Andy Crowe
New Member
Here's a true story, a tragedy with echoes of Dickens and Hardy.
Winifred was born in January 1895. In September 1921 she married Charles Henry. Charles had joined the Royal Marines in 1914 as a 17-year-old and had served on the HMS Abercrombie in the Dardanelles. He must have seen some terrible sights.
In 1925 Winifred and Charles emigrated to the United States with her father Arthur Mitchell (1870-1945), her two brothers (also) Arthur (1902-1992) and Frank (1913-2006) and sisters Olive (1910-1990) and Beatrice (Beatty), 1893 -1984). They sailed to Ellis Island on the Empress of Britain, arriving on March 10th.
All of her siblings and parents settled in and around Flint, Michigan, at that time the thriving heart of the American car industry. But Winifred and Charles suffered the still birth of a son in xxxxx and made the decision to return to their home in Aston, Birmingham.
Life seemed to improve with the birth of their son Charles in 1929, but in 1934* tragedy struck again when Charles senior, by then a Birmingham Corporation bus driver, killed a young cyclist while driving his bus. He was absolved of responsibility but had to live with the sight of that cyclist dying under his wheels. We will never know for certain why, but in 1937 he emigrated once again to the United States on the RMS Aquitania, leaving Winifred and six-year-old Charles behind.
Was the intention or hope that they would follow him? Or did he abandon them for her relatives in Flint. Nobody knows, but just two years later, on October 17th , 1939, Charles Henry died of appendicitis in hospital in Flint. He is now buried in Mount Morris Memorial Park, along with Frank, Olive and Beatty. Winifred was left to bring up Charles alone, in Aston as the war broke out. They were bombed out not once, but twice.
Despite this, Winifred made a new life for the two of them. She never remarried, but ran a sweet shop in Allesley Street, Aston, which became a social hub for both children and their mothers. Charles grew up and, in what must have had ominous echoes, decided that he too must emigrate, taking his wife and two young children, Andrew (4) and Julia (2) to the United States and Flint again. I wonder how she felt, aged 68 and saying goodbye to her only grandchildren, maybe never to see them again.
Fortunately, she did, because Charles had no wish to work on a General Motors production line and could not find well paid clerical work, while Doris could not settle in Flint. It had not started well, leaving Southampton in November 1963 on the day the President Kennedy was assassinated, over a stormy Atlantic to the coldest American winter on record. Even then it was not safe to walk the streets, as English people enjoy doing. The car was already king. Given the shutdown of General Motors and descent of Flint into one of the poorest and most criminal of cities in the United States, it was a good decision to return.
Did Winifred's story have a happy ending? Sadly, no. In 1968 she was rehoused and the sweet shop demolished to make way for Spaghetti Junction. In those grey days, the concept of consultation did not exist. She was obliged to move to the Fourth floor of Weston House, a tower block on a bleak new housing estate in Newtown. Winifred went from a shop counter on a busy street to a solid front door served by a lift. She died, arguably of a broken heart six months later.
Why do I record all of this? Because Winifred' married name was Crowe; she was my grandmother. I have discovered most of this since my father died. He never had a good thing to say about Charles Henry Crowe, possibly because they were abandoned by him. He said nothing about his father being a Royal Marine.
As a postscript, I spent most of my school years in Aston. In 1985 I had a short secondment to the Newtown Housing Office. And in December 2009 I was employed as a housing consultant to review the work that Birmingham and Sandwell were doing to regenerate the very 1960s estates that were being demolished because they were so badly designed. Coming from my home in Hampshire, I gave a wry smile when I was asked what I could possibly know about Newtown. And made sure that consultation was at the heart of their plans.
*Birmingham Gazette, 15th Dec 1934
Winifred was born in January 1895. In September 1921 she married Charles Henry. Charles had joined the Royal Marines in 1914 as a 17-year-old and had served on the HMS Abercrombie in the Dardanelles. He must have seen some terrible sights.
In 1925 Winifred and Charles emigrated to the United States with her father Arthur Mitchell (1870-1945), her two brothers (also) Arthur (1902-1992) and Frank (1913-2006) and sisters Olive (1910-1990) and Beatrice (Beatty), 1893 -1984). They sailed to Ellis Island on the Empress of Britain, arriving on March 10th.
All of her siblings and parents settled in and around Flint, Michigan, at that time the thriving heart of the American car industry. But Winifred and Charles suffered the still birth of a son in xxxxx and made the decision to return to their home in Aston, Birmingham.
Life seemed to improve with the birth of their son Charles in 1929, but in 1934* tragedy struck again when Charles senior, by then a Birmingham Corporation bus driver, killed a young cyclist while driving his bus. He was absolved of responsibility but had to live with the sight of that cyclist dying under his wheels. We will never know for certain why, but in 1937 he emigrated once again to the United States on the RMS Aquitania, leaving Winifred and six-year-old Charles behind.
Was the intention or hope that they would follow him? Or did he abandon them for her relatives in Flint. Nobody knows, but just two years later, on October 17th , 1939, Charles Henry died of appendicitis in hospital in Flint. He is now buried in Mount Morris Memorial Park, along with Frank, Olive and Beatty. Winifred was left to bring up Charles alone, in Aston as the war broke out. They were bombed out not once, but twice.
Despite this, Winifred made a new life for the two of them. She never remarried, but ran a sweet shop in Allesley Street, Aston, which became a social hub for both children and their mothers. Charles grew up and, in what must have had ominous echoes, decided that he too must emigrate, taking his wife and two young children, Andrew (4) and Julia (2) to the United States and Flint again. I wonder how she felt, aged 68 and saying goodbye to her only grandchildren, maybe never to see them again.
Fortunately, she did, because Charles had no wish to work on a General Motors production line and could not find well paid clerical work, while Doris could not settle in Flint. It had not started well, leaving Southampton in November 1963 on the day the President Kennedy was assassinated, over a stormy Atlantic to the coldest American winter on record. Even then it was not safe to walk the streets, as English people enjoy doing. The car was already king. Given the shutdown of General Motors and descent of Flint into one of the poorest and most criminal of cities in the United States, it was a good decision to return.
Did Winifred's story have a happy ending? Sadly, no. In 1968 she was rehoused and the sweet shop demolished to make way for Spaghetti Junction. In those grey days, the concept of consultation did not exist. She was obliged to move to the Fourth floor of Weston House, a tower block on a bleak new housing estate in Newtown. Winifred went from a shop counter on a busy street to a solid front door served by a lift. She died, arguably of a broken heart six months later.
Why do I record all of this? Because Winifred' married name was Crowe; she was my grandmother. I have discovered most of this since my father died. He never had a good thing to say about Charles Henry Crowe, possibly because they were abandoned by him. He said nothing about his father being a Royal Marine.
As a postscript, I spent most of my school years in Aston. In 1985 I had a short secondment to the Newtown Housing Office. And in December 2009 I was employed as a housing consultant to review the work that Birmingham and Sandwell were doing to regenerate the very 1960s estates that were being demolished because they were so badly designed. Coming from my home in Hampshire, I gave a wry smile when I was asked what I could possibly know about Newtown. And made sure that consultation was at the heart of their plans.
*Birmingham Gazette, 15th Dec 1934
