. The image featured today is one of my tests, possibly the one entitled “Nature” for my Second Class test. I also remember doing another one for which I documented the changing seasons, flowering trees and birds in the bush at the end of our street. Along the way I learnt a variety of skills, some useful and some not. I remember being aghast that people didn’t know the names of all the streets in their area, and now I’m one of those too ….remembering where places are but not bothering with street names.

It doesn’t look like any of us were having fun here.

There were also local hiking and picnicking outings, always making sure to bring our plastic sit-upons so our personal sit-upons wouldn’t get wet. We would make damper and cook it over the open fire. There would also be periodic camp fires near the Guide hut and we’d have a fine time singing.

The other fun thing about Guides was going on camp and my first Guide camp when I was about 10 was the first time I had overnighted, or perhaps spent more than one night, away from home. I distinctly remember that my parents had felt quite lost without me <smile> or that’s what they told me.

The old Guide badge for our group.

Whenever we went on camp we would travel in the open back of an old five ton truck driven by another Guide’s father who lived near us. We would sing Guide songs as we went along and it was great fun, though these days of course it would never be permitted for safety reasons.

We used to have those great big heavy canvas tents and flimsy sleeping bags ( I had mine for years) and woollen blankets. The dining area was in a big marquee and all the meals were cooked in big metal dixies. I suppose we must surely have helped with the meals but I don’t recall. We would also dig our own latrines and erect hessian screens around them. Bathing was done in big round metal tubs in another screened area. My first camp was at Brookfield and was beside a creek bank. I remember that we were provided with fresh milk each morning straight from the farmer’s cows, and also that there was a water snake in the creek when we went swimming.

Flooded in at Samford. We were on the land to the right, Water Police mid-stream and anxious adults on the far side.

However my most memorable camping trip is one I described a while back. You can read all about it in this 52 weeks series post on disasters…my sole experience of being on the front page of the paper.

I did enjoy Guides a lot but gave it up when I was heading to my Junior or Year 10 exams, probably just after being awarded my First Class Guide Badge. Unlike some of my friends I wasn’t tempted to continue along with the more challenging Queen’s Guide text.

This post is part of the February Photo Collage Festival and the Family History Writing Challenge.

Fab Feb Photo Collage Festival: Day 7 – Grandparents and family history

Why we pursue our family history is a common question among geneabloggers and other genealogists. I’ve reflected on this over the years and have never had an entirely satisfactory response to that question. Why I continue with it is so much easier: the search continues and the questions remain. I can’t simply say “my family history is done”.

My paternal grandparents and also my neighbours growing up. I was very close to them.

In my midnight mental rambles the other night, at least one of the reasons came to me. Behind both of my grandfathers lay an abyss of silence. I knew so little about each of them and their families. My grandparents were between 61 and 69 when I was born yet they seemed so old to me. When our first grandchild was born, we were not dissimilar ages, only 57 yet this seems quite a sobering comparison.

My paternal grandfather circa WWI, an old moth or cockroach-eaten photo.

About my paternal grandfather I knew his unusual surname, definitely another of the reasons for starting on this quest: I wanted to know where it came from in Germany and who the first Kunkel was to come to Australia. The sole bits of “knowledge” I had acquired over the years were:

• my grandfather was brought up Catholic
• He had walked out of a church in Roma (western Queensland) after being told to stand up for the local squatter (true or fiction I don’t know)
• there had been a falling-out with all but two of my grandfather’s siblings (he had 10)
• my ancestor (who???) had “jumped ship”
• one Kunkel came to Australia but two brothers went to “America”
• All Kunkels in Australia were related.
• He had gone to war (I think I knew this from his medals) and perhaps because of the paintings of Egypt on their dining room walls.
• He had sent back souvenirs from France and Egypt but they had been “pinched” somewhere along the way.

