November 2008 - Posts
We all had a stir, with the wooden spoon, and to make a wish,
Four silver thrupeny pieces added, one to each basin we'd pitch.
Now on 30 November it is Advent Sunday, and its before this date is when you are meant to make your traditional Christmas puddings. At home when we were kids we all helped on the mixing of all the ingredients including the insertion of the silver thrupenny piece into each pudding basin, then we knew they were actually in each of the puddings that were made. All four were steamed in the old Birco electric boiler before storeing on the top shelf in the pantry till christmas. It encouraged us to eat the pudding at Christmas time always hoping to be the one that finds the coin, but alas at times it got swallowed accidentally. Mother never lost any, she watched carefully the following day, and the coin was recovered. I don't know how many times those coins had been through our guts, but they were recycled and used the following year no matter what.
Our puddings would be double the size in this picture, rarely did it ever have time to put holly on top, and it was deemed to be too dangerous to fire with four young lads to keep an eye on, and a waste of good brandy.
Mothers Christmas Puddings
Mother made her Christmas puddings, well before Advent,
Got to be stored and maturing, a month or more to ferment,
All the ingredients were ready, along the pantry shelves,
Big bowl for mixing fetches out, for a wooden spoon she delves.
Raisins, currants, sultanas, beef suet, sugar and flour,
Nuts, eggs, lemon juice n' peel, stale bread too hard to devour
Then to the bottles, Guinness and the Brandy,
A mixture of spices, everything's on the table ready and handy.
Thirteen ingredients there is said to be, to mix all in the bowl
To fill four big basins, keep us going till New Year was her goal
We all had a stir, with the wooden spoon, and to make a wish,
Four silver thrupeny pieces added, one to each basin she'd pitch.
Puddings tied down with a cloth, corners pulled up tied on top,
Steamed for a good two hours, stored on top shelf she'd pop,
Cool it was would store for months, in fact its only one,
Exiting it was to see who, gets the thrupeny piece be-gum.
The thrupeny pieces mother kept, safe from year to year,
Same ones boiled every time, occasionally swallowed I fear,
She watched so closely following day, lose them she would not,
These were rare when we were kids, and dug it out the pot.
It had been a long tradition, for these puddings that she makes,
Made them every year the same, not long does it take,
Save one for Easter time, another special day,
See who's got the thrupeny piece, the one who shouts hooray.
Countryman
Part of the secret of success of life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.
Mark Twain (1835-1910)
Albert Hine
Descibe the man were looking at, a jerkin he did ware,
Tied round the middle with binder twine, to hold more than just a tare,
Cordroy trousers tucked in spats, round his hob nail boots,
These are charactor of the village nearly all of whom worked about the farms, few if any traveled out to other parts for work. This is what I remember of Albert in the 1940's when I was a little lad
Albert Hine was a hard working man only short in stature, and quite round in his latter years. He had a weather beaten face and small red veins showing on his chin and nose and red rims to his ears. More often than not he had a dark three or four day stubble on his chin . He always wore a cap as most men did at that time, on the few occasions that his hat was removed, or blown off, it revealed thinning flattened hair that had a permanent line where his cap fitted round his head, showing even more when he was sweating or when it was raining. He always wore a waist coat , an old jacket and a well worn old leather jerkin. This was usually fastened round his middle with a piece of binder twine. On his feet were good stout hobnail boots that had been mended many times. Most men in the country areas all had their own lasts, and a box of hob nails. There was quite a few varieties of these nails, the single ones were nailed all round the edge of the sole with triple nails spread around the centre of the sole. On the heel was a blacksmith made U-shaped tip and a smaller tip on the toe of his boots. Round the calf of his legs he always had leggings which buttoned up the side of his leg and a small buckle at the top to protect his corduroy trousers.
On the club room night once or sometimes twice a week, the men of the village would meet for a game of snooker or games of dominoes and cards. On this occasion out would come his second best cap jacket and corduroy trousers (or put another way next years work clothes).
