My father’s maternal grandfather, Arthur King, emigrated to the U.S. in the late 19th century from Little Glemham, Suffolk, England, where his father and then his brother had served as clergymen at St. Andrew's Church. He left behind a large and close family of siblings, and for the rest of his life, black-and-white photos and letters written double-sided in a spidery script on flimsy "airmail" paper flowed freely across the Atlantic.
My great grandfather Arthur King. He contracted polio late in life and walked with a cane.
At a family wedding a few years ago, surrounded by the people I love best - my husband, my daughters, my grandchildren, my siblings and their families - I had the sudden insight that as the oldest grandchild of Edwin and Beatrice King Stodola, I am the Stodola family matriarch.
With great honor comes great responsibility! In particular, I find myself heir to most though probably not all of the Stodola family archives. This material did not come to me all at once, but piecemeal over the course of many decades. I can't even remember how it all made its way to me. Some of it I've had as long as I can remember. Some my father packed away in cardboard cartons when we moved from New Jersey to New York. Once my mother died, he never again opened them or made any attempt to sort their contents. Later the boxes, still unopened, were carted from our basement on Long Island to a storage unit in Florida. My stepmother tried valiantly over time to identify and get things into the hands of the right Stodola child (mostly me, because she knew I would care and share), But like me, she was hampered by cryptic labels (my favorite: "him and me") and nonexistent dates, and in addition knew far less about our family history than I.
Although I have eight great grandparents and sixteen great great grandparents, just like everyone else, the Kings have always seemed a little larger than life to me because I heard so much about them from my grandmother, who as an adored only child maintained close ties with her father’s relatives in England; and because the Kings were a prolific and retentive lot, leaving a rather large paper burden behind for their descendants to sift through. Over the years, I have threaded my way through most of the documents in my possession and succeeded in identifying many though not all of the photos. I have also connected, through DNA matching and more traditional methods, with second and third cousins who still live in the UK and are much more steeped in King history than I.
With great honor comes great responsibility! In particular, I find myself heir to most though probably not all of the Stodola family archives. This material did not come to me all at once, but piecemeal over the course of many decades. I can't even remember how it all made its way to me. Some of it I've had as long as I can remember. Some my father packed away in cardboard cartons when we moved from New Jersey to New York. Once my mother died, he never again opened them or made any attempt to sort their contents. Later the boxes, still unopened, were carted from our basement on Long Island to a storage unit in Florida. My stepmother tried valiantly over time to identify and get things into the hands of the right Stodola child (mostly me, because she knew I would care and share), But like me, she was hampered by cryptic labels (my favorite: "him and me") and nonexistent dates, and in addition knew far less about our family history than I.
Although I have eight great grandparents and sixteen great great grandparents, just like everyone else, the Kings have always seemed a little larger than life to me because I heard so much about them from my grandmother, who as an adored only child maintained close ties with her father’s relatives in England; and because the Kings were a prolific and retentive lot, leaving a rather large paper burden behind for their descendants to sift through. Over the years, I have threaded my way through most of the documents in my possession and succeeded in identifying many though not all of the photos. I have also connected, through DNA matching and more traditional methods, with second and third cousins who still live in the UK and are much more steeped in King history than I.
In order to become an American citizen, my great-grandfather had to renounce allegiance to Queen Victoria. His citizenship papers are part of my King family collection.
In 1998, before genealogy tourism was even really a thing, Ovide and I made a fascinating visit to the tiny town of La Copechagnière near the Loire Valley of France, birthplace of his ancestor Paul Vachon who in the 17th century brought his three sons to the New World, giving one the “dit” name of Pomerleau. As a family history buff with a keener interest in how our forebears participated in the larger sweep of human history than in an exhaustively-documented series of begats, I concluded that If one hopes to learn about the life and times of one's ancestors, there is no substitute for walking where they once walked.
I vowed on the spot that we would one day make a similar pilgrimage to Little Glemham.
“One day” finally arrived more than 20 years later, this past April, when we embarked on a two week tour of London and environs that included an exploration of Little Glemham in Suffolk and a visit with two second-cousins-once-removed in Sussex. Except for the stress of driving on the left, along narrow roads with many roundabouts, which fell solely upon Ovide, and the stress of navigating, which was my bailiwick, our vacation could only be described as idyllic. Even the weather cooperated - we never even unpacked our umbrellas.
The rest of this essay is about our trip to the UK.
