Owd Fred's Blog

This is the story of my operation to have new knees

I kept an eye on the papers in case a surgeon from Stafford hospital had been relegated to Knackers mans assistant.

In our late teens when as lads, like lads do, you act a bit macho, feel strong as an "ox" , and on looking back the men working on the farm took advantage and would egg us on to carry things three or four times what you are allowed to now a days. When the threshing set came the grain had to be carried fifty or so yard, and up some brick steps into the loft to store ready for crushing through the plate mill to be fed to the cows. They would fill a large sack, wind it up on the sack hoist and get us lads to take it. They could have a good laugh as the younger of us struggled in wobbly strides platting our legs under the weight. Wheat to go for milling was always required to be in one and half hundredweight sacks, (that's 75kilo in new money) and the seed wheat often came in two hundredweight sacks (100Kilo).  

All this carrying weights of that sort, brought about my knee problems starting in my fifties, which eventually I went to see what could be done to alleviate my painful arthritic knees. You see the cartilage in the knee joint had worn out like a bush in a bearing, only it had worn out more on the inside of each joint making me very bow legged. Standing with my feet together there was almost six inches day light between my knees. When the old men were seen out and about walking bow legged father always used to say"their pig stopping days are over" . well mine had time had come now as well

This is the story of my operation to have new knees

Knees & Teeth

It was back in the 1990's that my knees started to feel as though they were wearing out, and as time went on I started to become bow legged.  Also they became quite painful with arthritis, to the extent that I saw the doctor ( I don't think he knew me by the dust he blew off my file) .  He in turn referred my to a specialist, who parted me with a whole wallet full of cash, up at Rowley Hall private hospital.

On entering the car park I found it essential that the old Montego should be parked at the rural end of the car park underneath a laurel bush, at least only half the car could be seen and that way it might be the gardeners car, or some other menial leaning on a brush. On entry my feet seemed to disappear into a deep pile carpet, just as well knowing my ability at polishing shoes, I had new socks and pants just to impress the surgeon, as I guessed he might want my bags down.

After the seemingly compulsory half hour wait beyond the appointment time, my name was called, I don't know why as I was the only one present.  After being ushered into an interview room, or perhaps it was a small lecture room. Mr Travlos the consultant sat with a silent colleague some two feet higher than me in a very intimidating way. From where I sat you could see a polished seat to his trousers, and an unblemished sole to his shoe, as he sat very low with one leg crossed ( his shoes had never trod in the crustations mine had and I have yet to take mine off).

After preliminary introductions the first question was " why do you think you need new knees " then he went through all the things why I should not have them done.  This included gangrene and the loss of my leg or legs (Ive no doubt through his incompetence) this gave me grave doubts about why I had bothered to unload so much money at the door. ( come to think about it I could have taken the Montego through the car wash about twenty times and enough change for a couple of tins of Kiwi polish for my shoes as well).

After ten minuets continuous confidence busting he decided to look at one of my knees , I don't know why when with my bags off he could see the other one as well, the other leg was on the chaise long not four inches away, perhaps that is what they call tunnel vision. Or perhaps I had only paid enough for one, you know how inflation takes hold when your not up to date with things.  One kneecap was excessively exercised and vigorously prodded , then it was left for me to decide if I would have a arthroscopy.  This I was told was to be done at the North Staffs  (on NHS I must say), where an endoscope with a nipper would be sent under my kneecap to pullout debris, it must be the remains of my cartilage.  This eventually was carried out only to find it had already disappeared, or most of it, so all that trouble for no benefit.

Then I had regular appointment every six months for the next four years, each time the excuse was that I was not old enough.  I was not too bothered about this although it was becoming very painful to live let alone walk, and in the back of my mind Mr Travlos was getting valuable experience.  (I kept an eye on the papers in case a surgeon from Stafford hospital had been relegated to a Knackers mans assistant)

At the beginning of 2001 the surgeon eventually gave me an appointment, this had a few preliminary appointments with firstly the nurse to establish which one was to be done first.  She told me to see my dentist, as bad teeth could poison my system and cause a rejection , with the worst scenario being loss of my leg.

Panicked by this I instantly found a dentist who promptly got me to sign a direct debit, and because of the urgency examined and counted my teeth on the second day, then on the third day scrapped and polished.  This was my second in a lifetime brush with a dentist, the first time was in 1946 at Seighford School at the age of eight, a dentist set up his chair in the main hall and all the kids were examined in turn. He found nothing then and they found nothing now, but six months down the line, at the next appointment it was different.

 With a sharp hook he counted my teeth and when he thought there was nothing to do he dug his hook deep into the top of a tooth and declared it needed filling. Another appointment for the filling that was not needed, and another again for the scrape and polish.  Then apart from my monthly standing order he extracted another sixty quid. Never in my life have I ever felt so ripped off by a professional who put no more than three minuets to drill and fill the tooth that he had violated. 

They are still drawing my money every month, and now I've missed three six monthly appointments. I do still go to the dentist more regular now, every six months to get my moneys worth, but all the dentist does is count them, nowt else, then a scrape and polish. I am told at home I aut to be ashamed of myself as I have never brushed my teeth in my life, but I am the only one with all good teeth, and that makes the family very----- .

After all the preliminary checks and rechecks my appointment came through, On the two weeks run up to this date we had a vigorous reappraisal of my clothing, shorts seemed to be high on the list as after care involved constant attention and exercise

The anaesthetist came to examine me and gave reassuring utterances, then Mr Tavloss with his minyons one of whom produced a felt tip pen at his demand, and slapped into his palm as if it were a knife. This is what we are faced with, do what you can, was the reading I took from there faces, as they marked out my knee with arrows.