The only other thing he wore (as opposed to carrying) was his pipe. This was not always lit, but when it was it was prodded full of tobacco with his fist finger that was permanently the same colour as the inside of his pipe. Out with his Swan Vesta`s (matches to those who don't know) match pinched between his thumb and first finger cupped with the lighted end in the palm to protect it from the wind and rain. Then he introduced it over the pipe, the flame now being drawn through the tobacco with intermittent clouds of smoke rising around his cap until it was well alight. This cupping of the hand was always the way it was done even at the Friday night whist-drives in the old club room, when there was no wind and rain.
Ivy Cottage
This is one of a pair of farm cottages known as "Spight cottages", situated on the vicarage corner theywere built to prevent the view from the Old vicarage to Seighford Hall half a mile away. ( The vicar and the Lord of the Manor did not like each other and these cottages wer put up to block the view from the vicarage hence the name "Spight Cottages")The other cottage is situated between it andSt Chads Church. As a tied cottage it belonged to the Yews Farm, and at one time it was occupied by the cowman, then latterly by Albert Hine who was the wagoner. In the 1950's it was stripped of its ivy and both cottages were cement rendered and painted white.
Albert lived at Ivy Cottage (on the end of the Vicarage drive) and being only a short man he kept all his hedges quite short as well. Most of the garden was cultivated .Starting with the tallest items it was runner beans and as the row always seemed to run away from the road hedge, you could see the Church clock from any where along that part of the road. The next tallest thing was tobacco and as this was his largest crop area. When it came to maturity in September (it got to about three feet high) you could not see the clock.. This crop was cut in large leaves and hung to dry in the house to preserve them, then crisped up to rub into usable tobacco in the cool oven over night as and when required
Living next but one to St Chad's Church, he was a bell ringer, Thursday was the chosen night in the week was always kept as practice night, then every Sunday night between six and six thirty the bells were rung, then a few other special occasions like weddings or visiting ringers. In the belfry there was sometimes maintenance to be done, and if you look on the window sill of the south facing window you will find some cement that had been lettered with the names of all five ringers.
It was said in his younger days that he could walk out of the hills with a ewe under each arm such was the strength of this little man. As I said he lived at Ivy Cottage which was a farm cottage to Yews Farm where he worked as Wagoner for Charles Finnimore. You could not get a greater contrast of the sizes, between him being not a very tall man and the shire horses he worked with. When muck carting with a tipping cart that had five foot iron hooped wheels with one shire in the shafts and another in chains in front, he would walk along side with long plough lines(reigns) guiding the chain horse in front, travelling across the village green and up the Moss Lane to the fields belonging to the Yews.
He kept a couple of house cows of his own, and a few young stock on what is now the school playing field, and the small field adjoining at the end of Oldfords Lane (we call this field "Albert's Patch") . During the winter there is always water in a pool in between the two patches of ground, but in dry periods this dried up and he had to carry water from the Ford for the cattle. By now (he had retired from employment but not from work) he had a little old tractor of his own with a carrying box on the back which held two forty gallon drums
A busy man, he mowed the church yard with a scythe. His principle reason was to turn it for a few days and make it into hay for winter fodder for his stock. He. also cut the grass verges all the way to Doxey (over a mile) this was for the same reason. This activity was done after work at nights and at weekends. The hay he carted loose, as in the days before balers and stacked it in a tin roofed shed loose that he put up in one of the paddocks.
During the war, he like all the other men in the village were in the "Home Guard" (as in Dads Army) .He had to do training and be on duty on rota, billeted in the wooden village hall at Great Bridgeford . On very cold nights the pot bellied stove would be stoked up to the top with coke and glowed red hot. To save having to take the ashes out side they found a convenient hole in the floor boards under the tin sheet in front of the stove, it was a wonder it never set on fire. Some nights they had to find there way to Milford on exercise on foot across field without being seen (abiut eighr miles ). This was all without missing a days work.