Put like this, I seemed to know a bit but these bare facts camouflage just how much I didn’t know. What is even more surprising is that for 16 years I lived next to my grandfather and was very close to him: as the eldest grandchild of the original immigrants to Australia there would have been so much he could have told me and which I may have know except for the religious disputes in the background. The family stories I uncovered as I researched were a revelation to me, but not necessarily to my father, who had always known his great-grandparents lived at Murphys Creek but hadn’t told me until I discovered it for myself. Have I mentioned my family’s oyster-like tendencies?

My maternal grandfather was an incredibly hard worker.

Of my maternal grandfather’s family I knew even less:

• He was born in Ireland, possibly Cork
• I had met one of his sisters in Townsville once (he had 14 siblings, some deceased as children)
• He was a devout Catholic with strong ties to the Hibernian society and a ready volunteer for St Vincent de Paul society and local Catholic church members.

Little did I know that my great-grandfather had only died seven weeks after my own birth.

My grandmothers were slightly more informative and I knew more of their families even though my maternal grandmother had died when I was only three years old.

My paternal grandmother and my neighbour.

My neighbouring Scottish-born grandmother had inculcated her love of Scotland, bagpipes and music in me. I have no memory of her trying to sway me from my Catholic religion despite her less-than-charitable comments to my mother. All that I experienced from her was the dedication to work hard, succeed in life, and her on-going love and devotion to me. It’s a surprise to me to discover that she was much the same age as I am in relation to my own grandchildren –like all kids she seemed incredibly old to me. I didn’t learn a great deal from her about family other than how close she was to her sisters but I did know:

• Her brothers were champion pipers
• She came from Edinburgh (actually she came from Glasgow though her mother came from Stirling. No doubt the capital did sound more refined)
• Her mother’s maiden name (though I don’t believe I knew she emigrated with her mother and siblings)
• She had three sisters with whom she was close and I knew of a couple of brothers
• It was only later that among her newspaper clippings my mother found (and saved) her brother’s death notice in a vehicle accident in Sydney.
• I knew nothing of her mother’s early illegitimate daughter or her emigration with them.

My grandmother as I knew her when I was a small girl.

On my maternal grandmother’s side I “knew” only that:

• Her father had owned a “chocolate factory”
• That the family had lived in Charters Towers
• She had not been a Catholic when she married
• She had two sisters (one of whom you’ll meet in a few days, and another who was deceased) but of her eight brothers I knew nothing

Like my mother I did not know for many years that she had been divorced in 1913, nor did I know of her first child, Jack Tredrea.

I suppose a reasonable question would be “what have you learned from your family history?” The response is wide-spread and subtle. I now know so much about how my immigrant families came to Australia, where they originated, their joys and crosses, the ups and downs of life for people who were the grassroots of our founding society in Australia. I’ve learnt that I’m a Queenslander not just by birth but by virtue of being born in the place before it even became a separate state. I’ve learned that my genetic and cultural heritage comes from many countries and religions, though my surname is embedded in the former German kingdom of Bavaria, or Bayern.

My life is so much richer for these discoveries though occasionally I have to admit my brain is muddled from having to absorb all these facts. Would I do it again? Absolutely, without any hesitation!! After 27 years are there any discoveries still to be made and mysteries resolved? Absolutely!!! Is there any advice for other researchers? Yes, expand your search beyond your direct ancestors to their kith and kin who may well answer your questions, or open new avenues of research.

Were you close to your grandparents and did you learn about your family history from them? Did they play a role in your family history quest?

What genealogical bequest will you leave for your family? Or will they have to start anew on this quest?

This post is part of the February Photo Collage Festival and the Family History Writing Challenge.

(Not Quite) Wordless Wednesday: my Grandad

Denis Joseph Kunkel (1880-1965). The original is held by Pauleen Cass.

I rediscovered this photo the other day, having forgotten it was given to me a while ago. It’s a large photo on hard board, bigger than A4 so it doesn’t quite fit on my scanner platen. There is no indication of the photographer.