By this time I had almost got to know what a true gentleman Mr Travlos was and had every confidence in his abilities. On one preliminary appointment I overheard him negotiating with a supplier over the quality of his replacement joints claiming they had a longer wear life than those previously supplied, perhaps from Taiwan.

The morning of the Knife came, NILL BY MOUTH was hung round my neck, (or should I say on my cupboard), by mid morning my belly thought my throat had been cut. But in the mean time I was handed a bottle of what looked like iodine, a gown and an empty tea bag, called pants (to pull on to hold my body and sole together) , and then to the shower.

Emerging from the shower looking like I had got a very deep sun tan, and pulled up my "tea bag", (in your hand it was no bigger than an small envelope with three holes) and a back to front gown that I could not tie. A hard board had been placed under my new sheet on the bed, and the bed made like an "apple pie" bed, while I was in the shower, this I found out a little later was so they could slide me across easily onto the trolley that took me to theatre.

The waiting room of the theatre had beautiful pictures on the walls, and to cater for those like myself who were prone, and nervous, and a fixed gaze skywards , there was pictures on the ceiling as well. My appointed time was up and the trolley was shoved into a small room with the walls lined with, bottles tubes syringes and all the thing to put you under, (and I presume to bring you round as well)  The anaesthetist, who had given me an examination the day before, was along side of me reaching for his utensils, and on turning round, a large needle pointing upward was dripping, (the time had come).

In my mind when the theatre doors opened was the image of three persons with yard brooms throwing down buckets of water, to make the operating room  clean again for me to go in, (slaughter house stile). But in fact in came a man or woman dressed in mask and gown and gloves, and until he spoke did not realise it was Mr Travlos himself.

How privileged I felt, to be welcomed by the head  ( or knees) man himself. Then thirty second later, the dripping needle was plugged onto a tap already put in a vein on the back of my hand. The clock above the theatre door was the last thing I saw, saying ten thirty five and twenty seconds. Then out like a light.

The next thing I knew was looking through a fog at the ceiling of the recovery room, some two hours later I believe. And when fully conscious I was wheeled back to the ward . That evening all my visitors were keen to see my bandages , (and so was I) there must have been four inches of wading and bandage from well up my thy almost to my ankle, with three drainage pipes out of the top, leading into vacumeised bottles under the bed. The knee was soar but the continuous pain of arthritis,  had noticeably gone.

The next morning I enjoyed my breakfast, and could have eaten it four times over, but more pressing matters were building up, notably toilet variety. Passing water was no problem, in fact it took a while to get used to pee'ing up hill, into a bed bottle. Then twenty four hours on that privilege was quietly withdrawn to encourage you walk to the toilet. It was now time to get my feet onto the "deck" to start walking. The nurses were busy getting others moving, so I thought I would get my feet out on my own. The heavy leg was gradually wriggled towards the side of the bed, poking across with my free foot. This was very painful, but then again that was nothing compared to what was about to happen.

After ten minuets of manoeuvring and bracing myself for the big drop, one quike nudge of my free foot sent the bandaged leg lowering rapidly to the floor and nearly sent me through the roof. Of coarse it would not bend, and the jar of arriving suddenly to the floor reverberated back up to my knee. On biting my lip so hard it was what to do next. Eventually I was assisted back up onto the bed, but only to pull out the drainage pipes, these I felt ran down under the stitches to varying lengths, they gave me something to bite so it took no working out what was to come.  Sure enough pain was something to get used to in here, and out came the pipes, and the bandages were changed and reduced .

For the first time the plaster was revealed that was stuck on the stitches, this was clogged with dried blood and had set hard. At this stage I found out that it was blood from the slaughter houses, that they stuck plywood together with not so many years ago. However my plaster resembled plywood.

Next on the scene was the physiotherapist, to begin the torturous process of bending the knee to forty five degrees before I can go home, a process that took about three or four more days.

Fist and the most urgent was to be able to get to the loo, as the bottles had been cleverly withdrawn. This was achieved with a walking frame, and being advised on how to use it by the phisio. That afternoon the urge to pass water came about me and under normal circumstances I would have ten minuets to think about it and ten more to get there.

 But things had changed, slowly out of bed with my feet and on with the slippers, (you never know what you might find on the loo floor in bare feet) Up onto the frame and shuffle along to the loo, a short wait before it became available, the other loo was at the other end of the ward, and the pressure was such that that was ruled out. In to the loo and up to the pan, up one leg of the shorts and the relief and pleasure it was to let the water flow , only to find the lining of the sports shorts was a net through which I was reliving myself. Never in my life have I ever sieved the water I passed (pissed) down the loo.

The walking frame only lasted a day and we went onto elbow crutches, and the early warning signs of wanting the loo were heeded immediately, that gave much needed walking practice The day before I came out they took me to the stairs to practice going up and down with the elbow crutches - lead with the good leg going up , lead with the bad leg going down. A couple of visits from Mr Travlos and his team and another on his own to  confirm  my release, reviled the man behind the knife, to be a very caring perfectionist, who had plenty of people to practice on in the few years before my turn came. He had time to sit and talk for a while , generous with his time as well his skills.

My appreciation of this man knows no bounds,  and have recommended him to all who will listen. The second knee was operated on by the same man six months later, having had the earlier experiences, it went smoothly in the knowledge of what I learned then.

It should be my next intention to get to know my dentist in the same way, but without any pain I think this to be most unlikely.

Now just a few private thoughs on teeth

Teeth are nature’s way

Teeth are nature’s way, of grinding to recycle,

They provide one with, expression that is vital,

That sparkling star that, emerges from your lips,

Through them passes everything, that goes onto the hips.