The life span of Albert Hine ( he died in 1963) can be seen in the Church yard on his head stone where he and his wife are buried. A very cheerful and popular man among all the village people, he lived to the age of 70 and worked hard all around the "Village Green".
I Remember Albert Hine
Dated in the 1940's and 1950's
Albert was a Waggoner, for Charlie Finimore,
A strong and healthy man he was, and stood at five foot four,
In his younger days it's told, he would walk out of the hills
With a ewe under each arm, in winters cold and chills.
He lived at Ivy Cottage, where he grew his own tobacco,
For to keep his pipe alight, it was not a laughing matter.
As the summer days got longer, so pick leaves did he,
And hung then in the living room, the ceiling could not see,
When dry and almost crisp they got, into a draw he pressed
To keep them through the winter, by large old chimney brest.
He rang church bells on Sundays, with a team they were so loyal,
They practice in the mid week night, as if expecting royal,
He had a box, of twelve inches, though he was in his prime,
The little man he rang the tenner, keeping stead time.
The team with him at that time, they are well remembered,
It written in the belfry sill, names and bells all numbered.
All day he worked with horses, a carting muck with two,
He had the one up in traces, as the load was from the Yews,
Up to the Noons Birch field, where he hooked it out in rucks,
Ten paces up, ten paces wide, so even was the muck.
Descibe the man were looking at, a jerkin he did ware,
Tied round the middle with binder twine, to hold more than just a tare,
Cordroy trousers tucked in spats, round his hob nail boots,
Cap raked left and pipe raked right, pouch and matches in a box.
His old waist coat worn and taty, kept his big watch n matches dry,
The shirt it had few buttons , and the colar he kept it by,
For high days and holidays, when everything was clean,
And home guard duty, when the sergeant, he was very mean.
His platoon was made up of men, who worked around the farms,
They mustered in the village hall, to train as fighting men at arms,
The pork and bacon beef and taters, butter eggs and creme,
All of these were traded, mongst the brave old fighting men.
Albert kept his pipe and bacca, it was woodbines for the rest,
As the smoke it was so dense, no room for enemy they jest
This ploy worked well , no men got lost, and warmer they could keep,
Til sergeant came and caught them, so loaded up his jeep.
Two cows he kept and young stock, and a few old tatty hens,
The fields where he kept them, had sheds and tidy pens,
He mowed along the grass verge, all the way to Stafford,
To make his hay to keep them, and drew water from the ford.
All his life he worked dammed hard, but slower he did get
Albert met his maker, he was one you can't forget,
Popular and cheerful, he lived to seven,tee
Buried in Seighford church yard , remembered by me and thee.
Countyman
If there is no gardener there is no garden
--Stephen Covy
Miss her when she finally goes, to meet her maker's bullet,
End up as tough as old leather boot's, n' fill a of pack of suet.
Well its that time of year again (November) when the calves have got to be weaned, the shed has been prepare , the troughs along the front have got gates above them to stop the jumpers, the water trough has extra rails to stop them going through, enough bedding thrown down to last a month, a ring feeder positioned where it can be replenished from outside. The cows will shout by their field gate for three days, and the fencing in that area checked, and a lane end gate kept shut as a long stop. Where the cows will be bellowing is at the bottom of the gardens of nine houses, all of whom are "city" types, so to try to keep them sweet I ring the end one up each year, to forewarn them of the impending noise.
The Suckler Cows
The suckler cows they graze all summer, until we wean the calf,
When the calves we take away, cows they bellow not by half,
The calves the same in shed we keep, until they settle in,
Gates are high and fences too, all to stop them from esca-apin.
Three days it lasts, until they feel, the pain of hunger's stronger,
The cows they clear off down the field, and hang about no longer,
Calves have no choice but stay, feed them corn and feed them hay,
One month they need get used to living, in the yard all in a bay.