It brought tears to my eyes because my grandfather looks so young and happy in it and I only knew him when he was in his 70s. I was very fond of him and found him to be a kind and gentle man.

My first thought was that it was perhaps taken as he left school and started work, but it is quite a formal photo. Then I had the delayed thought that perhaps it was his confirmation photo. I estimated his age as probably about 15, because of his feeble moustache, but perhaps he was a bit older. This would fit with either of the potential scenarios. Because the family moved around a lot he may have been confirmed a little later than is now usual.

Maybe I’m wrong about his age, and it was taken for his 21st birthday in September 1901, just months before both his parents died. His mother died on 20 November 1901 and his father on Christmas Day 1901. So three months and two days after Dinny’s 21st birthday, all their 10 surviving children were left orphaned.

 Help me out here….what’s your estimate on his age?

Rest in peace Grandad, I hope we meet up again one day.

Thank you one and all, the consensus seems to be it may have been his 21st.  Perhaps his eyes never had quite that look of youthful innocence after both his parents’ sudden deaths…he always looked a bit sad to me.

Fab Feb Photo Festival: Day 5 Church going

This photo symbolises the role of church or religion in my early life and that of my family. Religion’s impact on family relationships will inevitably be introduced in other stories.  The collage photo is of all the girls in my First Communion group, taken when I was seven. Instead of using that photo here I’m going with one I found subsequently which also includes the boys and the local parish priest Fr O’Connor. First Communion is the second significant step in the religious life of young Catholics following on from baptism. If you attended a Catholic school you received the necessary instruction in your religion classes which were the first session of the day: the reason why we had a longer school day than the kids at the State Schools. Ironically I remember nothing much about the actual First Communion –I was always so obsessed with getting things right, that the details of the event then passed me by.  We received a special medal with a communion symbol on it, which could be worn on a chain, and the certificate you can see here, and our further connection to the church was entered in the registers.

First Communion at St Joan of Arc

As you can see from the photo, both boys and girls were dressed to the nines for this special event. After the church ceremony, there would be a breakfast for all the communicants –a special “spread” of food and treats to celebrate the milestone. In those days all communicants were required to fast from midnight if they were to receive communion at Mass the next morning. All that I recall, dimly, is that I wasn’t especially well on the day, most likely because of nervous anxiety. In those pre-Vatican II days, communion was received on the tongue, not in the modern way, in the hands. It was all much more formal and structured.

Don’t know what happened to this little prayer book.

When our eldest daughter made her First Communion things were much the same stylistically, but by the time our second daughter came along, in a more progressive parish it has to be said, this had changed. The children all wore simple robes, not unlike altar servers’ robes, thereby eliminating the potential for competitiveness, and celebrations were mainly with family and friends at home. Strangely it was when #2 daughter was receiving her education for First Communion, that I met my second Kunkel relation: one of my 2^nd cousins, a nun who was the granddaughter of my great-aunt, about whom I’d known nothing. And the teacher for our eldest daughter’s First Communion was the sister of a girl in the photo above. Small world isn’t it? In a Freudian slip, I almost forgot that before being accepted for First Communion each potential communicant also had to make their First Confession. Now there’s another experience which is fraught for those of an obsessive, literal frame of mind. One by one each child/person would go into the small confessional through (usually) a purple curtain. Once the penitent is inside the priest would slide a tiny window open and you would see his outline through the wire grill, rather than full-face.

A holy picture from my Confirmation.

There was a specific ritual of wording which occurred before you outlined your recent sins. At the end you would be given absolution. It’s not true that you can confess a sin and be forgiven then go out and, for example, commit murder again, Scot free, as is sometimes believed. This contradicts the need to be truly sorry and also to repent, follow the priest’s penance (usually some prayers) and “go forth to sin no more”. Confession has now been re-badged as Reconciliation. The procedure is a little more relaxed (there’s even an i-Pad app as an aide memoir…of course!) and in some cases people choose to talk directly to the priest rather than be “hidden” behind a screen. Some say that you walk out feeling so relieved but it was never my favorite religious experience.

