Starting out on my trip from Colorado Springs to England things were completely normal at the Denver Airport…as soon as I approached the exclusive “Premier” check in counter I noticed that there was only one other customer, three, what appeared to be agents, behind the counter chatting with each other, completely ignoring both of us (their valued customers). The cattle car line was long and was flowing smoothly. I tried the first kiosk, which didn’t respond, the second, which demanded that I scan my picture of my, years younger, face from my passport. I eventually felt triumphant once I figured out where the scanner was…and what pieces of the kiosk were not scanners (several scanner look-alikes…the credit card reader and the ticket dispenser). After several try’s at scanning the passport I finally asked the very important looking agent in waiting for help. Of course she said she couldn’t (wouldn’t) help…I should join the 10 people in line at the First Class line. Those folks, of course, didn’t see the humor in that…someone of a lesser class joining their ranks and expecting a level of help that is reserved for them. Eventually, after several gate changes and the normal lack of information, I was herded onto the plane and found my way to my seat that would be my home and refuge for the next many hours. I try hard to find the positive in the experience and am rewarded once my seatmate sits down and we begin to get acquainted. A much smaller, darker (tanned) man of about forty-five with a strong British accent. Says he’s from the States, going on vacation (hmm, that’s different, the Brits usually say “on Holiday”). So after some further interrogation, seems his “vacation” is travelling from London to Southampton to pick up his new 68’ sailboat and sailing away to Brazil via Maderia. Should only take about four months. What do you come up with to seem interesting compared to that? I am dumbstruck and cannot even respond. Of course the 300 lb Texan with the family in the next row back rescues me with his story (…in three part harmony) of the Lockerbie airplane bombing, to his fascinated children, and most of the rest of the United 777 as well.
So I finally arrive in the UK, and find my way to the Piccadilly Purple line (aka the Tube, the Brits have such a way with innuendo). And as the sexy computer voice keeps reminding us at each stop, this is the Piccadilly Line to Cockfosters…no one even smiled. What’s wrong with me?
Okay, so this trip is all about genealogy research…and I must put a plug in here for my interest in “The Secret” and the writings of James Redfield, “The Celestine Prophecy” and others (about recognizing coincidences). Walking along the street just down from the Cartwright Gardens hotel I looked up into a bookstore window and the book titled “The Oxford Companion to Family and Local History” (British Genealogy) stood out, seemed to glow a brighter color (colour, now that I’m in Britain) specifying that British Genealogy is all about local resources. While talking with the young clerk, who proved to be clueless about research of any colour, an older, shorter, white haired woman began telling me (she actually followed me out the door and down the street…a true family history devotee!) that all family history in Britain is to be found locally, not in the American Federal manner…I should not focus on large London repositories of country-wide resources as we would find in the US National Archives, but rather should research in the local counties such as Yorkshire. This is a basic fact about family history research in the UK…go to the local county offices, don’t expect to find much in London if your ancestors came from York.
I then walked up the street to the British Library…it was now 8 pm and it was closed to all except for “Readers” (meaning serious, card holding researchers). The two guards holding down the fort at the front door, one a Wilford Brimley look-alike, the other a kindly old Black Gentleman (such clichés…but you get the idea) told me how it works. Wilford then recommended the Euston Pub across the street since, as I wasn’t a “Reader”, I couldn’t get in the Library. I made my way across the busy street, always an experience when you’re extremely tired and recently arrived from a normal place where they drive on the right side (literally) side of the street, therefore much more predictable when you’re stepping off the curb. I sat enjoying a beer and fish and chips while reading the book…which again said exactly what the woman said. All genealogy in Britain is local.
There is no coincidence…just clues you need to be aware of. Pay attention
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