Friday, 11 November 2011


I've a passion for our family history and have become the keeper of the family album, albeit in digital form. My Mother's cousin Ieuan recently lent me his mother's old Victorian family album which contained many photographs I hadn't seen before and faces I didn't recognise.  But with a bit of detective work I was able to put names to the faces in this family portrait and turned it from just another anonymous Edwardian family photograph into a vital record of real people who I can now claim as members of "my" family.  I already knew that this little girl was a cousin of my Grandmother's and recognised also the face of her mother.  Then a search of the census records on line produced details of the whole family, which in turn enabled me to identify them all.

Today is Armistice Day - a day when we remember all those who have suffered and died in war, and of course I think of my Father and Grandfather who did not die but certainly suffered.  Their wartime experiences affected the rest of their lives.  But this year I want to remember also Thomas Glyn Owen, the young man in these photographs. He was killed on the Somme on 21st March 1918 aged 38. He left behind his grieving wife, parents, sister and brothers. He has no known grave and is remembered on the Poizeres Memorial in France, just one of over 14,300 soldiers who simply disappeared there between March and August 1918. I can't imagine the anguish of the families who had to sit at home waiting for news that never came.

Supplies: Haute Couture Embellishment digital kit from Design by Anita at Two Peas in a Bucket

1 comment:

  1. In Flanders fields (lieutenant-kolonel John McCrae, 1872-1918)

    In Flanders fields the poppies blow
    Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
    Scarce heard amid the guns below.

    We are the dead.
    Short days ago
    We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow
    Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
    In Flanders fields.

    Take up our quarrel with the foe:
    To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high.
    If ye break faith with us who die
    We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
    In Flanders fields.


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