Some peoples teeth they rot away, but still they put on kilo,

Even when their chin comes up, no teeth to fill the hollow,

Wonder how the mirror stands it, each and every day,

Fitting false teeth mashers, or gum food to a puree.

The dentist loves to see them coming, sitting in his chair,

Please make me a new set, the old ones beyond repair

False teeth got wiped off drainer, along with tater peelings,

Thrown up the back of ess hole, along with all the fillings.  (Ess hole, bottom of the chimney in an old cast   iron kitchen range)

New dentures rub your gums sore, or drop out in your dinner,

Can’t eat as quickly as before, help you get much thinner,

Daren’t cough or sneeze or even fart, look after this new set,

They cost a fortune them to make, no more chewing on briquette.

Nuts at Christmas they are out, so is tough old beef,

Only things that you can squash, tween those brand new teeth,

They spend more time in jar, up in the bathroom cupboard,

Than where they should be, more lip there to be puckered.

So the lesson here I see, look after the teeth your born with,

No need for dentist’s help at all, and sweep away the myth,

Teeth should last a lifetime, still there when you’re only bones,

Looking upwards in repose, smiling up beneath gravestones.

Countryman.

Here are a couple of relevant quotes,

It is better to die on your fee than live on your knees.

                             Quotation by Emiliano Zapata (1877 - 1919)

 If you'r going to kick authority in the teeth, you might as well use two feet.

                             Quotation by Keith Richards

You may like to see my tractors

It seems that you young un's would be interested in what tractors I've got, well tonight we'll stick to the up to date ones, well I think they are, but they're an old man's choice, driven steady, cleaned now and then, oil changed on time and sometimes even greased.

First there is the Fastrac, at the moment I am hedge cutting, done most of mine, and now started on my contract customers.  Had a stone go through the lower door window last year and replaced it with a plastic green house panel, glued it in, you would never know if I hadn't said, and now the rear rounded glass quarter panel is badly cracked, so a bit late, I have fitted some wire mesh to protect it.

Next is the Deutz Agrotron  it 85hp and today we had some yearling heifers eat their way through a briar patch and got into the wood, so I have got the post knocker on and been fencing. I fitted the brackets for the knocker to go on the front, it's a lot easier to see what your doing and you can reach on top of hedge banks, and across ditches, but having a longer hydraulic pipe slows the drop of the hammer a bit, but I can live with that. This was Matt's tractor, and as it turned out, it pulled a farm trailer, his granddads three ton fergy trailer, with his coffin on, on his last journey to his grave. (See the storey of Matthew in my earlier blogs). The tractor is just turning up ten thousand hours on the clock and looks like it could do the same again. We have broken some windows and the frameless door, when mowing with a disc mower on seeds. Every pane of glass is curved and by gad they are expensive to replace, the insurance people (NFU) slapped a big surcharge, we pay the first fifty quid each time.    

The Discovery I run belonged to a business man, who occasionally pulled a caravan, and had over a hundred thousand miles on the clock, I don't think it had ever seen mud, but now its seeing real life, pulls the stock trailer, and a three ton flat Indispension trailer. I took some scrap metal to the scrap yard eight miles away, the outfit was snakeing and twisting if I went over thirty miles an hour, and over the weigh bridge I had got just short of four tons on board. Then on an up hill junction halt sign had to drop it into low range to be able to pull away, so I think it will have come to its last home.  In the picture below its got the small Ifor Williams trailer hitched up, this saves having to chuck dirt thing in the back.  

In the picture you see my loader on the Agrotron will not stack the bales more than three high, but then we have quite a long hay barn. Also in the back ground is the three ton trailer loaded up with an old Fordson Elite three furrow plough and a matching furrow press.  Sixty years ago that was the bees knees, they fitted a three row seed box on top of the press and you drilled the wheat as you ploughed and it had a following harrow to cover the seed. Job done all in one pass, probably about five or six acres a day. This outfit is pulled by my Fordson E27N but I'll show you that on another occasion.

Thanks for the tremendous response I got from well round the world, when I asked "Is everyone realy out there" can't mention you all individually, but only now do I realise the power of the PEN so to speak.

This is another one of my quotes but I don't know who said it.

When the going gets too easy, you may be going down hill.

Is everyone really out there

Thanks for clicking onto my blog page, I'm just trying to get my head round how many people really take in what they read, and how far these messages get around the world, Untill I get some real replies I won't know, all I do know is that there has been quite a few "hits" is that the right expresion, on my blogs

Om sitting ere with nothing to do, n' its Wednesday afternoon,
Looking at a web site, its forum post are well in tune,
The latest on Bluetongue virus, first outbreak of the year,
Message goes out all over the world, received all loud and clear.

Makes you wonder who's out there, reading what I've writ,
All about the olden days, some tough times then admit,
But in between, some better times, of these I do recall,
Farming always been like that, on farms both large and small.

There's Aussie farmer, and He his self, and Her self an all,
Jim C, Bluetooth and Kansas farmer, through lot of names I trawl,
Matt s and Pasty girl, and Jane King the boss O the lot,
And also a Viewfromtheothersideofthefence also we have got.

Canadean farm hand, and Carolin, Stocks, Sweedhurler as well,
Tim Teague he's Pure Hereford, Mildred were in for a real damp spell,
Isabel Davies does her best, to keep everything under control.
But it was running very slow, sent off down the mine dig coal.

Tesla Coils with rape in store, I read them all in one go,
Jacobus, and Townie, Peter Wells with his portrait that's below,
It would be nice to get a message, from everyone I don't know,
Just to prove you are people, with a proper name and say hello.

I hope you read my web site, Fretw its Owd Fred by name,
Hundred hits on most of the posts, hundred replies is the aim,
Bin hedge cutting since first light this morning, rest in the afternoon,
Sit and think about all the work, and Matt s finding his tune.

