Spotlight on ... Family Burial Monuments

 A Visual Record I Read Differently Now: Family Burial Monuments

I have always thought of headstones and cemetery records as vital sources in genealogical research. They provide names, dates, places and, sometimes, relationships; the details that help confirm what has already been discovered or offer clues to facts not yet uncovered.

 

Headstones where my grandparents were laid to rest

Headstones mark the final resting places of many of my direct ancestors and other relatives. Family burial monuments, however, are much less common in my family tree. So far, I have found only a small handful of these larger memorials. Two, in particular, were erected in memory of loved ones on my maternal O’Donnell side.

 

Originally, I viewed these monuments much as I viewed headstones: as valuable records of names and dates. They placed a person in a particular landscape, at a particular time, among particular people. More recently, however, I have begun to read them differently.

 

I now see that family monuments tell us far more than mere facts alone. They were created to be seen. Their symbols, inscriptions, scale, shape, placement, and decorative choices all carry meaning.

 

The two O’Donnell monuments are fitting examples of this. One stands in Ireland, in the burial ground of the old Owning Roman Catholic Church in County Kilkenny. The other stands in Australia, in the Drayton and Toowoomba Cemetery in Queensland. Together, they offer a moving visual link between the O’Donnell family’s Irish Catholic origins and the lives later remembered in an Australian cemetery.

 

O’Donnell Family Memorial in Ireland

The Irish memorial is a beautifully carved Celtic cross. I think this matters in itself.

The ringed cross is one of the most recognisable symbols of Irish Christianity, recalling the ancient high crosses found throughout Ireland. It is not simply a grave marker; it is also a statement of cultural and religious identity.

 

For an O’Donnell family buried in the grounds of a Roman Catholic church, the Celtic cross places them firmly within an Irish Catholic tradition.

 

At the centre of the cross is the sacred monogram IHS, a Christogram representing the name of Jesus.

 

This was commonly used on Catholic memorials and devotional objects. Its placement at the heart of the cross suggests that the family’s remembrance of their dead was framed through faith: death was not only an ending, but part of a Christian hope in resurrection and eternal life.

 

The shaft of the cross is decorated with carved foliage, possibly vine or leaf forms. Such carvings were often used to suggest continuing life, remembrance, and the promise of life beyond death. 

What I find especially lovely is the way the foliage softens the stone and gives it a sense of growth, as though memory itself is climbing the cross. A scroll winds through the foliage carrying the words “Thy Will Be Done,” a message of acceptance, faith, and trust in divine providence.

 

Below the shaft, inscriptions record John O’Donnell of Killonerry and members of his family: his wife Catherine, his daughter Ellen, his daughter-in-law Mary and son William / Bill (husband of Mary), his granddaughter Mary (daughter of William and Mary), and his daughter Margaret. The names appear on more than one face of the monument, showing that this was not a single burial marker but a family memorial. Later generations were added as time passed, making the monument a kind of stone family register, preserving relationships as well as deaths.

The use of R.I.P. is another small but important detail. “Rest in Peace” is familiar today, but in a Catholic context from generations back, it is also a prayer. It asks for peace for the souls of the dead and reminds us that the living continued to hold the departed within their prayers.

The original inscription for the patriarch of the family, John O’Donnell, was likely arranged by his children. I think this helps explain the tone of the memorial. It is reverent, devotional, and familial, but also somewhat formal. The children were remembering their father within the language of Catholic faith and family duty. Their memorial speaks of respect, continuity, and prayer, placing John within both his family line and his religious community.

 

O’Donnell Family Memorial in Australia

 

The Australian monument is different in style but closely related in meaning.

 

Instead of a Celtic cross, it has a large Latin cross rising from a substantial tiered pedestal. It is a strong Christian symbol, direct and unmistakable.

 

While it does not carry the same specifically Irish visual language as the Celtic cross in Ireland, it still speaks clearly of Catholic faith and family remembrance.

 

The monument is quite tall and prominent, suggesting a family plot of some importance. Its size and careful construction indicate that the family wished to create a lasting memorial, something visible and enduring within the cemetery landscape. Like the Irish memorial, it has inscription panels on more than one side, again showing that it commemorated several family members over time.

 

The carved flowers and trailing foliage on the cross are especially touching. In cemetery symbolism, flowers and vines often represent memory, affection, mourning, and eternal life.

 

Their presence gives the Australian monument a gentler, more personal quality. The stone cross is solid and formal, but the carved plant forms bring tenderness and the idea of continuing life.