This Confirmation photo is one of the earliest colour photos in our family -taken with film brought back by Mum’s great-aunt.

Confirmation, or the young person’s acceptance into the full life of the Church, came in the last year of primary school or thereabouts. It also involved much ritual but was significantly more daunting because the Bishop or Archbishop was the presiding cleric on the day. Those being confirmed also had to be able to answer questions on aspects of the faith –just imagine the scope for anxiety in an obsessive “nervous Nellie”. Your sponsor would accompany you, and you would take on an additional (second or third) Christian name. Of course these were simply the key events in a life which encompassed so many rituals and obligations (makes me tired just thinking about it all): Saying the rosary at home daily Morning and evening prayers Grace before and after meals Multiple church visits over Easter Benediction First Fridays Fasting before Mass Abstaining from meat on Fridays Lenten penances Stations of the Cross Confession (weekly …ugh) Weekly (minimum) Mass “visits” to the church between times Children of Mary (what the neighbourhood thought of these apparitions in blue cloaks with medals on blue ribbons, and white veils is unknown). Etc etc etc One of the complexities of our family’s religious life was that my parents had what was then called a mixed marriage[i] as my father was not a Catholic, though throughout he never stood in the way of my education and upbringing as a Catholic. Perhaps that made the focus on religion much greater than it might have been otherwise. It was such a pivotal part of life that it was woven through my day-to-day life. Was going to church a big-deal in your family, or low-key?

 

This post is part of the February Photo Collage Festival and the Family History Writing Challenge.

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[i] The linked article raises my hackles even all these decades after moving from my own family of origin but I include it as an insight to the situation as outlined by the church. I’d have thought that perhaps this would have changed in the current day and age, so it’s even more shocking to read this article.

Fab Feb Photo Festival -Day 4 – Baby books and birthdays

This is a photo from my 3rd birthday with my new doll, Ann.

Birthdays and parties seem synonymous these days but were they when you were growing up? Certainly mine were pretty much always low-key affairs as I explained a while ago in another post.

While I had a few friends and family over for each birthday, with party hats and presents, there was none of the hoopla that seems almost compulsory for many children these days, with reciprocal gift bags for the guests, clowns, jumping castles and the like.
For the first few years of my life, Mum kept a baby book for me so I’m going to let that speak to this photo from the collage.

An extract from my baby book written in my mother’s immaculate handwriting.

I’m guessing this is the doll, Thelma, that I got for my 2nd birthday.

It’s really lovely to read some of these notes because it tells me who gave me my little gold bangle. While it has little commercial value, what I now realise is this was my last present from my maternal grandmother who died suddenly a few months before my next birthday. It probably also explains why my baby book ceases with this birthday. Looking back what’s conspicuous from these notes is how my paternal grandparents appear to have been excluded from the celebrations even though they lived next door. Nor does my maternal grandfather feature although he would still have been at work full-time. The other thing I now notice is that my grandmother’s name drops the Mc…which is exactly how it was when the family lived in Ireland -funny how things stand out from the distance of time.

Dolls were obviously a regular present option as I got one for my 2^nd birthday as well and I know that some years later I also got a tall walky-talky bride doll which I named Mary.

This post is part of the February Photo Collage Festival and the Family History Writing Challenge.

Fancy Dress for the Fab Feb Photo Festival – Day 3

When you were a child did you go to community Fancy Dress parties or concerts or had they gone out of vogue?

My “Local”

The local community hall was not too far from our house and had been built in 1929 when the estate was newly developed.  By then my grandparents had been living there for some years. As a child I went to kindergarten in the hall briefly, and dancing even more briefly. I also recall that my parents used to go square dancing there when I was a youngster. Even though my memory is fuzzy on the topic, I’m reasonably sure that a family in the next street minded me. I don’t think my grandparents ever did, probably because my grandmother didn’t approve of dancing, thanks to her conservative Presbyterian views.  Memory can be so unreliable about some things I find.