I vowed on the spot that we would one day make a similar pilgrimage to Little Glemham.
“One day” finally arrived more than 20 years later, this past April, when we embarked on a two week tour of London and environs that included an exploration of Little Glemham in Suffolk and a visit with two second-cousins-once-removed in Sussex. Except for the stress of driving on the left, along narrow roads with many roundabouts, which fell solely upon Ovide, and the stress of navigating, which was my bailiwick, our vacation could only be described as idyllic. Even the weather cooperated - we never even unpacked our umbrellas.
The rest of this essay is about our trip to the UK.
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In case you are wondering where to find Little Glemham, population 187, it’s located just a couple of miles south of Great Glemham, population 224. Even the Brits have to google to find it. And yes, it’s really spelled that way - two m’s, no n’s.
When we started planning our itinerary, we realized we could include Easter in our schedule, which seemed a propitious time to visit St. Andrew’s. I emailed the current rector, who assured me that although St Andrew’s is now part of a “benefice” of eight churches - necessary because attendance had dwindled too much to justify weekly services at each church - an Easter service was indeed planned for St. Andrew’s.
On our first full day in East Anglia, knowing we might not have an opportunity to poke around much on Easter Day, we stopped by St. Andrew’s, which looked exactly as I remembered it in my photographs. The only problem was, it also looked like every other church in every other nearby village, even to the little gatehouse in front, with only minor variations in size and layout. These parish churches date back to the Middle Ages - starting life as Roman Catholic churches and after Henry VIII becoming Anglican - and I guess having hit on a successful formula, the builders decided to stay with it.
When we started planning our itinerary, we realized we could include Easter in our schedule, which seemed a propitious time to visit St. Andrew’s. I emailed the current rector, who assured me that although St Andrew’s is now part of a “benefice” of eight churches - necessary because attendance had dwindled too much to justify weekly services at each church - an Easter service was indeed planned for St. Andrew’s.
On our first full day in East Anglia, knowing we might not have an opportunity to poke around much on Easter Day, we stopped by St. Andrew’s, which looked exactly as I remembered it in my photographs. The only problem was, it also looked like every other church in every other nearby village, even to the little gatehouse in front, with only minor variations in size and layout. These parish churches date back to the Middle Ages - starting life as Roman Catholic churches and after Henry VIII becoming Anglican - and I guess having hit on a successful formula, the builders decided to stay with it.
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We were greeted by two devoted volunteer caretakers, Rod and June Clare, who were busily cleaning and decorating the church for Easter. No need to knock - like all the little churches we visited it is open 24/7, with signage apologizing profusely if for any reason it might have to be closed for even a few hours, just please close the door when you leave to keep the birds out - and we were welcome to stay as long as we wished.
 Rod Clare sharing some of St. Andrew's rich history with me. |  June Clare dusting and polishing. |
St. Andrew's has been fortunate in its history and is happily well-loved by those few who remain on its rolls. Since it was first built in the 12th century, it has benefited from several updates in its first few centuries, from a restoration project in the 1850s, and from extensive recent repairs. Though the departure of the lead bellringer several years ago led to a silencing of the bells, they can now be heard once again thanks to a troupe of ringers that circulates among the local churches. (Listen to the bells of St. Andrews!)
 Then...     Babies have been baptized at this font since the 13th century. |  ...and now.    The window on the north wall, given by parishioners and friends in honor of Arthur's brother, was the work of a local artist, Margaret Rope of Leiston. |
After we finished our tour of the sanctuary, Rod led us to the King family plot in the churchyard, where we found monuments marking the graves of my great great grandfather and several of his descendants. Though the stone was partially effaced with time, we could make out the words “parish priest” faintly etched on the side. My grandmother had always referred to him as “rector," so I consulted Professor Google and found that the terms rector and parish priest, along with vicar and curate, are used more or less interchangeably despite barely perceptible differences in their technical definitions. (My brother, who has spent lots of time in the UK, claims that “understanding the ins and outs of the Anglican Church is like cricket - if you weren’t raised with it, it will always be a Mystery!”)
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I assumed at first that the charming old home next to the church was where my great grandfather had grown up but later learned that by the time the Kings came on the scene, the rectory had been relocated about a mile away, to a house large enough to accommodate Richard Henry II, his wife Fanny, and their twelve children. A sign in front of that building (now privately owned) identifies it as the "Old Rectory", presumably making the one next to the church the old Old Rectory.
