Last of the Clan & The Pen Pal Blunder
Expect the Unexpected
My family heritage is Scottish. I have so much Scottish blood pulsating through my veins that I’ve heard the bagpipes calling me home ever since I was a child. Considering my fascination with our family roots, no one was surprised when I decided to visit Scotland in the summer of 1972.
Although it was a feat of almost unsurmountable odds in the snail-paced, pre-computer world of 50 years ago, I managed to locate and contact the ONLY living relative I had left in Scotland from my grandmother’s side of the family. Jean Cuthbert, my first cousin twice removed, lived in Glasgow, and we arranged to meet there on Friday, August 18, 1972.
Our train from Carlisle, England, pulled into Glasgow’s Central Railway Station right on schedule. The first item on our agenda was to find the International Youth Hostel and secure our accommodation for the night.
We followed the signs to the Information Kiosk located in the central area of the station. A man in his early fifties sat behind the counter, wearing an employee identification badge: Paul - 20 Years Service. We asked Paul for a Glasgow City Map and directions to the International Youth Hostel. He reached under the counter and retrieved a colorful city map that he placed on the countertop in front of us. Using a red ink pen, he marked an “X” on the location of Central Railway Station. We leaned closer to get a good look at the map.
As Paul advised us how to get to the Youth Hostel, he also highlighted the route with his red pen. His long grey-white beard bobbed up and down as he spoke with a rapid clip and a heavy accent.
“Haud ower tae the Union Exit an’ hing a left oan Gordon. Keep gaun straight till ye hit Buchanan an’hing a right. Keep guan till ye reach Bath an’walk up tae Sauchierhall. Hing a right and keep gaun… Hope that helps ye get tae where ye’re gaun."
He flashed a friendly smile, handed us the map, and added, “If ye need ony mair help, jist gie us a shout.” Paul pointed in the direction of the Union Street Exit and sent us on our way, “Welcom tae Glesga!"
We stood outside Central Railway Station, staring at the red highlights on the map, still trying to make sense of what we just heard.
Lorraine broke the silence, “What language was he speaking? It sounded a bit like English, but not really.”
I had been pondering the same question. “I do not know.”
Paul spoke Glaswegian, a distinct language unique to Glasgow. Glaswegian is rooted in the 18th century when it was first used by Glasgow’s working-class population. The dialect evolved over the centuries from a combination of Scots, Old English, Irish Gaelic, slang, and informal speech patterns. By the 19th century, when Glasgow became a major industrial center, Glaswegian replaced Scots as the primary language spoken in the area, and the middle class also embraced it.
Fortunately, we could read the map and follow Paul’s red-highlighted directions. After a short 20-minute walk, we arrived at the Youth Hostel, located on Park Terrace, a swanky, upscale area overlooking Kelvingrove Park. Who would expect to find a Youth Hostel surrounded by the city’s prime real estate? Weren’t we living the good life, considering we were roaming around with barely two nickels to rub together? After checking in to the hostel, I called Jean. We arranged to meet at the Youth Hostel the following morning.
Lorraine and I were sitting on the steps outside the hostel when Jean arrived. We were caught a bit off guard by Jean, as she was distant and as prickly as a porcupine. It didn’t occur to us that in 1972, backpacks and traveling on a shoestring budget were still reminiscent of the hippies of the ‘60s. In retrospect, I doubt we looked like two young ladies that 76-year-old Jean wanted to spend time with. Her expression appeared to say, “Oh my, what should I do with them?”
Despite her obvious hesitation, Jean gave it her best shot, one for the team! After all, I was FAMILY - even if I carried a backpack. She invited us to her house, and we caught a train to the northwestern suburb of Garscadden. By the time we arrived at her home on Caldwell Avenue, she was softening to us and realized we weren’t a couple of hippie stoners. She decided to roll out the red carpet and make us “steak pie” for lunch because it was her specialty. We helped her in the kitchen as she shared stories of old about our family heritage.
Jean and my grandmother, Agnes Park, were cousins, and they grew up together in Govanhill, an area south of Central Glasgow, across the River Clyde. When my grandmother was 12 years old, her family moved to Canada, and Jean’s contact with them after that was minimal.
The Park family, consisting of my great-grandparents and six of their children (including my grandmother), lived in a two-room flat in a tenement house on Govanhill Street from 1901 to 1911.
Note: The two-room flat where my great-grandparents lived until 1911 has since been “combined” with the next-door flat. The property was sold in June 2024 for £92,777 ($ 120,610 USD)
Two-room flats in tenements were called a “room and kitchen,” and they were between 300 and 500 square feet. The kitchen had a coal-burning iron stove, called a range cooker, used for heating the flat, cooking, boiling water, and drying damp clothing in the winter months.
Eight people? Two rooms - if one was the kitchen, and the other was the parlor. What about…
Ah yes, on Govanhill Street in 1901, you needed get
along exceptionally well with your neighbors because
YOUR ENTIRE LIFE WAS LIVED UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL
with them!Each tenement building was four stories high, with three flats per floor, and each floor shared one toilet, a wash area, and a tub for bathing. A large common courtyard area behind the tenements was used for hanging laundry, socializing, and group events.
Bathing was an adventure to be reckoned with! Hot water was poured into the tub, and the youngest person in the family was the first to get scrubbed up. Next, the second youngest family member reused the same water to do their deal. So the process continued, reusing the water until each family member was squeaky clean… well, at least the youngest person passed the clean test.