They all get wormed and gain no weight, till frettin they've forgotten,
Put them out on clean grass, feed supplements, no silage rotten,
There they will grow and gain the weight, they lost plus plenty more,
When at last they do get fat, read the scales its there we can't ignore.
Countryman
This is Chocky a Simmental cross Friesian, leader of the herd, she is no oil painting but always has plenty of milk, you can see her long square face in the picture, how wide her muzzle is, almost as wide as her eyes, and she is the one who has good eyesight and good hearing and always knows what is going on, on her patch. One thing she cannot resist is a bucket with a bit of corn, and once she starts moving hopefully in the right direction the others tend to follow.
The Cows Have Got a Leader (This descibes old Chocky)
The cows have got a leader, and she watches all the while,
She knows exactly what ya doing, sometimes make you smile,
Only got to touch the gate latch, and up will go her head,
And walk towards the gateway, without a word being said.
Go to count them every morning, and check that they're all okay,
They think they want a new field, and walk off all that way,
Oblige them at your peril, as they mob you round the gate,
The fencings got to be strong, if you've got to make them wait.
If more than one walks in the field, leader walks the other way,
Takes the whole lot with her, she must know its testing day,
Got to walk round whole dam field, head them to the gate,
Seems that they have forgotten, and vet's is here by eight.
Leader walking off right way, the others following her lead,
Off towards the gateway, but they're gathering speed,
All stop short of going through, and start to circle round,
A young one makes a break for freedom, loose the lot confound.
A bucket with a bit of corn, the leaders up for that,
Always first one at the trough, and give her a little pat,
She follows where you walking, out off out down the lane,
Other think they're missing out, and follow once again.
So cherish your old leader, she can save you a lot of time,
Show the young cows where to go, while she's in her prime,
Miss her when she finally goes, to meet her maker's bullet,
End up as tough as old leather boot's, n' fill a of pack of suet.
Countryman
Tongue- a variety of meat, rarely served because it clearly crosses the line between a cut of beef and a piece of dead cow
Bob Ekstrom, Pitt, MN
If the oven door was slightly open we found out that the cat even slept in the oven. But she soon found out that that was not a good place to be.
The kitchen range was the main source of heat for the whole house and it also had a back boiler to heat the water in the taps, so this was lit every morning of the year. Mother would put some chopped sticks on the hearth or in the bottom of the oven each night so the sticks would be dry as tinder for lighting the following morning. As you can imagine the hearth was a nice warm place for the cat to spend the night and if the oven door was slightly open we found out that the cat even slept in the oven. But she soon found out that that was not a good place to be. A shovel full of ashes was cleared out from under the grate, some news paper runkled up and sticks put on top then a shovel full of coal ( best steam coal from the railway, rolled off a steam engine tender as it past through our fields, dad knew the driver and they exchanged contraband when food was on ration). A match was applied and both dampers were pulled out to draw the fire round the oven and boiler, then she went on with other jobs such as getting breakfast for when morning milking had finished and we all came in. Read on
I Remember Mother Lighting the Kitchen Fire
First job every morning, is to light the kitchen fire,
It heats the water in the tap, heat this end of house entire
Chopped sticks were placed, hearth night before,
It catches light instantly, and with damper out it roars.
One Sunday morning after breakfast, when father tales us told,
We heard a scratching and a scowling, from the oven wo behold,
Mother opened oven door, out popped our poor old cat,
Door left part open night before, to keep warm at that.
When mother put match to fire, she latched the oven door,
To pre heat for Sunday joint, not knowing who was indoors,
The poor hot cat shot out the door, to cool off in the snow,
Not out there long the milk she sort, she was all aglow.
Big shovel full of coal brought in, and bank the fire up hgh,
The beef was put into the pan, vast heat it was then to apply,
When part done and she looked in, great waft of heat and haze,
Tatters placed around in fat , to roast till brown and brazed.