Owd Fred

You all have a bank manager, BEWARE

Village Craftsmen - The Blacksmith

Up until the 1950's almost every village  had all the regular craftsmen that covered all aspects of village life, from the nurse come midwife, to the wheelwright who not only laid out the deceased made the coffin and dug the grave, and pulled the four wheel hand pulled hearse, then made or repaired farm carts, made ladders, wheelbarrows,gates, and every thing in between. A brick layer on the estate maintinance, a cobler who mended and made boots and shoes and made and repaired horse harnes, a shop keeper, a school , the vicar and of coarse the blacksmith, not forgetting the pub.  There was nine farms that surrounded the vilage five of which were in the centre, all the farms milked cows, and around 4pm in the afternoon herds of cows walking on the village roads in all directions, to their respective farms from out lying day pastures. Two herds passed through the this ford every day 

 This is an old picture of St Chads church looking from the north side, to the east end (left) of the church you can see the many chimneys of the big old vicarage which is now demolished 

Mr Giles travelled from Stafford to the village for two and sometimes three days a week; he also had a forge in East gate Street Stafford. With the number of horses rapidly declining it did not justify a full time blacksmith in the village. His main job was shoeing, welding repairing and fabricating gates and fences. Outside the blacksmiths shop was a heavy cast iron round disc, about 5ft across; to clamp wooden wheels down to while it was being hooped. To the extreme right ,at the chimney end was a tall narrow furnace ,the inside dimensions being only 18inches wide, but 6ft high and six foot long to heat up the wheel hoops to hammer them onto the wooden wheels.

 This furnace had a crude steel door to make the draught draw under the gap at the bottom, and through the fire grate and up through the depth of coke, to provide the heat. The fumes joined the chimney that is still there to this day. This furnace had quite thick walls and an arch at the top, then a depth or sand on top to help keep the heat in a tiled roof to keep the weather out.

The original doors still cover the windows, but then they were just opening, never had been glazed. To the left of the double doors was a large pile of sweepings out of the shoeing bay, comprising of hoof trimmings and filings, dried on mud carried in the horse's hooves, and whatever the horses cared to leave behind. Through the double doors was the shoeing bay where the horses were tied up. Then through a door immediately on the right, the first thing you saw in the middle was the anvil, this stood on a large piece of  elm log to bring the top of the anvil to about two and a half foot high, handy hammering height. To the left was a pile of worn out horse shoes, some with nails still in. On the right fastened to a bench was a metal bending tool to form the hoops for cart wheels, this could be adjusted to how tight the bend needed to be. The strip of flat iron would be heated then the end fed over the first roller under the second and over the third. A big cranking handle turned the rollers the middle roller was screwed down to put pressure to curve the metal. The next along the bench was a large blacksmiths vice; this had a heavy bracket along the front edge of the bench, and a leg down into the floor. A long shiny bar with a knob at each end to tighten it with, and well worn jaws that had gripped and been hammered for what seemed to be generations. Also on this bench in front of the second window was a pillar drill , this had a large flywheel that turned horizontally above your head and a crank handle to the side driving it, underneath was a huge chuck and a small vice to hold the metal while being drilled.

At the far end of the shop is the forge, this was made of bricks. At the front was an arch about eighteen inches high, by three feet wide with all sorts of scrap metal (useful off cut is the term I'm looking for) stuffed under for safe keeping. But the arch has a more practical reason for being there; it's for the blacksmith to put the toes of his boots under so he can stand closer to the forge without bending forward. The top edge of the forge the bricks had a rounded edge then nine inches in it was filled up with fine coke. The hearth was open on two sides, and bricked round on the other two with metal lining to protect it from the heat .Over the top was a metal hood with inches of dust on it leading into a brick chimney. At the back of the forge were the bellows, at one time, before I can remember he used the old bellows worked by foot pedal, made out of leather? These stayed there for quite a number of years, but got hidden by the "useful off cuts" but now the blowing was done by electric fan. All round the front and sides of the forge, except where he stood, were brackets holding all the tongs and tools of the trade. On the wall forming the left hand side of the hearth was his office; this took the form of a couple of nails with notes thrust onto them. One held the draughtsman's drawings of some fabrication job he had to do (drawn freehand on a torn off piece of cardboard full of thumb prints) one of many that had been put on before it. The other nail held an assortment of his wardrobe leather aprons jerkins and leggings that were in varying stages of dilapidation, the oldest at the back, right up to his older cap used when shoeing horses on the top. He had to reach just under this pile to operate the switch for the new electric fan.

First job when he arrived in a morning would be to light the forge, a few sticks that had been kept in a dry and warm place over night would be placed in a hollow in the centre of the hearth on a couple of sheets of crumpled newspaper. This was lit and the fan put on low, as the flames got enthusiastic some coke was gradually pulled over the burning sticks, and within a couple of minutes the fire was hot enough to boil the kettle. The fan was turned off and the fire would remain dormant most of the day, it being ready at a moments notice when switched on again. Along side the forge was a  rusty dousing tank three quarters full of equally rusty water, where metal that needed cooling quickly was dunked in with a tremendous fizzling in clouds of steam, on the end of his tongs.

At the back of his work shop was a rack that held new metal of all dimensions, some for horse shoes some for cart wheel hoops, some for making gate hinges   and all the ironwork needed when the wheelwright was making a new cart or wagon plus everything in between. This had to be reached by climbing over, jobs waiting to be done, things taken in as patterns and all the useful off cuts that might come in handy (should I say scrap metal). The only clear floor area was from the door to the forge and round the forge, then round the anvil. 