 The original rectory, next to the church. |  The newer "Old Rectory," about a mile from the church, where the Kings lived. |
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We arrived early on Easter Day so that we would be sure to find seats. We needn't have worried - the six of us who attended could each have occupied a whole row with room to spare. I was repeatedly struck by the thought that Little Glemham was once home to enough parishioners being born, getting married, suffering, dying, and attending church each and every Sunday to provide Richard Henry King II with year-round full-time employment. He would probably roll over in his grave to learn that the attendees at the 2019 Easter service barely outnumbered the clergy, largely because Ovide and I were there and another man was in town for his father’s funeral, and that the current rector is a woman - who rushed off at the end to conduct another service in another part of her benefice.
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Also in honor of Easter Day, Glemham Hall (more properly Little Glemham Hall) was open for a tour of the premises. Such tours are common in the UK, as many of the beautiful old Elizabethan stately homes that once formed the backbone of England's social, economic, and governmental system struggle to maintain themselves in a state of “arrested decay.” Today the key employees are more likely to be event planners than butlers. Unlike many such tours, however, this one was conducted by the lord of the manor himself, who had grown up in those 80-some rooms and knew it as no docent ever could.
The house was built by the DeGlemham family in the mid 16th century, replacing the moated manor house their forebears had built on the site in the 13th century. In 1709 the North family purchased the property, along with the lordship of the manor, and shortly thereafter made major structural changes to give it the beautiful Georgian facade it boasts today. During the latter half of the 19th century, when my great great grandfather was rector of St Andrew’s, the mansion was occupied by Alexander George Dickson, a Conservative Member of Parliament and second husband of the widow of Lord North.
Think Upstairs Downstairs. Think Downton Abbey. Think (as did I) of the rector of St Andrew’s being honored by an occasional invitation to tea at Glemham Hall.
The house was built by the DeGlemham family in the mid 16th century, replacing the moated manor house their forebears had built on the site in the 13th century. In 1709 the North family purchased the property, along with the lordship of the manor, and shortly thereafter made major structural changes to give it the beautiful Georgian facade it boasts today. During the latter half of the 19th century, when my great great grandfather was rector of St Andrew’s, the mansion was occupied by Alexander George Dickson, a Conservative Member of Parliament and second husband of the widow of Lord North.
Think Upstairs Downstairs. Think Downton Abbey. Think (as did I) of the rector of St Andrew’s being honored by an occasional invitation to tea at Glemham Hall.
Beautiful Glemham Hall
 Phillip Hope-Cobbold, surrounded by his ancestors, welcoming his guests. |  A modern painting of the Glemham Manor grounds, showing Phillip's two sons playing lawn tennis in the background. |
The current lord of the manor is Major Philip Hope-Cobbold, a descendant on his mother’s side of the Cobbold family, who made their fortune in the 18th century by founding a major brewery. The Cobbolds bought the house from what was left of the North family in 1923, so in fact Philip Hope-Cobbold’s forebears just barely overlapped with the Kings’ tenure. Still, the tour was both intimate and amusing, and Philip himself was totally charming, leaving us satisfied that we had gained at least a little insight into a social system that somehow allowed the Kings in their rectory to interact in a carefully choreographed way, friendly but at a distance, with the occupants of the nearby manor house.
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As luck would have it, East Anglia, land of my father’s forebears, also played a critical role in the history of radar during World War. The Bawdsey Radar Transmitter Block, just 15 miles from Little Glemham in the village of Bawdsey on the Suffolk coast, was the first operational radar station in the world, where British scientists and engineers secretly gathered during the 1930s to demonstrate that radio waves could in fact be used to locate moving targets. Chain Home, code name for a series of early warning radar antennas strategically placed all along the British coastline to detect and track incoming aircraft, fanned out from Bawdsey.
During the Battle of Britain in 1940, their resources stretched almost to the breaking point, the British sent a delegation to the United States to propose a marriage of British science and knowhow with American industrial capability. Public sentiment in America favored neutrality; Henry Tizard, head of the mission, took the bold step of showing the Americans the technical innovations they had achieved without any promise of reciprocation. As Tizard hoped, the sheer impact of British superiority in the development of radar was sufficient to convince the Americans it was in their own best interest to support the British effort, and thus began the amazingly productive British-American collaboration in the development of radar.