It seems that this hall had a tradition of hosting community events which included fancy dress competitions. In 1932 my father had won the “Most Original” prize as a baker at one of these events. I have to wonder how a baker might have been dressed originally but that will remain a mystery, and of course my grandmother was a professional dressmaker so that may have helped.

Do you remember the ice cream people who used to walk round the movie theatre in the intervals?

http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article21988839

A quick search of Trove reveals just how popular these competitions/balls/socials were at least until I was a child. They weren’t the same as dress-up performances for a song or poem or specific event, like Christmas or Easter. I certainly don’t remember that my children had special fancy dress events very often, though we do have a few photos -which I’m not allowed to share here <smile>.

My very vague memory suggests that prize winners in these fancy dress concerts/socials/whatever usually won some small prize. Like most children’s concerts, the pressure was on the Mums, and perhaps the occasional artistic father (not mine!), to come up with something that made their child feel special and maybe even win a small prize.

Mum in fancy dress. That’s a train she’s holding up.

I remember feeling pretty special in my fancy outfits with a little bit of make-up. I have no recollection of ever winning a prize. Oh for Trove to be digitised a little closer in time.

This post is part of the February Photo Collage Festival and the Family History Writing Challenge.

Fab Feb Photo Collage: 2 Feb – Cats, Kittens, Maggie & Cyclones

Another of my photo favourites! I’m a huge devotee of cats and kittens and have been since I was a little girl, thanks to my father’s equal addiction. All my life we’ve shared our homes with one or more cats. Each one has a special place in my memory. When I was a child, one would always walk to the end of the street with us, and another would come all the way down a couple of blocks to the public phone booth.  Small wonder that Mr Cassmob also met this vital selection criterion for a future partner…neither of us can walk past a cat without saying hello and asking politely for a pat.

A man after my own heart

In this early photograph my father and I are in the back yard of the flats where we were holidaying at Picnic Bay on Magnetic Island in 1956. Presumably the kittens just happened to be nearby and we couldn’t resist them. Magnetic Island was one of our semi-regular holiday places, partly because we could get there using Dad’s railway pass, and partly because my mother still had friends there, including her closest friend. I talked about my love for the place in the 52 weeks series.

But back to this particular holiday which has become part of our family’s folklore. You see while we were there in 1956 Cyclone Agnes came through and threatened to blow us all away. The flats were only fairly flimsy fibro buildings with corrugated iron roofs so we were certainly at risk. My most distinct memory is asking Dad to take me to the backyard toilet in the midst of the storm. Why on earth he was willing to do that I don’t know, because I’m sure I’d just have told my kids to use a bucket! I remember the palm trees bending in the wind, like ballerinas touching their toes. Dad always said that the wind gauges at the Garbutt Air Force base snapped in the strength of the wind which fits with the news stories of the day.

http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article79261437
Story from Trove.

Afterwards we were trapped on the island for a few days and I’m told there were no fresh supplies of milk or bread. My memory says that we were evacuated by Army amphibious duck to Townsville but Mum doesn’t recall that at all, so did I imagine it? Soon after we trained up to Cairns where I have a vivid memory of the Barron Falls in full spate, and then travelled to Green Island where the seas were so rough I can still remember the boat dipping into the waves on each side. Story goes that only Dad and the engineer weren’t sick on the voyage. Everyone else was hanging over the side of the boat. Or, as Mum always said, “green on the way over and green coming back”.

Many years later we would take our girls for a visit to Maggie, on a day that was much more tranquil.

On the return trip to Brisbane the Sunlander train waded across the flooded Burdekin River where the waters were lapping the sleepers on the bridge as we crossed. Dad used to say that the fireman pushed away a log that was up against the sleepers only to discover it was a crocodile. A tall tale or true? I don’t have a clue! Mind you, being a fellow railwayman, Dad ofter heard stories that weren’t shared with all the passengers.

