I
have been reading the Maybole website with a
great deal of interest. My family actually hails from
Maybole. My father's name was James Colquhoun, one of five
children, four boys and one girl, born to William and Maggie (Douns)
Colquhoun. The names of the children were, Joe, William, James, Harry, and
Elizabeth. The family lived at 2 Drummellan Street.
My
grandfather, William, was a shoemaker (as was his father before him) in
Maybole--at the Saxon Shoe Factory, I believe. In earlier days, weaving
was the traditional occupation of the family.
My
great-grandmother was residing in Maybole when I visited her in the
company of my father and my brother Joe--the name traditionally given to
the firstborn male in the family, although, not in our case. For some
reason or other, my parents did not choose to follow this tradition,
choosing instead to name their firstborn son William in honour of my
paternal grandfather. My great-grandmother, was
a Boag. She lived 'til she was 102, I believe. She was still very vital
when I, as a boy, visited her in her 100th year. She was still able to
cook and entertain visitors to her home. In fact, during my visit, she
took me to the local cinema (walking there and back). She had the
interesting habit, customary in those days, I believe, of enjoying an
after-dinner pipe. I was quite amazed to see her, seated at the fireside,
puffing away on her clay pipe. (My grandfather favoured the clay pipe
also.)
I
can remember being very struck and quite amazed with my
great-grandmother's facial appearance. I had never seen such an old, old
person in my life--and, quite frankly, have never met another person of
her age since. She wore her hundred years on her face, The lines of age,
running in all directions, were deeply etched into her features. Yet, for
all that, as I say, she was still very robust in body and walked about
with little or no difficulty.
Local history writers have commented on the fact that some people in
Maybole have lived very long lives and wonder whether it is the climate or
the local water that bestows this magical property. Perhaps, if one thinks
about it, in my great-grandmother's case, it was that after-dinner smoke
from the old clay pipe that provided the rejuvenating force. (I'm joking,
of course.) I've noticed that recent scientific opinion is suggesting that
the key to age lies in the genes, and suggests that the length of the
telomeres within the cell structure determines how often a cell will
divide, and this, in turn determines age. Mind, you it could still be the
therapeutic value of that after-dinner pipe. Although, to be on the safe
side, if one is looking to have children who will live long they should
play the percentages and look to marrying someone from Maybole--or maybe
with the name Colquhoun, for the Colquhouns tend to be long livers.
My
father loved to listen to brass band music. It was his weekly habit to
tune into BBC every Saturday afternoon at one-o'clock when the brass band
music was aired. I had often wondered why he had a special love for this
music. The website has answered this question for me:
Maybole and brass bands belong together.
The brass band, it appears, was a vital part of the culture in which my
father grew up and he carried that sound of brass with him throughout his
life. We seldom realise, don't we, how much the culture of our childhood
moulds and shapes our lives? Yet it is to
Maybole's credit that it has always seemed to realise just how valuable
an influence music has on a person's life.
It
is quite amazing, is it not, this web of life in which we are enfolded,
with the combined influences of one’s ancestry and early culture
apparently playing a vital part in who we are and what we become? I find
it quite interesting, for example, that both my children chose to enlist
to play in their high school band, and, more interestingly yet, were
encouraged by their music teacher to choose the tuba as their preferred
instrument. When my wife asked why they should select this choice of
instrument, the instructor said that both children had an excellent sense
of pitch. Yet, sad to say, in my case, this inheritance factor must have
skipped a generation for my own musical endowments are anything but
bountiful. I am very reliant on music when playing the piano.
I
believe that my father’s habit of whistling is related to the things I
have mentioned above, for I can only imagine that when whistling he was
whistling to those vibrant and happy tunes he had heard as a boy as the
band made its way along the town thoroughfare. I asked my mother one time
how she and my father had met. "Oh," she said, "I heard a man whistling a
lovely tune from over the wall, and when I looked, there was your dad." It
seems that the Maybole band had a much wider and more salutary influence
than it ever imagined!
My father was not a particularly religious man—at
least not outwardly, although I suspect that God was not far from his
thoughts on many days. This, I think, is evident in the fact that he
showed an increased interest in religious matters as he grew older, even
accompanying my mother to church on occasion.
In this respect, I don’t think he was unlike his
own father, William Colquhoun, who was not an outwardly religious man
either yet obviously maintained a personal, yet basically private, faith
in God. The hidden influence of God in his life is I think given strong
expression in an incident that followed the tragic death of his
granddaughter (my cousin, May Thompson) a week or so before she was due to
be married.