Close living quarters, poor sanitation, and shared toilet facilities invited other problems…
It wasn’t a matter of IF - it was a matter of WHEN the fleas, lice, and bedbugs would invade every flat in a tenement house. The pests spread diseases of all sorts through the densely populated living quarters. What happened in one flat was guaranteed to happen in the next flat. They were equal-opportunity tormentors.
Each floor had a communal toilet, called a cludgie, on the stairway landing. With no running water in the buildings, cludgies were “dry closets” (indoor outhouses). Squares of newspaper tacked to the inside of the door served as toilet paper. Pails of water were poured down the cludgies to “flush” the contents, and lime was dropped down the pit to keep the aroma from getting too overbearing. Needless to say, hygiene and sanitation could become deplorable at times.
So far, nothing about my family’s living conditions in
Govanhill, Scotland, c. 1901 appealed to me. Jean had finished preparing her specialty meat pies, and she placed them in the oven to bake. She poured us each a cup of hot tea and continued with her historical account of our family background.
“Your great-grandfather was an iron worker, a blacksmith, and he worked for Govan Iron Works, although everyone called it Dixon Blazes, or Dixon Iron Works. Dixon employed almost all the men in Govanhill at the turn of the century, and the town was booming.” Jean was enjoying reminiscing about that era. “Many workers came from the Highlands, Ireland, and Italy to work for Dixon. Your grandmother and I often waited at the end of Govanhill Street for our Da’s to get off work so we could walk home with them.”
“In the evenings, Agnes and I often sat on our front steps and watched the entire sky light up from the furnaces burning over at Dixon’s. That’s why it was called Dixon Blazes. When all five furnaces were fired up, it was a sight to see!”
“I can still hear your great-grandmother calling us in to go to bed because we had school the next morning.” She’d always say, "Lassies, it's time tae hit the hay. Ye're awa' tae school on the morrow." Jean smiled and chuckled as she quoted my great-grandmother speaking Glaswegian.
“In those days, we all attended Calder Street School. Annie and I were in the same class, and Agnes was a year younger. The three of us were inseparable.”
Jean put her teacup down, “Oh, but that was so long ago. Times changed, and by 1910, work was becoming scarce at Dixon. People were falling on hard times. Your great-grandfather, Jackson, decided to move to Canada and find work there. He was gone for almost a year before the rest of the family left to join him in 1911. I missed them, especially Agnes and Annie - they were like sisters to me.”
As we ate lunch, Jean told me about several other family members who had moved to the United States. I didn’t know exactly how they were related, but she assured me they were kin.
It was worth a try. When I was younger, I had a Scottish pen pal. I decided to run her address by Jean to see if, perchance, she knew where my friend lived.
“Of course, dear, that address is less than a twenty-minute walk from here. I can take you there right after lunch if you want.”
Greater Glasgow had a population of 1.2 million in 1972. What were the odds that my elderly first cousin, twice removed, would live 1.5 miles (2.4 km) from my childhood pen pal? Right after lunch, we took a leisurely walk across an open parkland, now Knightswood Golf Course, and crossed the Clyde Canal on a footbridge to the town of Drumchapel. Jean pointed the way from there, and five minutes later, Lorraine and I stood knocking on Helen’s door.
I had to explain three times who I was. On second thought, perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to visit Helen. Not everyone has the “autobiographical memory” that I do.
I THINK Helen remembered me. Maybe.
Lorraine and I sat on a sofa across from Helen. She looked at me, and I looked at her.
AWKWARD!!
What did I think I was going to say to this Scottish lass? “Hey, we exchanged letters when I was ten years old, and I just happened to be in your neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by and say hello!” That was true, but then what? She didn’t look thrilled to have me sitting in her living room looking at her looking at me.
I THINK Helen remembered me. Maybe.
Whether it was nerves or the opportunity to divert our attention, Lorraine and I blew it! We made the mistake of accepting her mother’s offer for a cup of tea.
Oh no! Why did we do that? Now we’ll be sitting here for ANOTHER half-hour looking like a couple of nut clowns!
Our small talk got smaller and smaller. Long silences prevailed. These days, I would handle it differently, but back then, I was too young and inexperienced to salvage such an uncomfortable situation. I was in a pickle.
Lorraine and I gulped down our tea, claiming we had to get back to Jean’s right away. Helen jumped up and opened the door for us before we even placed our teacups back in their saucers. She couldn’t usher us out fast enough.
“Well, thank you for coming by. It was nice to meet you,” Helen said as she closed the door behind us. No doubt we were ALL happy for that predicament to end.
We retraced our steps back to Jean’s house and visited her for a while. Her heart had warmed to us throughout the day, and she invited us to stay with her for a few days. However, Loch Lomond was calling our names. Jean walked us back to the Garscadden Rail Station. We hugged each other farewell, and Lorraine and I boarded the northbound train moments before it pulled away from the platform. I noticed Jean had tears in her eyes as she waved goodbye to us.
I wrote Jean a few times when I returned to Canada, but I never received a response from her.
Jean Cuthbert died on November 6, 1972, less than three months after we visited her. It was my pleasure to meet Jean, my first cousin, twice removed - my last relative in Scotland from my grandmother’s side of the family.
Scotland is next on my list - although, not as a backpacking hippie. Thanks for the adventure story.
What a sweet post, Lois! How wonderful to connect w/ your only living relative left in Scotland, and obviously your timing was just in the nick. I've never connected w. any of my EU relatives though my mother used to keep in touch and send care packages after the war. Times were tough over there. But after my mom died, I no longer had addresses and neither did my cousins. When I did a genealogy search for my family, I discovered two cousins had moved to Canada, but did not find addresses. It's really great that you were able to see someone from your family from 'the old country.' Nice post.