Socks’ mother was fully-wild, but Socks was the most beautiful cat.

This post is dedicated to all my feline friends who’ve given me so much love and affection over the years: Chips, Tammy, Sooty, Tabitha, Pedro, Brandy, Socks, Ginger Megs, Kizzle and Springer. Each had their own distinct personality, but I could wish Springer, my current young furry-friend, would extend himself to a few more cuddles….maybe he’s still in that teenage phase where boys won’t cuddle their families <smile>.

Unfortunately Pedro was chased away when we moved to our 2nd Goroka house- by our next cat! We never knew if he wound up as a fur hat or in the cooking pot in a village because we never found him.

Fab Feb Photo Collage Festival: 1 Feb – Cuddles and Maccas

This little photo is my favourite from all my baby photos though I’m not entirely sure why. I guess I just like the fact that I looked cuddled up tight in my rug, nursed by my Dad, and wearing either his hat or my Grandad’s. Like many newly-weds my parents initially lived with parents until some money could be saved for a house. I’ve talked before about how my grandparents were our neighbours and when this photo was taken our house next door would have already been under construction.

In the photo I’m only six months old and we’re in the gateway of what would later become something of a treasured space for me – underneath my grandparents’ house. Queenslanders, as these old houses are known, are famous for being up on wooden stilts to provide fresh circulating breezes, protection from floods (where that’s an issue) and a handy workspace out of the weather. Just to the right of the photo was the tank stand providing fresh rain water for hair washing (makes it softer).

My grandfather’s old Austin car, sold before I was born.

To the left of the gate was the space which had once served as the garage for my grandfather’s old Austin car. That always seemed a bit exotic to me, given we had no car until I was nineteen.

Tucked away towards the back of the space (near the tar-painted wooden battens which framed the area) were old stone jars with straw cladding. Over the decades these would become collectibles and worth a bit of money so it’s no surprise that in my grandmother’s old age, they suddenly disappeared one day, after the passing visit of a second-hand dealer. To the right through the gate was the laundry with big concrete tubs and adjacent to that, at right angles, was my grandfather’s work bench where he would re-sole shoes, sharpen tools or do whatever grandfathers do in such places.

But the most important focus for me in that space was the vice on my Grandad’s bench.

The Qld nut tree in the back yard, and kookaburras on the clothes line -they would arrive for a piece of meat.

In the back yard of our new home stood a Queensland (Qld) nut tree. It was so tall that I can only assume that it may have already been there before our new house was built. One of the joys of my childhood was clamping a delicious Queensland nut in Grandad’s vice and slowly tightening it until it cracked ever so gently –you didn’t want to smash the delicious nut inside. As I grew older I was allowed to also crack the nuts with a hammer, which meant finding just the right dip in the concrete near the laundry, and again giving it just the right strength of a wallop. I remember once when my 2^nd cousins were visiting from Sydney that we sat under the tank stand making mud pies with Qld nut fillings. Just imagine the indulgence of wasting one of the most expensive types of nuts in childhood play like that….I’m surprised I could restrain myself from eating the nuts!

These days the humble Qld nut has been remarketed as the Macadamia and is available world-wide. They’re still super-delectable but there’s something very special about memories of being able to eat them whenever you wanted, fresh from where they’d fallen on the grass.

Both of us look pretty tickled with our new home.

Sepia Saturday 160: The Gabba

It’s funny how even a cryptic image like this Sepia Saturday prompt can stir one’s memories. After a brief “hmmm” moment my sub-conscious brought forth the connection.

For me this image was a straight path back some fifty odd years.

My image today has been chosen from Australia’s wonderful Trove site. While it dates to 1929, a little before my time, it is out of copyright and so can be used here. There are other later photos which you can see if you click the links below.

When I was a young girl, my family lived on the north side of the Brisbane River and my maternal grandparents on the south (a very Brisbane division). Neither family owned a car so the only way we could visit (even on Christmas Day) was by public transport…tedious but do-able.