It was just around this time that my father left his entry-level job at the War Department assigning radio frequencies to Army facilities ("boring!") to begin his fledgling career as a radar scientist. Although the Tizard Commission visited Bell Labs in New Jersey and Columbia University in New York City, I have found no evidence of their having stopped in Belmar - and in fact the subsequent locus of collaboration focused on the creation and development of the famous Rad Lab at MIT rather than on work already in progress by the Army Signal Corps at Camp Evans. Still, it seems likely the American commitment to the British war effort, cemented by the Tizard Commission, set the stage for my father’s career in radar research and his particular expertise in moving target detection.
Although we didn't have a chance to visit the Bawdsey Radar Museum, we did spend a couple of engrossing hours at the Parham Airfield Museum near Little Glemham, housed in the original World War II Control Tower of Framlingham Air Force Station #153. The museum is dedicated to the 390th Bombardment Group, which carried out more than 300 combat missions in the Boeing B17 “Flying Fortress,” during which 19,000 tons of bombs were dropped and 342 enemy aircraft were downed. Nearly 200 American planes never returned, and today being Memorial Day, it seems especially fitting to honor the more than 700 service members killed in these risky missions. Also worthy of mention are the humanitarian flights undertaken just before V-E Day to supply desperately-needed food to the Dutch.
In a world where Americans aren’t universally welcomed or appreciated, it was heart-warming to bask in the affection and gratitude with which the Yanks are still, even after all these decades, remembered at Parham.
During the Battle of Britain in 1940, their resources stretched almost to the breaking point, the British sent a delegation to the United States to propose a marriage of British science and knowhow with American industrial capability. Public sentiment in America favored neutrality; Henry Tizard, head of the mission, took the bold step of showing the Americans the technical innovations they had achieved without any promise of reciprocation. As Tizard hoped, the sheer impact of British superiority in the development of radar was sufficient to convince the Americans it was in their own best interest to support the British effort, and thus began the amazingly productive British-American collaboration in the development of radar.
It was just around this time that my father left his entry-level job at the War Department assigning radio frequencies to Army facilities ("boring!") to begin his fledgling career as a radar scientist. Although the Tizard Commission visited Bell Labs in New Jersey and Columbia University in New York City, I have found no evidence of their having stopped in Belmar - and in fact the subsequent locus of collaboration focused on the creation and development of the famous Rad Lab at MIT rather than on work already in progress by the Army Signal Corps at Camp Evans. Still, it seems likely the American commitment to the British war effort, cemented by the Tizard Commission, set the stage for my father’s career in radar research and his particular expertise in moving target detection.
Although we didn't have a chance to visit the Bawdsey Radar Museum, we did spend a couple of engrossing hours at the Parham Airfield Museum near Little Glemham, housed in the original World War II Control Tower of Framlingham Air Force Station #153. The museum is dedicated to the 390th Bombardment Group, which carried out more than 300 combat missions in the Boeing B17 “Flying Fortress,” during which 19,000 tons of bombs were dropped and 342 enemy aircraft were downed. Nearly 200 American planes never returned, and today being Memorial Day, it seems especially fitting to honor the more than 700 service members killed in these risky missions. Also worthy of mention are the humanitarian flights undertaken just before V-E Day to supply desperately-needed food to the Dutch.
In a world where Americans aren’t universally welcomed or appreciated, it was heart-warming to bask in the affection and gratitude with which the Yanks are still, even after all these decades, remembered at Parham.
 |  Ovide owned a Hallicrafter SX28 receiver as a teenage ham radio operator. More recently, he and some fellow Club members restored one at Station W8UM. So he was delighted to find one on display at the Parham Airfield Museum. |
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Over the past year or so I had become friendly with my DNA match Jane, a second-cousin-once-removed who is also descended from Richard Henry II, so we spent a few days at an inn near her home in Sussex, south of London. Jane and her husband David turned out to be the most gracious hosts imaginable. Jane is a superb cook who served up steak and kidney pie and other traditional delicacies, and David entertained us with a video he had made for the BBC back in the 1980s in which he persuaded some friends to help him mow his lawn by staging a very amusing lawnmower tango worthy of Monty Python. We also watched an episode of Escape to the Country, the BBC version of House Hunters (but much better), featuring a visit to the one-of-a-kind Black Cow Pure Milk Vodka distillery developed by a well-known maker of cheddar cheese in West Dorset - where their daughter (my third cousin) happens to be employed.