 

The iron grave surround also matters. It marks the burial place as a defined family plot, separating and protecting it within the cemetery. These enclosures were common in older cemeteries and often signalled care, ownership, and continuity. The family were not just buried there as individuals; they were gathered together in a shared place of remembrance.

The Australian monument also gives a direct link back to Ireland. One plaque records Edmond O’Donnell, native of County Kilkenny, Ireland, born 31 August 1862, who died at Toowoomba on 9 January 1892, aged only 29 years. He was the son of John O’Donnell recorded on the Killonerry family memorial.

On the same plaque is John Patrick, son of Edmond, who died aged 2 years and 3 months. 

Beneath the plaque for Edmond and John, two verses appear to read:

“'Tis hard to break the tender cord,
When love has bound the heart;
'Tis hard, so hard, to speak the words,
We for a time must part.

Dearest loved one, we have laid thee
In the peaceful grave's embrace,
But thy memory will be cherished
Till we see thy heavenly face.”

 

A plaque on another side records Catherine, daughter of Edmond, who died on 4 April 1898, aged 13 years. Her inscription includes the verse:

“Hark they whisper angels say
Sister spirit come away.”

 

These verses add an emotional layer that names and dates alone cannot provide. They give the Australian memorial a noticeably different feeling from the Irish monument. The Irish inscriptions are strongly religious in tone, with phrases such as “Thy Will Be Done” and “R.I.P.” expressing faith, acceptance, and prayer. They place grief within the formal language of Catholic belief.

 

The verses on this Australian memorial feel more intimate and personal. They speak directly of love, separation, memory, and the pain of parting. The phrase “tender cord” suggests the close bond between family members, while “we for a time must part” expresses grief through the hope of reunion. The words do not simply record that Edmond, John Patrick and Catherine died; they reveal how deeply their deaths were felt by those left behind.

 

This is especially moving because the deaths remembered here were not distant losses at the end of long lives. Edmond was a young father, John Patrick was a small child, and Catherine was only thirteen. I find myself reading this monument less as a formal family record and more as an expression of repeated sorrow within one household. The verses soften the stone with tenderness, showing a family trying to give language to grief in a new country, far from the Irish places and traditions that had shaped earlier generations.

 

Another significant difference lies in who likely shaped the inscriptions. The original inscription on the Irish memorial for John O’Donnell was probably arranged by his children. The inscriptions on the Australian memorial, however, were almost certainly shaped by Edmond’s wife, Bridget, who was also the mother of John Patrick and Catherine.

 

This is what changes the way I read the Australian monument. Bridget was not a descendant looking back across a generation. She was a wife and mother mourning the people closest to her. She had lost her husband while he was still a young man, then also endured the deaths of their young children. The grief expressed on the stone was much closer and more immediate.

 

Seen in this light, the verses become even more meaningful. The lines about the “tender cord” and the pain of parting seem especially fitting for Bridget’s situation. They suggest bonds broken too soon: the bond between husband and wife, between mother and child, and within a young family whose life together had been interrupted by repeated death.

 

This gives the Australian memorial a different emotional weight. It is still a Christian monument, and it still carries the hope of reunion in heaven, but its language feels more personal than formal. Bridget’s words, chosen for those she loved most dearly, allow us to hear the memorial not just as a family record, but as an expression of private sorrow made public in stone.

 

Reading the Two Memorials Together

Looking at these two O’Donnell monuments side by side, I am struck by both the differences and the continuities. The Irish monument speaks strongly of place: Owning Roman Catholic Church, Killonerry, Irish Catholic identity and the long tradition of the Celtic cross. The Australian monument speaks of settlement and continuation: a family laying its dead in a new land, using familiar Christian symbols to carry memory across distance.

 

They also speak through different relationships. The Irish memorial appears to have begun as children’s remembrance of a father, later becoming a wider family monument as more names were added. The Australian memorial, by contrast, carries the grief of a wife and mother. That closer relationship helps explain why the Australian verses feel so tender and immediate. They are not only statements of faith; they are words of love, separation, and longing.

 

As a family historian, I now see these stones as far more than decorative memorials. They are evidence not only of who was remembered, but how the family chose to remember them, and what symbols mattered to those who commissioned the monuments. They also remind us that migration did not sever memory. The O’Donnell family carried faith, naming traditions and burial customs with them, adapting them to a new cemetery landscape while still preserving a deep connection to Ireland.