 Every so often they would fire up the furnace at the end of the blacksmith's shop for hooping wheels that Mr Clark the wheelwright had made or repaired. The hoops would be lifted out red hot and burned onto the wooden wheel that was clamped firmly on a huge cast iron disc that was permanently on the frontage of his shop. When hammered down into place firmly, water would be poured on to cool the iron hoop and shrink it tight onto the wooden wheel, these would then be rolled across the road and leaned against the wooden fence opposite, as many as twenty five of all sizes and weights ready to be repainted and refitted to there respective vehicles. On certain days of the week he would concentrate on shoeing horses mainly shires some cobs or float horses and a few hunters.

When our two remaining shires wanted shoeing we would be put up on top of them and set off to school, Mr Giles would lift us down to continue to school, then on the way home for dinner we would be pushed back on top to take them home again. Some times he would let us switch his forge fan on to heat a horse shoe, the shoe on the end of his tongs he would bury it in the centre of the burning coke for about a minuet, and it would come out more than red hot but going white hot with little sparks jumping off it. This would hold the heat while he burned it onto the trimmed hoof of the shire, this made the shoe touch the hoof all the way round and bed it in amid clouds of smoke. The shoe was then cooled before nailing it onto the horses hoof, the new set of shoes would last 6 to 8 weeks depending on the roadwork do. Old "Flower" one of our shires, had a habit of twisting her one back foot every time she put her foot down and would ware this one shoe out in a month, so an extra visit was necessary for that one foot every now and then.

I can still hear the ringing of the anvil as the blacksmith pumled the soft hot metal into the desired shape, after every blow to the metal he was working with there would be at least two smaller bounces of the hammer on the anvil creating a very sharp ringing, then two or three blows to the hot metal quite a dull sound. As the metal cooled to a dull red it would harden again and have to be reheated then the finer touches would be made turning it over and around until it reached the shape he wanted. It was a very hot job, sleeves rolled up and a heavy leather apron on, his cap turned slightly more than when he was cool and tipped back a little. Everything he used was shiny made so with the palm of his hardened hands that held the skill of many years of experience

The blacksmiths shop closed around 1975 as did the wheelwrights, horses had reached there lowest numbers, with no shires at all in this district, but riding horses and ponies are on the steady increase and mobile farriery are taking over. The demand for wooden carts and wagons gradually came to an end as tractors with hydraulic tipping became more popular.

This was the blacksmiths shop  in 1945 when we were going to School. The tall narrow door on the right, was a furnace in which the iron hoops were heated red hot then hammered over the wooden wheel, which was clamped tight on the cast iron circle, permanently situated outside his shop.

             I Remember Blacksmiths Shop

This was the blacksmiths shop in  1945 when we moved to the village and started school

I remember blacksmiths shop, all dingy dark and dusty,
Great big pile of horse shoes outside, all a going rusty,
Tom Giles was smithies name, all jolly strong and hot,
With shoeing father's horses, he did the blooming lot.

When setting off to school one morn, the horses we would take,
To blacksmiths shop for shoeing, would make us very late,
On going home for dinner, these horses we would ride,
Pitched up high on Flower, the others led with pride.

Welding cutting bending shaping, everything was there,
To make it new, or fettle up, to make a good repair,
His stock of metal had a rack, but most of it had missed,
It lay about in piles around his forge, which was in its midst.

All day you'd hear the hammer, a ringing out aloud,
Hitting out the red hot metal, made him very proud,
The different shapes and sizes, needed for a gate,
Lay around the workshop floor, no need for him a mate.

Alone he worked all day until; we kids came out of school,
Then he would be invaded, his metal then would cool,
On his forge he put his kettle, there to make some tea,
We kids tried out his drilling tool, great flywheel turned by me,

With tongs we tried to heat the metal, in the furnace hot,
To make and shape we would try, to bend on anvil, but,
Not hot enough to work it, so pumping the bellows up,
It made the spark fly every where, our school cloths covered us.

The water in the blacksmiths shop, was warm to wash our hand,
With dowsing all the things he'd made, red hot metal into bands,
With cloths soiled and singed, and not a hole in site,
Mother knew where we had been, said it's late it's nearly night.

Countryman

Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of the fire.
Quotation by W B Yeats

A Bit Long in the Tooth

I know this is up to date but it will give you an insite into the bloke who's writing this blog. I am trying to see myself as others may see me, in other words a reflection.

He's had seventy years in farming, getting a bit long in the tooth, although he's still got all his own teeth, moving a bit slower, standing a bit shorter, gone grey on top and can see his scalp through thin hair, got no work in him, looked after by his misses too well for his own good, and now got a new arm chair.    

The Weather forcast by Owd Fred's mother

I know I'm a bit owd fashion, and the weathers getting everyone down at the moment, but my mother always "did" the weather for us, and all the family, she could give a "forecast" based on what stage the phase of the moon was at, and watching the house barometer closely. Even into her eighties we could contact her and the first thing was, the weather, and was advised when to start hay making or combining and so on, and the prospects for the following week.

From what I learned from her, the weather will set a trend in the first few days of the new moon and that trend will often follow through till the next moon.  Take this spell of wet weather right now, the last time we had more than a few dry days strung together was last month when the combines could go and many were making hay not round bale silage to save on the plastic, so not a bad month.

From the first of this month August, when it was the new moon the weather "broke" and we have rarely had two days dry stung together since. This trend in the weather will continue until the next new moon which is at the end of this month. This is why everyone is saying when is it going to end.

My prediction is that if the weather turns for the better in the first few days of next month, September, the chances are that it will stay in that trend for the whole of the next phase of the moon.