Our Sunday morning tales dad told, lasted to coffee time,
As long as nothing else came up, to delay the ending what a crime,
Then we all turned out, a brush apiece, to sweep up round the yard,
All trying to imagine all the escapades round uncle Dan's farmyard.
Countryman
Don't seem to have a relavant picture to this blog so, this is just a picture of trees in our back fields, the big oak on the right is almost dead and is a prime candidate for firewood.
Uncle Dan's Fire
This would have happened in the 1920's when father was in his teens; he and his mates were inquisitive as to know the sleeping arrangements of his uncle Dan and his house keeper. Them years ago straw was in battens not bales, so they decided that they needed to wake them up quickly in the middle of the night, and the best way was to light a fire in the middle of his front lawn, well lawn, it was a sheep grazed patch of grass round the house, lawn mowers for farmers were sheep. They brought a few battens of straw stood up wigwam stile and chucked in a match, when the fire had got going well, they stood round the corner and shouted FIRE.
Uncle Dan's Fire
I remember father telling us, about his uncle Dan,
Lived in his farm house, and they did get a plan,
His house keeper lived with him, had to check which room,
And wondered how to find out, they dare not assume.
They went round one night, out to his front lawn,
Way after they had gone to bed, curtains they were drawn,
Built a pile of straw there, and set the lot alight,
Hiding round the corner, twas middle of the night.
They had done all this, and shouted loudly FIRE,
Only wanted to see witch window, what was to transpire,
If they looked out same window, that it would confirm,
What they suspected all along, just to make him squirm.
Father never did tell us, what the outcome was,
Told us we're to young, to understand the cause,
Always looked after uncle Dan, right up to the end,
Buried in Bradley church yard now, his courage we commend.
Countyman
It is with our passions, as it is with fire and water, they are good sevants but bad masters.
Aesop (620 BC - 560 BC)
Mother always worked so hard, to rear her brood of kids,
As we grew bigger and in our teens, we must have cost her quids,
Back in the 1950's there were six of us to sit round the kitchen table for meal times, plus for a few years dads brother, uncle Jack, that made seven. It was around this time that mother had to have some help in the house each morning for about three hours. It was not like we were away at work all day, we were all in for every mealtime and no letup. For quite a while we came home from school at lunch time, before the days of school dinners.
Mother Always Worked So Hard (1945)
Mother always worked so hard, to rear her brood of kids,
As we grew bigger and in our teens, we must have cost her quids,
Four of us lads and our dad, Uncle Jack as well,
Looked after all of us, knitting socks and jumpers she excelled.
Big appetites we had, and thrifty she had to be,
Most things grown about the farm, including all the poultry.
Eggs and chicken, more often old hen, regular we had,
Potatoes beans and cabbage carrots, all grown by our dad,
Rabbit pie most every week, killed a pig and cured,
Only thing she did buy, big lump of beef well matured.
Bottled all the fruit she could, and salted down the beans,
Got the meals and baked the cakes, did washing in between,
Baker came three times a week, six loaves every call,
Corn flakes she also brought, lot of boxes I recall,
Through the war and rationing, never seemed go short,
Well fed, we all worked hard, and not much time cavort.
Countryman
At our peak before any of us left home the baker called three times a week and dropped of twenty loaves of bread The breadman took mothers grocery list on a Thursday and delivered the order on Saturday morning, this included five boxes of Kelloggs Cornflakes per week. There was no sliced bread in them days, and as we got older so the bread that mother got thicker and thicker slices.
The old thatched cottage up the road was the Woodman's Cottage. And he had a son and two daughters, and it was the middle daughter Dorothy who helped mother for getting on for twenty years, her brother Colin he worked as a fireman on the steam express trains
This is the woodman Arther Lawson with Colin as a little lad and Dorothy standing in front of him also their dog, the younger daughter Audrey would be younger still. This picture would be around 1930. This old house was taken down when the new council houses were built in the village, and Dorothy got married she and her husband Bill moved into one and Arther her dad moved with them. The family lost their mother when they were still quite young.
