The one moment that stands out for me this year happened about four months ago.   I was browsing Ancestry and typed in my great grandfather's name, ‘Percy Watkinson'. This man has been my “brickwall” over many years.  Initially he seemed to disappear in the late 1890's, with no death certificate to validate his death.  
 
Eventually, this problem was solved by a small personal announcement in Trove stating Percy Watkinson had died in Paris, France on January 7, 1907. 
 
So now I just needed to get a death certificate to authenticate it was the man I was seeking.  I assumed this would just be a matter of contacting the French Births, Deaths and Marriages, paying some money and “Voila”, there it would be.
 
The discovery of Percy’s death whereabouts occurred in 2013. The intervening years have been an education as well as a test of patience. When a person dies in Paris the death is registered at the City Hall of the Arrondissement where the death occurs. I had no way of finding out this information as all the people who may have known were deceased.  
 
So, once again, I put Percy to one side and tried to forget about him.
 
However, from time to time I would type Percy’s name and search in Ancestry or Trove. It seemed to be a hopeless task until this last year, when someone else's family tree popped up and there he was.  But was it him?
 
There were the same parents, but his birthplace was a different country, even though his siblings were born in Germany.  I followed it up and there was a place of death. The date of death was the same and the address was in the Tenth Arrondissement.
 
Armed with this information, I wrote a letter to the City Hall and requested a death certificate, including a stamped self-addressed envelope.  Please note that there was no cost involved.
 
I waited for between six to eight weeks, with frequent trips to our mail box, much to the amusement of my husband. Eventually the envelope arrived and there it was. Now I had positive proof that the certificate was for my man. To add to my joy, one of my fellow classmates in Family Research had found the cemetery where he is buried. 
 
My next trip to Paris will involve a visit to Percy’s grave, but also a visit to the City Hall with a packet of Tim Tams to show my gratitude.
 
Which do you think is my “One Moment This Year”?
 
I chose the finding of his place of death, as the rest was the result of that lucky browse.
 
 
Marg McCrohan
November 2022

It was an early Sunday morning and I was head down in the rose bushes, methodically deadheading spent flowers.

She made a bee line for me from the other side of the road where she had been taking photos of our silo art.

She said, “I have just heard on the radio that if you trim them back you will get more flowers.” From my muffled, bent over position I said “That’s what I’m doing.” and emerged to see a smiling, very well dressed woman beaming at me from the deserted street. Our conversation started with my rose garden. Then we discussed many things, life in general, the Covid 19 pandemic in depth, anti vaxxers, demonstrations, and the fact that people hadn’t really had anything to demonstrate against since our involvement in the Vietnam War.

She said we had been privileged to be comfortable during lockdown but it must have been so hard for people in poorer circumstances who only spoke English as a second language and couldn’t understand.

There is something special about communication with a stranger who you will never meet again; the ‘ships that pass in the night.’  We could exchange our opinions honestly and be listened to without prejudice.

She quietly asked the leading question. “Did you work here in this small town?”  “No, I was a nurse.” She gave a delighted shriek and also pointing to herself, said “I knew it!  I knew as soon as you spoke

Our conversation switched to nursing and back to Covid again. I said the conditions of home schooling were not as bad for children as they were for us in the Second World War. I spoke of silent school children being marched into the trenches. We sat quietly in the dirt in air raid shelters with wooden clothes pegs in our mouths for an hour during Melbourne’s weekly air raid practise. Of fathers being away for years and of not knowing when we left home each morning if we would see our Mother again that day. Plans were in place for the school to be evacuated at a moment’s notice if there was an air raid. Life was very uncertain for us, but we were happy and resilient and accepted it without question because it was all we had.
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She asked where this was. When I said the Melbourne suburb of Black Rock, there was another delighted shriek. She had also been a child at Black Rock. We knew where each other had lived. We lived in Middleton St which is off Bluff Rd. Her great grandparents had settled in Black Rock when Bluff Rd was just a dirt track.

She had lived in Red Buff St. I laughed and said “I nearly drowned off the Red Bluff when I was seven. We had been told not to swim there because it was dangerous, so of course we never told our parents what had happened!”

In an instant we were transported back to our childhood days. She was younger than me and we were there at different times. Now for both of us we were young friends in a meeting of childhood minds.  We had swum at Half Moon Bay. We went to school at Black Rock and Sandringham
 
It was a case of do you remember. Do you remember the chook farm?  Yes, it was in Tulip St.  Her daughter trained as a nurse at the hospital in Sandringham where she had also worked. My mother worked as a volunteer at a small stall at Sandringham station to raise money to build that hospital.

She told me how happy she felt whenever she thought of her childhood at Black Rock. Her husband approached looking a bit bewildered. When he heard that we both spent our early years at Black Rock he understood.

Reluctantly she left, exclaiming at our chance meeting and I smiled for the rest of the day. I have no idea who she was.   

​Life is like a jigsaw puzzle and the older we get the more pieces fall happily into place.


Bev Morton
November 2022