 

In that sense, the two monuments form a quiet conversation across the world. One stands in an Irish churchyard, rooted in the old parish and the familiar language of the Celtic cross. The other stands in Australia, taller and more typical of an Australian cemetery landscape, but still centred on the cross, family, faith, and remembrance. Together, they mark not only death, but continuity: the story of an O’Donnell family remembered in stone, in two countries, across generations.

 

Spotlight on ... A Name With Meaning

Some names in a family tree simply repeat. They appear generation after generation because they were familiar, fashionable, traditional, or expected. 

That kind of repetition is one of the most common realities of genealogical research. It can be helpful, because it shows continuity. It can also be maddening, because several people with the same name, living in the same area, can take quite a bit of careful sorting.

But sometimes a name does more than repeat. Sometimes a name seems to carry meaning.

In my paternal family tree, Crittenden began as a surname — a Kentish surname carried by several generations of my direct ancestors. Later, after the surname itself passed out of my direct line through marriage, it reappeared in another form. First it was used as a given name. Then it appeared again as a middle name, carried by descendants in Australia and New Zealand.

It feels like one of those small family clues that could easily be overlooked. But once noticed, it begins to suggest something more: a name remembered, a maternal line preserved, and perhaps a quiet sense that this surname still mattered.

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A Kentish Name

The surname Crittenden is of Anglo-Saxon origin and is generally understood to be a habitational surname. In other words, it likely began as a name connected to place — to families from the villages of Crittenden or the lost village of Cruttenden in Kent, England.

The exact meaning is not completely settled. One interpretation suggests it may mean a person living near a woodland pasture. Another links it to Old English elements, possibly combining a personal name with -ing, meaning association or belonging, and denn, meaning woodland pasture.

Whatever its precise linguistic origin, the Kent connection is strong. By the late nineteenth century, around half of all recorded Crittendens in the United Kingdom were living in Kent.

That makes the name feel firmly rooted in that south-eastern corner of England.

And that is where my own Crittenden line appears.

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My Crittenden Ancestors in Kent

The earliest Crittenden ancestor I have researched so far is my 7th great-grandfather, Johnathan Crittenden.

Johnathan Crittenden

c.1651–1713
My paternal 7th great-grandfather
Lived in Halden, Kent, England

Married Elizabeth Fullagar.

His son, also named Jonathan, continued the family line in Kent.

Jonathan Crittenden

1684–1760
My paternal 6th great-grandfather
Lived in Woodchurch, Kent, England

Married Susannah, whose surname I have not yet identified
They had a son also named Jonathan.

Jonathan Crittenden

1723–1786
My paternal 5th great-grandfather
Lived in Woodchurch, Kent, England
He had two children with his wife Ann Ransley, and five children with his wife Sarah Dandy.

My family line continued on through their daughter Elisabeth Crittenden, but it was at this point that the name Crittenden begins to shift from surname to given name.

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Elisabeth Crittenden and the Hukins Family

The Crittenden surname passed out of my direct line through my paternal 4th great-grandmother, Elisabeth Crittenden.

Elisabeth Crittenden

1754–1808
My paternal 4th great-grandmother
Lived in Woodchurch, Kent, England
Married John Hukins
They had seven children.

When Elisabeth married John Hukins, her children carried the Hukins surname. In the usual course of things, the name Crittenden might have faded from this branch of the family.

It could have become one of those maiden surnames we record carefully in our notes, but rarely see again. But that is not what happened.

The name stayed.

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When a Surname Became a First Name

Elisabeth Crittenden and John Hukins had a son named James Hukins, my 3rd great-grandfather.

James Hukins

1792–1871
Son of Elisabeth Crittenden and John Hukins
My paternal 3rd great-grandfather

Lived in Woodchurch, Kent, England and New South Wales, Australia

Married Susannah Fullagar.

They named their fourth-born child, a son, Crittenden Hukins.

This is the moment where the name begins to feel especially meaningful.

Repeating first names is common. But using a mother’s maiden surname as a child’s given name feels more deliberate. James did not simply choose another John, Jonathan, James, or William for this son. He chose Crittenden — his mother’s family name.

Perhaps it was a way of honouring his mother, Elizabeth Hukins nee Crittenden. Perhaps it reflected pride in the Crittenden line. Perhaps the name carried meaning within the family that has not survived in the written record.

We cannot know the exact reason. But we can notice the choice.

A surname had become a first name and in that change, the name seems to have become a small act of remembrance.

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Crittenden as a Middle Name

The name appears again in later generations, this time as a middle name.