Can you remember occasionally we get what they call an "Indian Summer" in September October time, well these weather periods last usually for the month or the phase of the moon. And if two of these weather patterns string along one after the other, we are usually in deep trouble, this is when we get hose pipe bans and the fields start going brown , or we get sodden ground with the seeds rotting in the fields and floods.

So it all boils down to take what the weather throws at you and work with the weather, you can't change it. Trying to work against the weather is disastrous.

Now seeing as this seems to be  MOTHER's blog,

I recall the work she used to put into her pantry to keep four of us lads growing and my dad and uncle Jack as well.  We had no Tesco's about then to feed the family most things came from the land we grew up on. a thing that everyone would like to go back to, but don't realise the work that this involved

I Remember Mothers Pantry

 Mothers pantry six great long shelves, beams held bacon pair of hams,
At far end was safe for beef joint, above was shelf for all the jams,
Kilner jars both empty and full, filled top shelved four jars deep,
Bread in bin held six loaves, lid on cheese and butter to keep.

 She picked and peeled the fruit she needed, all the summer long,
The pears she quartered packed in tall jars, always with a song,
Sugar syrup was poured over, till jar it over flowed,
The tops new seals were tightened lightly, only till they're boiled.

Plumbs and damsons as they came ready, they were done the same,
Birco boiler with false bottom, all the jars to steam,
Six inches water turned on full, fifteen jars it held,
One hour simmering lifted out, lids firm on as if to weld.

When they cooled the lids were tested, lose ones she re-boiled.
On the shelves she did put them, with all the jars she'd toiled
Onions beetroot eggs and gherkins, also cabbage red,
All the shelves were filled to bustin, right up to the bin for bread.

Sunday morning father lifted, down his twelve bore gun,
Down far field he was looking, for a rabbit run,
Just disturb them in the long grass, let them have a barrel,
Pick it up and gut it, dove tail back legs, it won't quarrel

Hang it two days to let meat set, mother skins it like a vest
Head and feet off for the pan, quartered all the rest,
Short crust pastry then is rolled, to fasten down the top
Blackbird pie vent then is fitted, poured down its beak the stock.

Rabbit pie hot for dinner, or its better cold,
With bread or taters it tastes good, crust all big and bold,
It should be served along with what, all rabbits love to eat,
Carrots cabbage turnips sprouts, peas and lots of leeks

When it come to chicken, or its more likely an old hen,
Mothers realy mustard , as she walks around the pen,
Looking for the one, that's  not broody or in lay
The poor old thing, ring its neck, without undue delay.

When it comes to geese and ducks, they're delt the same,
Dressing them as we all watch, the cat from outside in she came,
Neck chopped off she would remove, the wind pipe from the duck,
Then to her mouth she put and blew, out came a startling quack.

On the geese removed the feet, at knee joint half way up,
The sinues had to be pulled out, or leg they would be tough,
On handing us the feet with long, sinues hanging out,
We pulled and made webbed stretch and close, causing us to shout.

The butcher came to kill the pig, upon the bench he put him,
Scalding water washed all over, scrape hair up to his chin,
Lifted up to highest beam , his guts they did remove,
We kids learnt more of what to store, of this we did approve.

Some pork was given out, to whom killed pigs at different time,
Shoulder sides and hams were salted, fat was rendered down,
Loved the scratching nice and crispy, lard stored all in jars,
Hams and sides covered in muslin, hung in pantry by my pa.

Pastry she did make on Sat dee, while we kids could help to taste   
Mince pies jam tarts large and small, we always rolled what's left,
Dried currants by the hand full, spread on just half the doe,
Flapped over rolled and pressed, in the oven would go.

It always gained some colour, the pastry in our hands,
Hands got cleaner, with the rolling - cutting with the bands,
Out of oven, each of ours did come,
Eaten as they hit the table, never left a crumb.

A mouse trap fully loaded, behind the pantry door,
With lump of stale cheese, standing on the floor,
It was always at the ready, in case invaders came,
They never stood a chance get fat, always us to blame.

Mother tected pantry door but never it was locked,
We always knew what she had got, hidden neeth the jars she stacked,
So all my life the pantry loaded, to the gunnels' high,
We lads we never felt pain of hunger, like mouse that we deny.

  This is a quotation by J G Holland---- 

God gives every bird its food, but he does not throw it into its nest

At Onslow Park this Weekend

In the working area there will be a big plough, a Ransomes Hexatrac five furrow pulled by a crawler driven by Roy.

I bought this plough five years ago out of a Tractor & Machinary magazine, it had been parked up when reversable ploughs came in and it formed the foundation of a huge scrap ruck, where it stayed for over 40years. I rang up about it and was told it could not be seen until it had been uncovered and the scrap on top of it sold. He took my number as he did with six other people, and I never heard from him at all, he had lost all the phone numbers, and I was the first to ring him up, and he described what it was and its condition. I bought it over the phone not seen and arranged transport home. I spent nearly a year on loosening up it joints and replaced the mole boards discs and skims then painted it to match my County Crawler  

Found a Ramsomes Hexatrac

Found a Ramsomes Hexatrac, five furrows in a row,
Did have six but one got lost, in a scrap ruck well below,
It came from south coast Lewes, over looks the channel,
Only used a few years when, mounted ploughs became its rival.

Pulled out the field and parked, for forty years or more,
Years of scrap iron piled on top, red coat of rust it wore,
Advertised in magazine, list of numbers he had got,
But nere could see the plough, still beneath its iron plot.

Took a couple of months until, it was unearthed for to see,
Then lost the numbers he had got, then got a call from me.
Bought it o'r the phone that night, arranged a haulage home,
Robo's wagons go his way, along the south coast roam.

Picked it up in mid week, three days touring it did get,
All round London city touted, not even getting wet,
Arrived at Robo's Seighford depot, late on Satdee morning,
Amazed to see the size and weight, for care and oil its calling.