I Remember Breakfast
I remember sitting down, all six of us to breakfast, (7 including Jack)
Father always sat upon a bench; he made it so it would last,
We all sat round with our chins, ledged upon the table,
And watched as mother lifted out, boiled eggs with a great big ladle,
The bread was hand sliced all in doorsteps, a whole loaf at a time,
With scrape of butter, and cut into fingers (not mine,)
Double yoked eggs we could not sell, all boiled to a tee,
Salt and pepper for the oldest, not including me.
Top chopped off the eggs we scoft, all waiting for our porridge,
A two gallon tub of best raw oats, (said to improve our knowledge)
The lid had tilted with the froth and glued it to the stove
This had boiled two hours or more, and into it we dove.
(No instant porridge them days had to simmer a long time to cook properly)
The bowls were deep the spoons seemed small, as mother delt it out,
With fobs of stale bread in the bottom there to fill us up no doubt,
Some had syrup some had sugar, with milk the lot we floated,
But when this had gone, we had no space, full to top and bloated.
When bacon breakfasts we did have, cut from flitch in pantry,
Mother armed herself with carving knife, the flitch hung from a gantry,
Twelve slices she would cut all thick, no shrinking up or curling,
The lean and fat was of equal portions, it didn't need much turning.
The doorstep bread as I have said will float in fat from frying,
When turning black, it filled the kitchen, with haze beyond denying,
It smelt good and tasted good, with eggs, bacon, and black pudding,
This went down with mugs of tea, the kettle was always boiling.
Out we went to work it off, all satisfied and jolly,
Come hail or rain or sunshine, we always knew that we,
Were waterproofed from inside, top of head to feet,
With mother's special breakfast, it kept in all the heat.
Countryman
I Remember Mother taking us to Bed,
It was 1943 when there was only three of us.
When it came to seven o'clock, and we all started yarning,
We had milk and oveltine, nothing else till morning,
She carried us all up to bed , eldest on her back,
One each hip up the stairs, enough make her crack.
Up the wooden hills we went, she struggled to the top,
Flannel flashed around us, and into bed we flopped,
First she made a great deep furrow, deep in feather bed
Snuggled under, eiderdown with worn out fluffy ted
Central heating not invented, only one room warm,
Bedroom bove the kitchen, where the pillow fights were norm,
Father up the stairs he came, in bed were we real quick,
Feathers floated round the bulb, all snoring he would quip.
When father took his slipper off, we knew he must be slow,
He chased us round the bedroom and under bed we'd go,
Like rabbits down a bolt hole, he couldn't get us out,
He never really hurt us, but he had a dam good shout.
Countryman
Don't be afraid of growing slowly, be afraid of standing still
This is a story about my grandma, who worked against all odds to rear her brood of nine kids, and some of the things she got up to, and realise where I get my temper from, though it takes a lot of provoking these days to wind me up.
Mothers younger days
In his late teens father got his first rented fields, about 12 acres with a small shed where he bought his first sow, then swapped it for his first cow and started milking, this was adjacent to his own fathers farm, where just a few hundred yard down the road on another farm where my mother was born and lived.
Mother was brought up on the farm at Coton Clanford, she was one of 9 children and was a twin, they were the 7th and 8th born and reared by there elder sisters, grandma was widowed not long after the youngest was born. It was a struggle for her to run the farm and rear such a big family, it was not uncommon for her to be seen with a pair of work horses ploughing, and doing all other laborious work that had to be done about the farm, helped of coarse by some of older children and a faithful bachelor cousin Charlie, who stepped in and stayed with her for the rest of his life.
This is the old Coton Clanford Chapel as it is today, its now used by the local scouts as a HQ, but when it was used as a chapel it had seating for about twenty and a pulpit and an organ that had to be tredled, also a small vestry at the back (leanto at the far end). Still got the original iron railings along the front. There are three foundation stone buit into the front wall one each side of the porch and one above, but they are that badly weathered the sandstone lettering is now unreadable.