Adolphus Crittenden Hukins

1849–1897
My paternal great-granduncle
Lived in New South Wales, Australia

James Crittenden Wright

1858–1952
My paternal 1st cousin 3x removed
Lived in New South Wales, Australia and New Zealand

Adolphus Crittenden Hukins

1878–1957
My paternal 1st cousin 2x removed
Lived in New South Wales, Australia

By then, the name had travelled a long way from Kent.

It had moved from Crittenden branch to the Hukins branch of the family, and then crossed into other branches. It had also crossed the world, appearing among descendants in Australia and New Zealand.

That journey gives the name another kind of meaning. Crittenden was no longer only a Kentish surname. In my family, it had become a small inherited marker — a way of carrying an older family connection into new places and new generations.

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What the Name Preserved

There are likely more examples of Crittenden elsewhere in the wider family tree. I have not researched every branch, so for now I can only speak about the Crittendens I have found and followed.

Even so, the pattern is clear enough to notice.

The name began as a surname in Kent.
It passed through several generations of my direct ancestors.
It entered the Hukins family through Elisabeth Crittenden.
Then it was preserved as a first name, and later as a middle name.

For a family historian, this kind of naming pattern is worth pausing over. A middle name can sometimes be more than decoration. It can point backwards to a maternal line, a remembered surname, or a family connection that mattered enough to be carried forward.

That is how Crittenden feels in my family tree.

Spotlight on ... The Show

Waiting All Year for the Bowen Show

A grand occasion in the community calendar

One of the most iconic of Australian traditions — The Show — means something different to each of us. For many of us, it sits somewhere deep in childhood memory, wrapped up with noise, colour, food, dust, excitement and the almost unbearable wait for it to come around again.

Here in Queensland, the annual agricultural show has long been one of the great community traditions. Across the winter months, regional shows are still held throughout the state, leading eventually to the Royal Queensland Show — the Ekka — in Brisbane each August.

The show tradition began as a celebration of rural life, with livestock, produce, flowers, baking, needlework and local skill proudly displayed. Over time, though, it became something more - a gathering place, a social occasion, and for many families, one of the most eagerly awaited days of the year.

In my hometown of Bowen, the Show was inextricably woven into the rhythm of community life. The agricultural heart of it was still there, but around it grew all the colour and excitement that made Show Day so memorable — pavilion displays, ring events, sideshow alley, food stalls, showbags and, of course, fireworks.

The Bowen Showground became the place where the district’s rural strength and the town’s social life came together in one bright, noisy celebration.

I lived for Show Day

As a child growing up in the 1960s, I lived for it.

Family photos taken on Show Day at the Bowen Show 1960s-1970s 

- my parents, myself and my brother

All year I dreamt of it, yearned for it, and relived every sight, sound and taste of it. I would have willingly wished 364 days of my life away just to have Show Day arrive again.

Not my birthday.
Not Christmas.
Not even Cracker Night, which probably came a close second.

No — for me, it was the unforgettable, spectacular Bowen Show.

It was a grand occasion, and I dressed for it. I always had new clothes.  

As a very young child, they were often made and sewn by my mother. She even made the hats I wore. That, too, was part of the Show — not just the excitement of going, but the preparation beforehand, and the sense that this was a special outing worthy of new clothes and a little extra care.

Looking back now, I can see how much love and effort sat quietly behind those childhood memories.

Part of the excitement was also knowing I would catch up with family and friends there. Everyone seemed to be going.

The first glimpse of the Ferris wheel

One of my earliest memories of Show Day -
around the age of 3 getting out of the car
and searching for the ferris wheel

Even now, I can still picture that first glimpse of the top of the Ferris wheel in the distance. 

That alone was enough to send a current of excitement through me that could probably have powered the whole town of Bowen.

Then came the moment the car door opened, and the full force of the Show hit me.

Bright flashing lights of every colour imaginable filled my vision. The smells from the food stalls drifted through the air — the sickly sweetness of fairy floss and candy apples, the smell of popcorn and hotdogs, all mingling with those other showground aromas that seemed to belong to that one special day.

But above all, it was the noise that made the biggest impression.

There was the excited babble of the announcer from the show ring, the discordant music and shrieks from sideshow alley, the cries of animals from all over the grounds, and the chatter, laughter and occasional whingeing of the crowds elbowing their way past.

As a child, I found it utterly intoxicating.

Sideshow Alley, chips and showbags

Before the Show opened, my family would sometimes drive past the Showgrounds to take a peek and see what rides had turned up that year.

