Talk to Strangers V: Cartwrights

I knew I wanted to go to England to visit the gravesites of those who came before me. The one site I knew still existed was in an old, small church in Ossington. To find it we needed to use coordinates on the GPS that I now call Burtie. She doesn’t have an English accent, which is probably for the better. I’d have no idea what to do if she said “have a butcher’s” or she told not to “cock up.” It was difficult enough driving on the left and swinging around the bloody round-abouts. But in this part of country there was hardly another car to be seen, it was that remote, set near Newark On Trent. We were hoping to be able to get inside the church where there are statues of William Cartwright and his wife Grace Debridgecourt, my 9^th great grandparents (say great nine times). The church had not been kept up, which added to the magic of the day; an unmowed yard with tall dandelions and primroses everywhere among the graves and pheasants guarding their territory. Of course the door was locked, no admittance but on the door was a little map saying that the key was kept at Home Farm nearby.

We followed the map to the farm and had a look around to see if we could spot someone. A tall country farmer was quite surprised to see two American women approaching him with hands out. “The map on the door of the church led us to you.” He smiled his beautiful near-toothless grin, saying yes, he had the key. Such a kind man with a gentle spirit. Explaining what we were about we also asked, “Please. Do you know of any Cartwrights in the area?” He did in fact, and after fetching paper and pencil, he dropped down the tail end of his small van (or truck) that he swiftly used as a table. “I’m fairly sure the Cartwrights live here. Nice folk. He’s a very docile man. Don’t think his father is still around.”

            What a find! He extended his large hand, covered in grease and I didn’t care. I took it in both of mine and shook it with thanks.

            We again found ourselves walking up the drive of a lovely English farm, well kept and inviting. A man was outside working on his RV getting ready for a bit of a holiday. “We’re looking for Cartwrights,” we said. “You’re talking to one!” was his reply. Explaining our purpose we were invited inside to meet his wife and have some tea. We then talked of family, the statues in the church, the fact that Aaron (that was his name) and his ancestors were, yes, from this area and it was his ancestry as well, though he didn’t know the direct line. The family had just recently been talking of it, trying to figure out the line of Cartwrights that go back to William and Grace. They told us of their children and their children’s children and how important it is to bring family together and to know where you come from. We shared own own family history and what I knew through research. I promised to do more research for him so some of these questions might be answered and I will be true to my promise.

            We were not strangers when I walked up that drive. We were family.