May’s tragic death deeply grieved Aunt Liz (May’s
mother). She was emotionally overwhelmed; quite inconsolable in her loss.
My grandfather who stayed with Aunt Liz, suffering no doubt from the loss
of his granddaughter, was grieved to see his daughter in such deep
distress. (May had always been a bright and cheery girl and scattered
sunshine around the house. She had a contagious laugh that lifted the
spirits of those around her.)
The two (Grandfather and Aunt Liz) were sitting
opposite each other at the fireside, deeply preoccupied with their own
thoughts. (I should say that my grandfather, due to weakness in his legs,
had to be assisted when moving around the house. He had on one occasion,
slightly burned his hand in the fire when he had fallen while attempting
to walk on his own.) Feeling the need to reach out to his daughter, with
the help of God and in the strength of his own faith, he rose from his
chair and made his way on unsteady legs over to Aunt Liz. With arm around
her and pointing upward, he said: “He will take care of you.”
My aunt told me that while in bed that night she
was conscious of a deep peace descending on her, almost as though a hand
were being placed on her head. The peace of God filled her heart and she
felt the consolation of God’s comforting presence. She knew God was aware
and felt her pain and was very conscious of the sense of loss she was
feeling. She felt the hand of God’s compassionate love and care reaching
out to her.
So it is that faith in God that often lies hidden
within us finds its expression in times of crisis in our lives, and also,
no doubt, in unconscious ways as we go about the business of living our
lives. The incident also, I believe, has much to say about the religious
climate in which my father was raised and which, I believe, he absorbed
into his own life.
But this incident also, I believe, speaks to me
about the religious climate of the Maybole community in which faith in God
was cultivated and nourished. It is also the evidence of the importance of
community values—religious values in particular—on the lives of the young
of the community. “No man lives unto himself,” the Scripture says. We, as
town fathers and mothers, do well to remember the influence our own lives
and the town environment have upon the young.
I write this, sadly knowing that the religious
climate is changing in many communities and that there is now a vacuum of
religious sentiment in many towns where religious faith once burned
brightly and made its very beneficial and helpful influence felt. I was in
the hospital admissions office the other day and was asked as to my
religious preference. When I responded, “Presbyterian,” the admissions
clerk told me she was glad to get my response. When I asked her why she
was happy to have gotten such a ready response to her question she said
that so many to whom she asked the question had no idea what she was
asking. Matters of religion, apparently, have become foreign to so many
people, let alone a personal faith in God. I read some time ago that
missionaries from Africa (aware of the vacuum of Christian faith on this
continent) were coming to North America in an effort to spread the
Christian Gospel. One wonders if a stop over in Britain would not be in
order? (What, one wonders, would David Livingstone think about that?)
I
wasn't at my father's bedside when he died, but my brother informed me
that he talked only of Maybole during his final days, dwelling at length
on his early days as a child growing up in the Maybole community. There
were other things he could have dwelt upon--golf among them, given his
life-long love of the game, and my brother would have provided a ready
listener--but all of that was left aside, and he spoke only of his
childhood memories. He spoke of that which was important to him; of those
early influences that had profoundly affected his life.
(I notice from the website that quite a few
Colquhouns have served as members on town
bands.)
All of the family members moved away from Maybole: Joe to Canada (where I
presently reside), William and Harry to Saltcoats, James to Irvine, where
he met and married my mother, Jean Bilby. Elizabeth, upon marrying, moved
to Law Junction, Lanarkshire.
I
had the interesting experience of meeting another Colquhoun family while
serving as minister of the St. Andrews United Church in Blind River,
Ontario, Canada. In correspondence with the mother, I discovered that she,
too, came from a family of Maybole Colquhouns, identical in size and sex
to my father's family and sharing the same Christian family names. I took
it that the two families must have been related in some way. (Since both
my parents had died, I was unable to pursue the connection.) Perhaps some
of your readers (who are old enough) might be able to explain the
connection. I should mention, in this connection, that my father did have
a cousin, John Colquhoun, living in Irvine who was married to Mary
McGiffin (my mother’s half-sister.) He, too, I
believe, was a Maybole Colquhoun. The names of the children were: James,
John, Robert, Betty, and Jean. The grandfather, who lived with them, was
called Robert Colquhoun.
With thanks,
Rev. Harry B. Colquhoun.
Bashaw, Alberta, Canada |