Would the Big Dipper be there?
What about the Zipper?
Would the Dodgems be back?

The Ferris wheel, of course, seemed to turn up every year.

Showbags from the 1960s

My favourite part, however, was Sideshow Alley. On a tight budget, I was allowed just one precious showbag, and I held on to it as though it were treasure. I could only gaze at most of the game stalls as I wandered past, admiring the prizes and all the excitement around them.

1967  

Me with cupie doll in hand

One thing that especially captured my imagination was the cupie (or is it kewpie?) doll — that little celluloid doll perched on a cane stick, dressed in a frothy tutu dusted with glitter. 

It was an established favourite with every young girl at the Show.

To me, those dolls looked magical. But they were expensive, so they were certainly not something bought every year.

Inside the Pavilion

The Pavilion was a world of its own and an important part of the Show. It gathered together all the careful work that had been done in homes, schools and gardens across the district and put it proudly on display.

There were competitive sections for cookery, with jams and preserves, pickles, chutneys and honey, alongside cakes, sponges, lamingtons, pies, puddings, scones and sweets such as coconut ice, marshmallows, fudge, caramel and jellies. There were sections for produce too, including vegetables, fruit and eggs.

The flower sections must have been a delight for those who loved them. Entries included flower arranging and cut flowers such as roses, gerberas, carnations, gladioli, pansies, snapdragons, pentas, marigolds, phlox, nasturtiums and petunias.

My Dad, a dyed-in-the-wool rose lover and admirer of other flowers, loved lingering there. For him, the flower displays were not just something to admire - they were something he was part of.

Dad loved entering his blooms in the Show each year, and he often won prizes. In my later childhood years, I remember helping him transport his entries to the Show Pavilion ahead of Show Day. I can still picture him packing cotton wool carefully between the petals of his treasured roses so they would travel safely and arrive in the best possible condition.

Roses were a favourite entry, but he also entered gerberas and carnations.  This photo of some of his prize ribbons shows just how remarkable his flowers were.  They were not simply garden blooms taken along on the day - they were outstanding quality, grown with patience, skill and pride.

The Pavilion also celebrated arts and crafts and all the fine handwork that so often filled women’s spare hours. Fancywork sections included knitting, crochet, hand embroidery and needlework, along with smocking, embroidered tablecloths, dressed dolls, patchwork and quilting.

Looking back now, it is easy to see how much patience, pride and quiet skill was represented in those displays.

Children also entered competitions that brought together schoolwork and creativity. There were entries for handwriting, map work, printing, freehand drawing, pencil drawing, pastel drawing and painting. The Show gave children, including me, a place to proudly display both their schoolwork and their imagination.

Not every display in the Pavilion had the same appeal for me as a child. Dad’s beloved flower displays were not always high on my list, and I remember dragging my feet and moaning my way through them often enough.

But I endured them because I knew there were other pleasures waiting.

There were the mouth-watering Dagwood Dogs I had dreamt about for days, the legendary Shannon’s chips, and the chance to watch the ring events while I ate.

The heart of the Show: the ring events

The ring events were a major part of the Show’s appeal in those years. At local agricultural shows in the 1960s, the main ring was the centre of entertainment, bringing together equestrian skill and rural competition in a way that perfectly captured the spirit of the day.

High-jumping contests were major attractions, woodchopping events drew the crowds, and there was always interest in the livestock judging, including the prize bulls.

The Grand Parade, with its winning horses, cattle and local producers, was one of the traditional highlights — a proud display of the district’s effort and achievement.

For me, showjumping was always a particular favourite. I watched it eagerly while biding my time for the great “ooh-ah” event still to come.

That grand finale was the fireworks.

By the time they began, the whole day seemed to have built towards them. They lit up the sky and drew gasps from the crowd, and as a child they felt like the perfect ending to a day that had already overflowed with excitement.

It was one more marvel to store away in memory for another whole year.

A treasured piece of family memory

Looking back now, I think that is part of what made the Bowen Show so special. It brought together the serious business of rural life, the excitement of entertainment, and the small but important family rituals that surrounded a special day out.

The Show has always stood for more than entertainment. It reflects local pride, rural heritage and community resilience.

But for me, as a child, it also lives on as something deeply personal — a treasured piece of community and family tradition, stitched together from the memories of new clothes sewn by my mother, the first sight of the Ferris wheel, the smell of fairy floss and hotdogs in the air, the noise of the ring, the thrill of the Dodgems, the glamour of kewpie dolls with glittering tutus, and the fireworks blazing at the end of the night.