July 2023:   This is the story of why I am not an American. More precisely, as there is no obvious reason why I should be American, why I think I might have been. It goes back well over 125 years, and much of it, especially in those early years, consists of a few dates and a lot of conjecture. There are no living witnesses to these past events. The story starts with my paternal grandmother. Elizabeth Mary Grimes, forever known as Polly, was born in Nottinghamshire in 1886, to John and Elizabeth (nee Devall). Her father came from Ballyglass, Crossboyne, Co Mayo in Ireland, and her mother from Stafford in England: at some time circumstances had brought them to Nottinghamshire where in 1882 they had a son named John Thomas, and four years later in 1886 their second and last child, my grandmother. At some later date when my grandmother was still young the family moved to Belgrave, off the Melton Road to the north of the city of Leicester. My grandmother's family, and the area where they lived, would be considered working class, if that phrase were ever used, but to us it would seem like abject poverty. The terraced houses, probably rented, would have had no hot water or bathroom, and a rudimentary outside toilet, some of which would be shared between a nubmer of houses. Water may have come from a well in the back yard, and lighting from coal gas mantles fed by lead alloy pipes. Much of the employment in Leicester was in the boot and shoe or hosiery industries, and was possibly the reason why the family moved first to Nottingham and then to Leicester. My grandmother's life before marriage is unknown except for a few dates. She probably left school at around 12 years old, and was likely to have been employed in some menial work, maybe in one of the sweat-shop factories that made Leicester prosperous at that time. Under what circumstances she met Edwin Jackson isn't known: one can assume that the rituals of courtship were followed in some form, and eventually Polly and Edwin were married. Very little is known of Edwin, except his birthplace of Leicester and his birth date of 1885: his father, born in 1854, was also named Edwin. We don't know if Polly's Edwin was kind, gentle, and caring, or mean, drunken or a spendthrift. We know that in 1908 a son was born, William, my uncle Bill. What follows is what we, my older brother and younger sister and myself, were told as children. Whether there is any truth in the story is so far impossible to tell. It's the only story we have. At some time between 1907 and 1910 Edwin, presumably with the agreement of Polly, decided to sail to America and, as an immigrant, to take up a job there and establish himself. Later he would send for Polly and the child, and in this new, exciting and burgeoning world they would live a life of opportunity and prosperity. Whether the date Edwin sailed was before or after the birth of Bill isn't known. Edwin would have been between 22 and 25 years old at this time. The ship set sail and at some point in the crossing of the Atlantic Ocean there was a fire on board. Although the ship did not sink the fire must have been considerable. We do not know what part Edwin played in this incident, was he a hero or a poor victim, but he perished, leaving Polly an impoverished widow. I have not been able to find any incidence of a fire aboard a trans-Atlantic ship at the time, nor find any notification of Edwin's death. Were Edwin's remains returned to the UK? Was he buried at sea, in the USA, or in the UK? Of course there may be other explanations for the demise, or at least he disappearance, of Edwin. Were we told the fable of the ship fire to cover a sinister, more shameful, secret? Maybe Edwin could not face, for whatever reason, supporting his wife and child and simply abandoned them to their fate. I would imagine it would be far more difficult to trace someone who didn't want to be found a hundred years ago. Or perhaps there was a darker shame brought upon the family, and Edwin suffered a more cruel fate, either at the hands of those who were outraged or by the authorities. It is hardly likely that Polly would be independent at that time, especially with an infant. Maybe she returned to her parents', or one of her relatives. But she survived, and some time later met Willie Callaghan. Evidentally things progressed, and Willie and Polly were married on January 28 1911. Willie, born in Leicester in 1887, was described as a Boot Tacker, and Polly as a Cotton Polisher. It seems that things had been progressing quite rapidly, as my father, Lawrence, was born in August 1911, a mere six and a half months after the marriage. He was their only child, the half-brother to Bill. On the marriage certificate Polly is described as a widow, would this have had to be proved at the marriage by the production of a death certificate? My grandparents enjoyed some comfort later in life as living standards improved, and were loving and generous towards their grandchildren. Polly died in 1962, and Willie, despite being gassed in the first World War, lived on to 1976. Both my parents, and Uncle Bill and his wife, are no longer with us. So that is why I am not American. Whether I would have been if Edwin had survived is another matter. Certainly the paths of the Jacksons and the Callaghans would have been monumentally diverged. Whether I would be here at all is, well, a moment of conjecture.     If you have any comments about anything then please mail   © Webmaster. All rights reserved.