The Gabba Fiveways 1929
picqld-citrix08–2004-11-11-09-09

On the plus side, the trip only involved two sectors. The first was our local bus, sometimes a trolley bus with feeler-like poles connecting it to the overhead power line, and other times a diesel bus. This would take us to Woolloongabba near the world-famous cricket ground (to the left of this photo). We would cross one of the roads passing through what was known as the Fiveways for its five intersecting roadways, turn the corner, and then wait under the awnings of shops on the left of the photo for the arrival of the tram to my grandparents’ suburb. In fact on other occasions we used the same route visiting my mother’s friends who lived at the end of the same tram line.

In those “olden days” there were no traffic lights whatsoever to coordinate traffic flow through the Fiveways and you took your chances either as a vehicle or pedestrian. The only exception was the railway flagman and the central coordinating point for the trams, looking rather like a clock tower.

As there always is with public transport (or so it seems to me) there was the inevitable time delay between the bus and the tram. Sometimes the railway flagman would provide some distraction as he guided a train and carriages through the same intersection, with his red flag to alert and stop vehicles of all sorts. On other occasions it might be quite dull with nothing much happening. That was when I coached myself into spelling that complicated word Woolloongabba (pronounced Wool –un-gabba), an Aboriginal place name.

A tidgy bit before my time. The Fiveways in 1900. bishop.slq.qld.gov.au:15622

From that “authoritative” source Wikipedia, it’s unclear whether the word means “Whirling Waters” or “Fight talk place”. Considering the Gabba’s whitefella way of merging five streams of traffic and pedestrians, either might have been meaningful even to the current day. It’s also apt in terms of those titanic cricket clashes that have occurred at the adjacent Gabba cricket ground. Once again the Gabba played a key part in my own history as my friend and I would routinely visit the Gabba during school holidays to watch test matches or exciting One Day matches against the West Indies (Wes Hall anyone?). You can click the links above to see more images which are still subject to copyright but viewable on Trove.

In more recent years when my daughter lived not far from the Gabba we had regular outings to the Thai restaurant situated in the upstairs verandah of the building on the left.

You can see why, for me, this Sepia Saturday image prompt brought so many memories flooding back.

Finding the Fass in Dorfprozelten

It’s all been about the Germans for the past week as I unravel mysterious old documents or hunt through the newspapers. I still haven’t located the departure of my George Kunkel even though I’ve found quite a lot of his compatriots. I’m sure he’s there somewhere but I may have to trawl through page after page, which could get a bit tedious, not to mention hard on the eyes.

A postcard for Das Goldene Fass, owned by the Happ then Kunkel families. By the time of this photo  it was in other hands,  however I doubt much changed over the years.

I’ve known a little bit about his family’s business in Dorfprozelten am Main, thanks to the wonderful village histories[i] and the generosity of the local historian[ii].  The family owned and ran an inn or Guesthouse in the village for over 100 years. It was called Das Goldene Fass or The Golden Barrel. It seemed that it was indeed a lucrative business given the taxes they were paying: 800 gulden in 1818[iii].

Given this background George Kunkel was atypical among his emigrating peers many of whom were day labourers or in poor-paying jobs. It seems likely, given some of his occupations in Australia, that he shared his older half-brother’s trade as a Metzger (butcher). Family anecdote that he left to avoid military service seemed quite possible, as did the anecdote that he jumped ship given that Dorfprozelten is on the River Main, where a dominant industry is the barges up and down the river. One possibility is that George Kunkel left Bavaria when his older half-brother Jakob August Ulrich inherited/took over the Fass guesthouse circa 1853 when his father died.

My research in the German newspapers last week overturned all my prior thinking on this family, and therefore also on George’s reasons for emigrating. References are not particularly easy to find but I was very pleased with my discoveries.