Cousin Jane introduced me to her cousin (and like Jane, my second-cousin-once-removed), Ian, and we enjoyed a delightful luncheon with him and his wife Nathalie. Ian, unlike me, is a bona fide genealogist, so it was gratifying to be able to help him fill in the blanks on Arthur’s family (including five generations of descendants with the middle name of King).
Of all the things he shared with me, nothing was more thrilling than his photos of the Boys’ Butterfly Collection. One of the few pieces of information I could coax from my father about his relationship with his grandparents was his fond memory of butterfly collecting expeditions with Arthur. Thanks to Cousin Ian, I now understand that this activity was not just an idiosyncratic passion of Arthur's, it was part of a King family tradition that he must have hoped my father would enjoy and carry on.
Cousin Jane introduced me to her cousin (and like Jane, my second-cousin-once-removed), Ian, and we enjoyed a delightful luncheon with him and his wife Nathalie. Ian, unlike me, is a bona fide genealogist, so it was gratifying to be able to help him fill in the blanks on Arthur’s family (including five generations of descendants with the middle name of King).
Of all the things he shared with me, nothing was more thrilling than his photos of the Boys’ Butterfly Collection. One of the few pieces of information I could coax from my father about his relationship with his grandparents was his fond memory of butterfly collecting expeditions with Arthur. Thanks to Cousin Ian, I now understand that this activity was not just an idiosyncratic passion of Arthur's, it was part of a King family tradition that he must have hoped my father would enjoy and carry on.
 My great grandparents (Arthur and Vergetta Sayers King) with my father. |  The King Boys' Butterfly Collection |
After our time with Jane and Ian, we had one day left to tour Sussex and decided to spend it exploring Canterbury and its Cathedral. Coincidentally, the date of our visit (April 25) was probably very close to the date more than six centuries before on which Chaucer’s fictional pilgrims were busy concocting tales to entertain their fellow adventurers as they wended their way towards the Canterbury Cathedral. Even from today’s perspective, the cathedrals of the Middle Ages are amazing structures, but to appreciate them fully, it is necessary to imagine them rising up almost literally out of nowhere, with nothing nearby of anywhere near the same magnitude; and then to imagine yourself a penitent who has never been more than a few miles from where you were born, whose sole experience with churches is with something on the scale of St. Andrew’s in Little Glemham. No wonder the pilgrims felt themselves in the presence of something supernatural and otherworldly.
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My grandmother’s stories had given me the impression that a long line of Kings had been rectors of St. Andrew's in Little Glemham since time immemorial. In actual fact, my second great grandfather Richard Henry King II appears to have been the first to serve in that capacity, succeeded by his son Edward Septimus King (younger brother of my great grandfather Arthur, and of Richard Henry III, grandfather of my cousins Jane and Ian).
 Richard Henry King II (1824-1886) |  Edward Septimus King (1864-1925) |
I have no further evidence of a King dynasty in Little Glemham. Richard Henry II himself was in fact baptized not in Little Glemham but in Mortlake, south of London, where the King family had apparently resided for a very long time: The King family crest that my cousins regard as authentic (as opposed to a somewhat different version painted by my grandmother that was a prominent part of my childhood iconography) is labeled “King of Mortlake/Arms granted 1589." I don't know the profession of Richard Henry King I, my third great grandfather, but like his forebears he was buried in Mortlake. His father, my fourth great grandfather Dr Charles King II, was a physician who lived and died in Mortlake.
 |  Dr. Charles King II (1730-1814) |
For much of its history Mortlake ("mort" apparently meaning "salmon," not "dead") was officially a village, though a village large enough to support a variety of industries including potteries whose products are still very much in demand, a tapestry works, a sugar refinery, and breweries at various times in its history. Its dreamy beauty was captured by JMW Turner in two landscapes painted in 1826 and 1827, depicting views of and from a large town house then known as Mortlake Terrace, commissioned by its owner. Currently Mortlake is a suburban district of London and a popular sleeper community.
In Little Glemham it was possible to walk where my ancestors had walked because the landscape has retained its small-village character and hasn’t changed beyond recognition. Probably Mortlake would have been more of a challenge.
At any rate, a quest for another day.
In Little Glemham it was possible to walk where my ancestors had walked because the landscape has retained its small-village character and hasn’t changed beyond recognition. Probably Mortlake would have been more of a challenge.
At any rate, a quest for another day.
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