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“Her legs

were completely

exposed from

her …well,

you know…

right here.“

About ‘Tea with Sir Ernest’

Genealogy can be a dreadfully boring business — for the most part, it seems, I am a purveyor of facts and numbers, a genealogical accountant who never sees a paycheque. What’s the point, really, if all one is doing is dropping mundane descriptors into little boxes. “Male. Born 1 Apr, 1745. Occupation: widget puller. Died 1783, Cause: Arms ripped off.”

It tell one nothing. What did he pull? How were his arms ripped off? Was this the first time? What did his wife say when he got home? So there I am in front of the computer slotting the facts into the family tree profile for Sir Ernest Shackleton, thinking “God, wouldn’t it be great to actually meet the chap, spend an hour listening to his stories…. Well… why not?”

Image below: ‘Painting for Antarctica’  by Wendy Sharpe. In a bid to get help for his crew stranded on Elephant Island, Shackleton and two men cross 1800 km of  Southern Ocean in a jury-rigged lifeboat. They land on South Georgia Island but must traverse mountains very similar to those in this painting. On the north side of South Georgia they reach the objective: a whaling station. All twenty-two men returned home to England.  

If you were granted an hour with the ancestor of your choice, who would you choose? For me, it would be a tough call, but Ernest would be right up there in the top three. I’m speaking of Sir Ernest Shackleton, Antarctic explorer of the early 1900s. He was a legendary figure, famous for his courage and leadership in rescuing his crew from shipwreck and certain death. Yes, I am proud to say that Ernie and I are close relatives. He is my grand nephew of the husband of my 2nd cousin four times removed. He often speaks of me (I’m certain). I’m expecting a letter from him any day. Still lost in the post, I suppose. No matter. I arranged to meet him in the flesh in the reading room of the Royal Geographic Society, London at twelve noon sharp, August 4, 2013. Sir Ernest is a stickler for punctuality. I get there early. The reading room’s grandfather clock chimes out the hour. I’ve got goose bumps….ah, here he is now…. “Sir Ernest. Peter Bruce, your grand uncle and so on. What a great honour this is. Thank you for seeing me.” “Well, quite honestly, I had nothing better to do. This ‘being dead’ business gets frightfully boring, I’m afraid.” “I see. Remind me, then, not to rush into it.” “Shall I arrange for tea, Mr. Bruce?” “Please, call me Peter. And yes, thank you. Just black.” “Right. Back in a moment.” Fifty-five minutes pass before Sir Ernest returns empty-handed. “I’m awfully sorry for the wait, old chap. I’ve had a dreadful time. When I reached what used to be the dining hall, it was gone. Sealed up as though it had never existed. I enquired with the maitre d’ as to its new location and was informed there was no dining hall, that it had been leased to the Salvation Army as a meal station for the homeless. Cost-cutting measure, he said. Tea could be obtained at the…what did he call them?…dispensing machines in the basement. Dispensing machines? What the devil are those?” “Its a different world, Sir Ernest.” “At any rate, as is my nature, I soldiered on and started to make my way to the basement. On the way I inquired with a young lady as to the location of these machines and she offered to take me to them. “Very kind.” “Yes, but I wish she hadn’t. Because it was then that I noticed a most extraordinary thing. Her legs were completely exposed from her …well, you know…right here. I was, to put it mildly, non-plussed. There she was, in full view of anybody who cared to look her way, half naked! Just a bit of cloth about her middle, the rest, well, exposed flesh as it were.” “Sir Ernest. That’s how women dress these days.” I don’t think he heard me. “The curious thing was she seemed to have no inkling of her predicament, poor soul. Of course I promptly removed my jacket and attempted to wrap it about her

 

mid-section, believing I was doing the gentlemanly thing and that she had somehow lost her bottom half without knowing it. She pushed me away, called me a “bloody pervert” and ran off yelling SECURITY, SECURITY. A minute later two large men looking for all the world like bobbies, grab me, yell “AGAINST THE WALL NOW”, then run their hands all over my body. I briefly considered yelling ‘pervert’ myself, then thought the better of it. Naturally I remonstrated, and told them my name, thinking they would quickly come to their senses, feel stupid and apologize. Not so, I’m afraid. One of them replied that he was King Ferdinand of Spain and that henceforth, I was to address him as ‘Your Highness.’ The impudence. “Oh gosh. What happened next?” I didn’t really want to know, but I felt compelled to ask. Sir Ernest needed to vent. “Well, they strong-armed me to a back room. The maitre d’ joined us and there, they proceeded to grill me as to my identity and purpose here. I repeatedly told them who I was but they simply didn’t believe me. I told them my grand uncle and so on was waiting in the reading room and that you would vouch for me. So here we are.” Standing before me were the maitre d’, the two security men and a rather confused, distraught Sir Ernest in the firm grasp of his captors. Being marooned on Elephant Island must look rather appealing to Sir Ernest at this juncture. I of course provided the required vouchsafe. And when I picked myself up off the sidewalk and turned to check on Sir Ernest, he was gone. I looked at my watch. One minute past one. The hour was up. Bon voyage, Sir Ernest. The tea was a trifle weak but your company was grand.

