Longtime Ago people

Tag: family

  • Wiggy, Egg Sandwiches, Shared Baths & Cheeky Wiring  

    Family stories often arrive as small details—a nickname, a habit, a smell from a kitchen on a Sunday. Wiggy begins there. She earned her name from a halo of dark hair that never seemed to grey, a Londoner who found herself transplanted to Oxfordshire after a whirlwind start to adult life. Pregnant at sixteen, married to Ron against his family’s wishes, she navigated a world shaped by war and class expectations. The move cost Ron his inheritance; he traded land and status for love, and a bungalow he rushed to build before leaving for Africa with the army. Their son grew without his father for six years—war remapping their family like an abrupt line through a photograph. These pieces matter because they show how a single decision can change a lineage.

    Wiggy’s personality lives in contrasts: tender hospitality and sharp-tongued resentment, warmth for guests and cold memory for a husband she never forgave. Sundays meant tea, egg sandwiches sliced neat, and a house inexplicably cosy. Only later did the family learn why: Ron had wired their electricity to the neighbours on both sides—a roguish hack that kept fan heaters roaring without a bill to match. The scene is almost comic—comfort powered by a quiet transgression—but it frames a marriage where affection was rationed. Wiggy swore about Ron in private, then praised him on the day he died, as though grief rearranged her anger into something gentler. The emotions are messy, human, and familiar to anyone who has watched pride and pain coexist at a kitchen table.

    The wider clan deepens the portrait. On the other branch stands Doris, another Londoner, who fled Oxfordshire every weekend to dance in the city, leaving her daughter to manage the boys and the home. Both grans were pulled by London like a tide—one dragged away and stranded, one who always found the last bus back. Between their stories sit small rituals: shared baths among siblings and a younger uncle, cheap socials at the Smith’s Industries club, Christmas trees dressed on tight budgets. These are not grand adventures; they are the unvarnished rhythms of working families who made do, made jokes, and made memories strong enough to outlast the thin wallpaper of a rented hall.

    Time moves, and technology follows. The conversation turns to whether grandparents could bear the pace of today: iPads glowing on armchairs, FaceTime bridging 6,000 miles to South Africa, swipes too light or too hard for hands trained on spanners, not screens. Teaching an older parent to tap instead of press is a lesson in empathy as much as technique. For those who rode each iOS update year by year, shifts felt incremental. For a generation that skipped straight from rotary dials to video calls, the change can feel like a cliff. The wonder of seeing a son’s face across oceans wrestles with the frustration of missed rings and stubborn icons.

    One figure stands almost mythic: Uncle Mick, who left for South Africa at twenty-four and climbed fast—pools, company cars, and maids—a dream tinted by its era and later tempered by reality. Divorces thinned his luck; economics and age make the journey home too far now. Yet his arc shaped his nephew more than the engineers and grandparents did. It offered a map of ambition and change, a reminder that leaving is not always escape, and success is never a straight line. His life traces the cost of distance: material comfort balanced against an ache for home.

    What remains is grief, love, and the first hard lesson of loss. Many people meet death first through a grandparent; the shock is softer than a parent’s death but still seismic, opening a before and an after. Wiggy’s absence lingers in warm houses and salty egg sandwiches, in the punchline of stolen electricity and the punch of a word she used too freely for a quiet lounge. Family memory endures not because it is perfect but because it is precise. A nickname. A bus to London. A bath overfull. These details are the hooks we hang ourselves on—proof that ordinary lives carry the weight of history and the light of humour at the same time.

  • Family Histories: A Cross-Cultural Love Story Born from the Ashes of World War II

    In an age where we document every moment with our smartphones, I’ve found there’s something profoundly moving about oral history—those intimate stories passed down through generations, often teetering on the edge of being lost forever. In this episode, I had the privilege of uncovering the remarkable tale of Douglas George Thurston and Agnes Franziska—a British soldier and a German woman, my grandparents, whose lives became entwined in the fragile aftermath of World War II.

    The story unfolds through the voice of their daughter, Ingrid, my aunt, now living in Margate, Kent, as she reflects on her earliest memories of her parents. Douglas, affectionately known as “Busty”, emerges as a larger-than-life character—a big man with an even bigger personality, who would regale his children with stories, some perhaps embellished, but all delivered with the conviction of a natural storyteller. Agnes, by contrast, is remembered for her resilience, directness, and unwavering generosity—a woman who, in Ingrid’s words, “never held back, knew what she wanted to say and said it.”

    What makes this narrative particularly compelling is its historical context. Douglas was captured by the Japanese during the Fall of Singapore and survived the horrors of being a prisoner of war. Yet he refused to speak of these experiences. As Ingrid poignantly recalls, “There’s no glory in war,”—a sentiment that led him to decline an offer to write his memoirs, despite the potential for his escape story to become a film. Some wounds, it seems, remain too deep to revisit—even decades later.

    Their unlikely romance began in post-war Germany, where Douglas was stationed in Lippstadt. Their first meeting has the quality of a film scene: Douglas leaning against a lamppost as Agnes walked by with her friend and reportedly declared, “I’ll have the fat one. He looks like he can get us food.” What began as a pragmatic encounter blossomed into a deep bond that endured until death quite literally did them part. Agnes passed away from what Ingrid believes was a broken heart, upon learning of Douglas’s critical condition following surgery.