The first was finding George’s father’s name, Adam Kunkel in the Intelligenzblatt von Unterfranken und Aschaffenburg’s Allgemeines Register, page 34 (Public Register) for the year 1846. Among the approx 2400 names is this one:  Kunkel, Adam Liquidation, 338, 4619, b.

Plainly the business was on shaky ground and on the verge of bankruptcy, or perhaps it was just Adam himself who was in financial difficulty –much would depend on his legal standing in relation to the guesthouse. The Fass had actually belonged to his wife’s family, the Happs through the previous century so how Catherine felt about all this we’ll never know.  I’m sure the numbers after the entry have some significance but as yet I don’t know what they are.

A few years later, on 26 April 1849, he appears in the Aschaffenburger Zeintung…. with this notice. This time the link to the guesthouse is clearer.

My literal translation is confusing but my best guess is that this was some form of creditor’s meeting in neighbouring Klingenberg. Patching words together to make sense of it is hazardous but for now this is my best guess. Notice: On Saturday 12 May at 11am Adam Kunkel, married of Dorfprozelten, belonging to the Guesthouse Fass with Amgriff (surrounds?) in 3 to 4 years interest eked out (??), interested parties are invited to attend in the parish rooms, a public auction in the said place….(Sorry but I just can’t figure this out accurately –feel free to enlighten me!).

The next entry is again in the Intelligenzblatte von Unterfranken und Achaffenburg for the year 1852, page 32[iv]. Once again there were many other entries. Adam’s reads as follows:  Kunkel, Adam zu Dorfprozelten, Gasthaus Versteigerung, 2 20 b, 31 427 b. My understanding is that this says Adam Kunkel, auction of Guesthouse. It’s pretty clear that the business remained in financial difficulties.

It’s around this time that Adam’s step-son Jakob Ulrich marries Elisabeth Firmbach and takes over the Fass. It’s also within the timeframe I estimate for George Kunkel’s departure. In 1848 Europe had been in the throes of revolution and Bavaria was part of this unrest, largely due to the people’s dissatisfaction with the King’s mistress Lola Montez. There were also moves to German unification. Whether these political factors affected the viability of the Fass Guesthouse is of course unknown, but it’s not illogical to think that during periods of economic and political instability people don’t tend to travel or holiday elsewhere.

Only a year after the last notice in 1852, Adam Kunkel died, aged only 55. I don’t have his cause of death but it makes me think I should follow this up.

Jakob Ulrich managed the inn until 1868 when suddenly the remaining family fell ill. Jakob died in June, son Karl in July, his wife Elisabeth in August, and finally his mother Catherine Kunkel nee Happ and later Ulrich, in October 1868. Before her death Catherine would see her family’s inheritance auctioned off as advertised in this notice. The guesthouse was taken over by an August Ulrich, possibly a cousin of Jakob’s. The surviving children of Jakob and Elisabeth progressively emigrated to the United States, settling in New York state.

What does it all mean? This advertisement post-dates the death of Jakob Ulrich and the sale of the family guesthouse.

Some of these newspaper references were easy enough to find, others required rather odd search terms. It’s possible there’s more still to find, but these gems have certainly reframed my family’s story in Bavaria.

Concurrent with this research I was reading The Lieutenant by Australian author, Kate Grenville (kindly sent to me by a friend). It’s an excellent book, by the way, but this section (page 152) spoke to me in the context of my German research and the limitations of my high-school German:

“But language was more than a list of words, more than a collection of fragments all jumbled together like a box of nuts and bolts. Language was a machine. To make it work, each part has to be understood in relation to all the other parts.”

ENDNOTES

[i] The most useful of these is Dorfprozelten am Main Teil II, Veh, G. Benedict Press 2002.

[ii] Those gifts didn’t drop easily from the tree but took multiple letters and visits to obtain, so do persevere with your challenging European ancestors.

[iii] Veh, G. Op cit page 192.

[iv] Grenville, K. The Lieutenant. Canongate Books, 2010, page 152.