The Old Man in the Fireplace and the Knife with a Name Catherine Johnson

History is so often something that doesn't touch our own lives now. It's long frocks, long hair and long names. It's castles and big houses, it might be  battles or knights in armour. Even if it concerns the stories of ordinary people it's sometimes hard to feel part of that past. I've always fancied coming from stock that lived the sort of lives that leave art or furniture or tangible stuff. Stuff that links you directly to long ago.

At home we didn't have any really old things, family heirlooms of any kind. Except for this one thing. A rush light holder. I used to play with it, it would feature in games alongside my stuffed animals as a kind of little old man. This little rush light holder isn't the one I know. It's exactly the same though, knocked up by some village smith, three legs, the flat pincers to hold the rush.

The actual light was made from the centre of those rushes, the ones that grow on moors or boggy ground with a little fuzz of brown near the top.  I looked it up and apparently it's called the soft rush. I'd never heard it's name before. If you cut or split them you'll notice the inside is white and spongy, like polystyrene. People would cut the rushes , leave them to dry out a little then remove the skin and dip it into mutton or pig fat. Instant candle. I can remember my grandmother showing me how it was done. She had a special knife, it had a name. Sometimes I can't imagine that this is true. That my Mum lived in a house with no running water let alone electricity. On Wikipedia it states, this candles were still in use in parts of Wales into the middle of the twentieth century so it must be true.

The only other truly 'old things' I have from my family are these. When my Grandmother died we found a collection of them, a tin tea caddy stuffed with them. This photo shows a small selection. They are a selection of cards, dating from the late nineteenth century up until about the 1940s. My Nain collected them. The Welsh, like the Irish love a good funeral, only without the drink and dancing. These are funeral cards, not order of service ones like you get today. Almost invitation cards, some in English and Welsh, some monolingual. They look like this. As big as a matchbox, they offer tiny glimpses into hard lives lived in difficult times.

These little cards have helped me out with a story more than once. And I get the same feeling looking at them as I do walking round  the Tower of London. It's an instant and vibrant connection that makes me feel part of something bigger.

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