    Their cross-cultural identity shaped the family’s experience in post-war Britain. The children grew up bilingual, with their parents switching to German when they didn’t want them to understand. Summers were spent with German relatives, and despite the lingering anti-German sentiment of the time, Douglas and Agnes met prejudice with a matter-of-fact attitude: “It’s other people’s problems, not theirs.”

    Perhaps most moving is the legacy they left behind. Douglas instilled in his children the belief that “you can be whatever you want to be, but you work for it, it won’t come to you.” Agnes’s legacy was her extraordinary kindness—opening their home to anyone in need, from arranging a proper bed for a discharged soldier to live in their shed, to ensuring no visitor left empty-handed, “even if it was half a pound of butter.”

    This deeply personal glimpse into my family’s history reminds me why I do this. It speaks to the resilience of the human spirit, the healing power of love across divides, and the quiet heroism of ordinary people navigating extraordinary times. As I listen to these memories, I’m reminded that every family has stories worth preserving—narratives that help us understand not just where we came from, but who we are.

  • Dreams Made Real in Spain

    The bonds between parents and children often reveal themselves in the most unexpected ways, sometimes only becoming clear years after they’ve passed on. During a recent conversation I recorded with my brother-in-law, John, on the Mediterranean coast of Spain, a quietly profound revelation emerged: sometimes we find ourselves living the dreams our parents once had, without even realising it.

    The story centred around a son who discovered that his life by the coast quite likely fulfilled his late father’s deepest wish—to live by the sea. “I just found out the day before yesterday from my sister that I’m probably living his dream,” he told me, visibly moved. This realisation wove an emotional thread through the episode, connecting generations in a way neither could have predicted. Even when his father lived inland, he found solace in the hum of the M25 motorway, which “sounds like the sea”—a poetic detail that speaks to the persistence of our deepest yearnings.

    Music came through as another powerful bond between father and son. From Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley spinning on the family record player, to him introducing his dad to bands like Madness in the ’80s, it became a shared language. His current love for alternative country music traces back to the country melodies his father played. That focus on lyrics and musical meaning shaped his own approach to music—a musical inheritance that outlives absence.

    Above all, what struck me was the portrait of a remarkably inventive man. From hand-sewn wetsuits to early tennis ball machines and eco-friendly burning blocks, he embraced life with boundless curiosity and ingenuity. His workshop turned out satin lampshades and imaginative contraptions, though never patented—they were gifts of the moment. Through these stories, the adventurous spirit of a man who loved golf, and motorcycles came vividly to life.

    When we considered how he might respond to modern technology—mobile phones, AI, and digital photography—John believed he’d embrace it all, grounded by his DIY spirit and authentic taste. That reflection ushered in a poignant truth: “When people are no longer there, everything they ever thought or believed just disappears.” And yet, these conversations hold something precious—they preserve more than memory. They capture the essence of someone who shaped not just one life, but maybe a geographical legacy.

  • “Longtime Ago People” – Preserving Family History Through Storytelling

    When my father was nearing the end of his life, we spent hours talking about his experiences—ordinary moments, extraordinary events, and everything in between. Those conversations revealed a profound truth: once our elders pass, their stories can vanish with them. This realisation became the spark that ignited my podcast journey, Longtime Ago People.

    The podcast’s unusual name stems from a charming family expression. When my children were young, they referred to their grandparents as “the longtime ago people”—a delightful childish phrase that perfectly captured the generational gap and the treasure trove of history that older family members represent. Little did I know then how poignant that innocent nickname would become, eventually inspiring a dedicated effort to preserve these generational connections.

    What truly motivated this project was a startling question that occurred to me one day: do my children even know my grandparents’ names? This simple yet profound thought highlighted the vulnerability of family history. Each generation further removed increases the likelihood that names, personalities, and stories will fade into obscurity. Our ancestors—people who shaped our families and indirectly influenced who we are today—risk becoming forgotten footnotes in our family narrative unless we actively work to preserve their memory.

    The inaugural episode features my Aunt Chrissie from the picturesque village of Steyning in West Sussex. The setting itself carries significance—we’re recording in a house where my grandparents once lived, adding another layer of connection to our conversation. We explore when they moved there, their life on the Isle of Wight before that, and the countless small moments that made them who they were. Through these conversations, I’m creating audio monuments to people my children never had the chance to meet.

    This podcast represents new territory for me—from microphone techniques to editing skills (apparently, I say “um” too frequently). But the learning curve feels worthwhile when balanced against what’s at stake: preserving the heartwarming, funny, and inspirational moments of special individuals who have touched our lives. These recordings become time capsules of memory, allowing future generations to connect with their roots through authentic voices and genuine stories.

    Longtime Ago People isn’t just about nostalgia; it’s about creating bridges between generations and ensuring that family wisdom and experiences aren’t lost to time. In our rapidly changing world, these connections to our past become increasingly precious. I invite listeners to join me on this journey—not just to hear my family’s stories, but perhaps to inspire them to capture their own family histories before those opportunities slip away. After all, we will all eventually become someone else’s “longtime ago people,” and our stories deserve to be remembered too.