All the joints and screw threads seized, caster wheel was solid,
The poor owd plough found good home, soaked with diesel rapid,
Gradually it loosened up, all the joints and handles turned,
Fitted brand new mole boards, points n discs n skims it earned.

Ready now the field to go, and set the furrows up,
So many furrows to adjust, for days it was no letup,
Eventually it all was set, a working weekend booked,
This rusty hulk of iron now, a plough again it looked.

A dazzle of shinny metal now, beneath its rusty frame,
To turn a crooked furrow, it's the ploughman you must blame,
It turns them good and even, and covers a lot of ground,
To learn to start and finish now, a must for me I'm bound.

Ready now for coat of paint, to match the County Crawler,
Light blue frame and wheels of orange, it really looks a mauler,
But on light land takes it easily, a real good matching pair,
To find another plough like this, there's nothing to compare.

For five years I have had the set, lot of work and pleasure had,
Its heavy to load and get about, no longer am I a lad,
Time to find a new home, not too far so I can go and see,
Them still working how they used to, all still working ably.

                                                                              Countryman

This is my County Crawler I did up to pull the plough, here it is working at home. I have taken it to about five or six ploughing matches each year and it makes an exelent job. The whole outfit got to be a maul for me to load and unload, so I sold it to a younger chap Roy from Chetton Bridgnorth in Shropshire about thirty miles away.

It is Roy who is taking it to the Onslow Park Vintage Weekend in the working area. Now I've got a Fordson E27N with a three furrow Fordson Elite plough and a matching furrow press for our local working weekends and a two furrow hydraulic Ford Ransme two furrow to go to ploughing matches with.

From my own life experiences about the countryside

This is about when I first started to try my hand at writing.  

The Country Side In Verse.

Poems and verses from my own life experiences. Centred round my home, the farm, the village and all the characters that lived and worked in the village when I was growing up. I have lived here all my life.

Born at Brook House Farm, Aston Doxey, reared from the age of four at Beeches Farm Seighford, Farmed at Church Farm from the age of twenty one to the age of forty, then moved to TheYews Farm, up to present day. All within the Parish of Seighford no more than a mile and half apart.

I Have Just Got Over Retiring Age

Memory is a fickle thing for me, and looking back years ago it seems most clear, but then there is no one going to challenge what you claim to know.Details of the most irrelevant things come to mind, and always after you should have remembered, and too dam late to tell. 

 

I've just got over retiring age,
And only now put pen to page,
And now I'm getting past my prime,
 Thing appear all in rhyme,
Following a train of thought,
It must be a bug that I've caught,

On looking back all through my life,
 How lucky I've been to have good wife,
She generally sorts out all my bugs,
As well as order all the drugs,
Cuts my hair and wash my cloths,
Boots I wash down with a hose,

Food it's bought with so much care,
Low salt and sugar be aware,
Meal are always at a regular time,
This I'm used to whole my lifetime,
Get up early every morning,
When most folks they are still a snoring,

When cows I milked got up five thirty,
 In for breakfast hands were dirty,
Not done this for twenty years,
But this old habit never blears,
A couple of hours of time and thought,
Before breakfast rhymes to mind are brought.

 

I  Remember Father's Cattle

In the mid 1950's vets were recommending worming young stock with a new product called phenothiazine.This was a powder and had to be mixed with water and a pint or so was pour down their throats (drenched)

To catch the young stock that needed worming, we used to drive them into a loose box  or stable or the small cow shed that only held six cows, this meant that they were tight and could not run away, two of us lads went in among them and the bottles of drench would be handed to us. I don't think crushes had been invented then, but father later made one for himself out of oak, and the blacksmith made some straps of iron to brace it all together.

 

I remember father counting, cattle each and every day,
He counts and looks at every one, to see they're all OK,
Now one day he sees's one cough, and then it was another.
If we don't do something quickly, we'll be in a bit of bother.

So off down he goes to get, some wormer in a rush,
And back he comes and reads the label, says get them in a crush,
No crush have we, but four strong lads, we'll get them in a stable,
Mix water and green powder in a bucket, put it on the table.

Four long neck bottles we did find, for dosing all the cattle,
Phenothiozine, it's called, and keep it stirred or it will settle,
The pop had gone as we made sure; we loved the fizzy taste,
One pint and half was dose that's needed, over dose was waste.

Pint ladle and a funnel now, into the bottled it was measured,
Us lads went in among the stock, as tightly they were gathered,
The bottles we did pass to one, who had ones chin held high,
Uptip the med-sin to back of throat, do not look down or ni.

The cow that coughs, coughs both ends, and chuck it back they try,
Its just a waste as we were told, but hits you in the eye,
Soon learn to leave it quickly, as soon as we could shift,
As dosing cattle get there own back, now who's being thrift.

We often wondered why we lads, had grown so big and strong,
When other lads around us, were only lean and long,
Put it down to fresh air, and read farmers weekly magazine,
But all the time it wasn't, twas Phenothiazine.

Countryman

 

Better even things up and put one or two in about Mother

In this one where we refere to "steam coal" it was coal that was rolled off the tender of a steam engine, as the main line ran through our fields. Most men were in the home guard and father got to know this engine driver from there, he often exchanged a half a pig for no end of coal. He would slow his engine and his fireman would go up top would roll big lumps off as fast as he could, when father counted his cattle in a mornings he would take a cart with him and bring back the coal, all this happened a a set time each morning for over a week, or untill he had got enough.

I don't know how mother came to have such a strong grip, but if she caught a hold of you for some reason , there was no hope of getting away, perhaps it was the hand milking in her younger days that gave her that grip, I remember some old cows were very hard to milk, it seems to have been bred out of them nowadays along with the bad feet and curled up toes and pendalus udders. 