Images from the Shackleton Expedition

Included in the ill-fated antarctic expedition was a man called Frank Hurley. Using a cumbersome view camera with glass emulsion plates, Hurley documented their horrendous experience from start to finish. It was a herculean effort carried out in punishing cold. In subsequent years, Frank Hurley established a highly successful photography business. To the right, is a selection of his images from the expedition along with commentary of the events as they unfolded. To view the slideshow full screen, start the player, then click on the small box in the lower right hand corner.

More PowerPoint presentations from Peter Bruce
If you were granted an hour with the ancestor of your choice, who would you choose? For me, it would be a tough call, but Ernest would be right up there in the top three. I’m speaking of Sir Ernest Shackleton, Antarctic explorer of the early 1900s. He was a legendary figure, famous for his courage and leadership in rescuing his crew from shipwreck and certain death. Yes, I am proud to say that Ernie and I are close relatives. He is my grand nephew of the husband of my 2nd cousin four times removed. He often speaks of me (I’m certain). I’m expecting a letter from him any day. Still lost in the post, I suppose. No matter. I arranged to meet him in the flesh in the reading room of the Royal Geographic Society, London at twelve noon sharp, August 4, 2013. Sir Ernest is a stickler for punctuality. I get there early. The reading room’s grandfather clock chimes out the hour. I’ve got goose bumps….ah, here he is now…. “Sir Ernest. Peter Bruce, your grand uncle and so on. What a great honour this is. Thank you for seeing me.” “Well, quite honestly, I had nothing better to do. This ‘being dead’ business gets frightfully boring, I’m afraid.” “I see. Remind me, then, not to rush into it.” “Shall I arrange for tea, Mr. Bruce?” “Please, call me Peter. And yes, thank you. Just black.” “Right. Back in a moment.” Fifty-five minutes pass before Sir Ernest returns empty-handed. “I’m awfully sorry for the wait, old chap. I’ve had a dreadful time. When I reached what used to be the dining hall, it was gone. Sealed up as though it had never existed. I enquired with the maitre d’ as to its new location and was informed there was no dining hall, that it had been leased to the Salvation Army as a meal station for the homeless. Cost-cutting measure, he said. Tea could be obtained at the…what did he call them?…dispensing machines in the basement. Dispensing machines? What the devil are those?” “Its a different world, Sir Ernest.” “At any rate, in the manner of explorers I persevered and started to make my way to the basement. On the way I inquired with a young lady as to the location of these machines and she offered to take me to them. “Very kind.” “Yes, but I wish she hadn’t. Because it was then that I noticed a most extraordinary thing. Her legs were completely exposed from her …well, you know…right here. I was, to put it mildly, non-plussed. There she was, in full view of anybody who cared to look her way, half naked! Just a bit of cloth about her middle, the rest, well, exposed flesh as it were.” “Sir Ernest. That’s how women dress these days.” I don’t think he heard me. “The curious thing was she seemed to have no inkling of her predicament, poor soul. Of course I promptly removed my jacket and attempted to wrap it about her mid-section, believing I was doing the gentlemanly thing and that she had somehow lost her bottom half without knowing it. She pushed me away, called me a “bloody pervert” and ran off yelling SECURITY, SECURITY. A minute later two large men looking for all the world like bobbies, grab me, yell “AGAINST THE WALL NOW”, then run their hands all over my body. I briefly considered yelling ‘pervert’ myself, then thought the better of it. Naturally I remonstrated, and told them my name, thinking they would quickly come to their senses, feel stupid and apologize. Not so, I’m afraid. One of them replied that he was King Ferdinand of Spain and that henceforth, I was to address him as ‘Your Highness.’ The impudence. “Oh gosh. What happened next?” I didn’t really want to know, but I felt compelled to ask. Sir Ernest needed to vent. “Well, they strong-armed me to a back room. The maitre d’ joined us and there, they proceeded to grill me as to my identity and purpose here. I repeatedly told them who I was but they simply didn’t believe me. I told them my grand uncle and so on was waiting in the reading room and that you would vouch for me. So here we are.” Standing before me were the maitre d’, the two security men and a rather confused, distraught Sir Ernest in the firm grasp of his captors. Being marooned on Elephant Island must look rather appealing to Sir Ernest at this juncture. I of course provided the required vouchsafe. And when I picked myself up off the sidewalk and turned to check on Sir Ernest, he was gone. I looked at my watch. One minute past one. The hour was up. Bon voyage, Sir Ernest. The tea was a trifle weak but your company was grand.

More PowerPoint presentations from Peter Bruce