 

Mother had a Grip like Iron

 

When mother was young she had help, around the family farm,
Milking cows by hand them days, strengthened sinews in her arms,
Her hand were still ladies hands, no bulky muscle show,
Belied the strength built into them, beyond you'd ever know,

Mother had a grip like iron, nothing failed her grip,
Screw lids on jars and bottles, give it me she'd quip,
The grip she had to skin a rabbit, or ring an old hen's neck,
Crush a grape; she'd crush a walnut, power she'd got by heck.

Round by the coal ruck was her hammer, there to break the coal,
Coal it came in big lumps, some from steam loco it was bowled,
For coal alone the big lump hammer, it was there reduce.
Best steam coal was hard and bright, cracked it down for use,

When we were young she'd lace our boots, bow she'd pull real tight,
They never came undone all day, right into the night,
Sewing did with button thread, no tear came open again,
And buttons only came off once, thread she used times ten.

With age her hands were not so nimble, feel it gradually went,
Knitting that she'd done all her life, on wool she no more spent,
Her skin and nails were without blemish, soft and pink they were,
But on grip she never lost her strength; she was the best mum ever.

Countryman

 

When she sat down in the evening, mother would pick up her knitting, she could knit without looking and when we had our first television she could watch and knit at the same time. Jumpers hats gloves scarves socks she always had a good stock of wool. There seemed to be two stock colours, grey and fawn, other colours were bought for a specific jumper or sweater. When the need arose she would be darning socks, nowadays they get thrown and a new pair bought.

She liked to experiment with new patterns which she gleaned from her magazine, but mostly she only did the patterns up the front where it would be seen, then she could "bomb" on with the back and would produce a jumper in a week. 

 

Mothers Weekly Magazine

 

   Mother had weekly magazine, knitting patterns every week,
These she used to knit up the fronts, of our jumpers so to speak,
Some were cable some were ribbed, some were chequered squares,
Some were bobbles in a lump, couldn't buy anything that compares.

The wool she bought was in skeins, a dozen at a time,
This she got us to hold while she wound into balls like twine,
We held our hands out at full stretch, while she wound full tilt,
Arms would ache on the second one, then our arms would wilt.

Brother next in line was asked, turns we had to take,
Wool was grey, or fawn, or blue, for what she'd got to make,
Socks she knit one every night, jumpers took over a week,
Stitch the front and back together, sleeves to the arm holes tweak.

Started with the welt, the grippe bit round the waist,
Tested it on the one who it's for, half way round our hips she placed,
On up to the armpits, try it for length again,
Then the neck onto the shoulder, it was a blooming pain.

Next the socks they're mostly grey, started top welt round,
These were pulled up to our knee, and turned the top bit down,
Knit on down to the heel, measured it on our legs,
Three needles used on this job, pulled them on like stuck out pegs.

Heels we always wore out first, so in with the wool she knit,
Strong button thread along side the wool, in pattern this wasn't writ,
So when they did get bare and thin, she darned them time agen,
Then they were called our working socks, for us working men.

Sometimes when jumpers, got wore out up the front,
She would unpick the seams, and rewind a whole segment,
Then would knit again, into little gloves or woolly hat,
In winter balaclava, or scarves on many things she'd tat.

When we were young she'd knit and knit, no woollies bought at all,
As we left home she knit again, next generation when they were small,
Knit up to her seventies, when finger would not flex no more,
Big blow it was, she knit by feel, for old age yet, there is no cure.

Countryman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looking Back them Years Ago (1940’s)

I thought I'd lighten up the blog with a tale of when we started school and growing up, and when we were left in the evening for the first time. Father always made our toys and were almost inevitably tractors with trailers. When father made a toy it was made to last and usualy carved out of a block of oak.

Looking Back them Years Ago (1940's)

Looking back them years ago, when we were little boys,
We bumped our knees and elbows, and father made us toys,
Played around the farmyard, in and out the sheds,
Testing all the puddles, thick mud into the house it treads.

When at first we started school, father trimmed our hair,
Combed and washed with new cap, new shoes without compare,
Short trousers and new jacket, a satchel on our back,
We all went there to study, but often got a smack.

Times tables chanted every morning, and the alphabet,
Till we knew them off by heart, of this I‘ve no regret,
Isn't till you leave school, that you realise,
How useful school and education, help to make us wise.

Father showed us all his skills, from very early age,
Studied Farmers Weekly, read almost every page,
The pictures they were mainly, of inter-est to us,
News and reports on prices, what a blooming fuss.

We also had the Beano, a comic for us kids,
Dandy and the Eagle, must have cost dad quid's,
Him he had his farmers weekly, it must be only fare,
Mother had a knitting book, for inspiration n' flare.

It must have taken fifteen years, till we felt grown up,
Left alone at home at night, parents meeting as a group,
In fact it was a whist drive every Friday night,
We supposed to be in bed, but sometimes had a fright.

An owl it hooted in bright moonlight, scared us all to death,
Door that blew in wind, with fright we nearly lost our breath,
Scooted up the stairs so fast, and under the bedclothes dove,
In darkness we were frightened, it was for courage that we strove.

On hearing the back door open, it was never locked,
Foot steps in the kitchen, bedroom door we chocked,
Then we heard mothers Coo-eee, relieved to hear her call,
Have you missed me duckies? we bloomin have an all.

So our sheltered life was over, sometimes fended for our selves,
Mother learned us basic cooking, as long as plenty on the shelves,
One at a time we left home, with basic thing that we were taught,
This knowledge we're to build on, foundations life not bought.  

  Countryman  (Owd Fred)