The Chapel was situated just down the road where, as grandma played the organ and sometimes conducted the services, it was compulsory for all the family to go twice every Sunday, a very small building holding no more than 20 seated but at times many more would pack into its small room. Very loud and enthusiastic singing was the main aim of the venue; later mother was in the Seighford school and St. Chad's church choir.
Grandma, mothers mother (Mother had lost her father and father had lost his mother,) was a very tall and robust woman, about six foot and sixteen stone, not a person to be ignored. When I knew her as a little lad she was getting bent with age and nowhere near her youthful height, She always wore a hat and a huge hat pin, normally black and a black dress almost ankle length and a dark three quarter length coat with big pockets, and to top it off when going to chapel or visiting she always had her fox fur. This hung around her shoulders with a clip on its jaw to make it look as though it was biting its own tail. The foxes eyes were bright and very piercing, and as it hung over the back of our chair at home one night father was manipulating its head round the settee just as the cat was purring round the other way, when the cat saw the piercing eyes glairing at it, the fox jumped forward . Need I say the fox lost a lot of fur and father got cussed in no uncertain terms, amid peels of laughter from all the family?
Grandma always had a very strong ‘best' float to go to town in, most people had traps or gigs, rather light and delicate in build and lightly sprung for comfort, but she had to have something that would take at least a good proportion of the family.Like car drivers now they had "road rage" and aggressive drivers as well in them days. I fear to tell you that grandma was one of these.
A long standing feud with a person who used the same road to Stafford and back, found themselves using it on the same day, on a very narrow section of road along Butterbank, but they were going in opposite directions. Neither would hold back to let the other through, so with a quick flap of the reins grandma increased speed, and rushed the gap, she set her jaw, and clenched some of her teeth, her hat pulled well down and pinned in all directions as usual . With one wheel on the grass and a steady eye for the road beyond she got through, slowed the cob to a trot she never looked back. If she had looked back as some of her family helpers did, she would have seen a trap still moving along the road slowly, the driver on his back side in the middle of the road, and the axle and wheels of the above mentioned vehicle twisted and half way over the hedge. The hubs of the respective vehicles had met with great force, grandma having the greater weight in wheels and cart contents, lost only a scuft to the paint, the other almost totally destroyed.
Mother started school with her twin sister at the age of 3 in 1912 at Seighford school walking just over a mile past Oldfords farm and across the footpath that comes down the cumbers (a field south of the school) the footpath coming through the blacksmiths garden a cottage by the side of the school, where the school care- taker lived. The head master then was Boss Plant and the infant school teacher was Miss Pye who taught me to write in the same class some 30 yrs later.
From my own recollection of Miss Pye, she was getting quite old when she taught me, but she was quite slim and elegant, old fashion in her dress always wore her hat when cycling to school on her sit-up and beg bike, it had a heavy looking chain case a large basket on the front, and carrier on the back where she strapped her rain coat, and on the rear wheel it had protective cords threaded from the mud guard to the spindle in a fan shape to stop her dress and coat catching in the wheel. She taught us to write in big bold sweeping loops then later how to join them up , I notice even now there are some people, taught by Miss Pye, who write very similar to each other, including mother and myself. Miss pyre retired and lived on to over a hundred, she lived in the same house all her life.
On leaving school mother went into "service" in a big house up the Stone road at Stafford to bring in the essential money to help keep the family at home surviving. It was a very lean time for farming and not enough work at home to keep them all in full time employment; grandma always said she looked forward to Sunday mornings as there was no postman to bring unwelcome bills.
It was around this time father bought a motor bike, an old Valasett belt driven machine and he and mother used to travel the area on a Sunday afternoon when she was off work but he had to be home for evening milking. Mother being an absolute wiz at knitting, knitted him his only pair of gloves he ever had for on the bike , they had to be specially made as he had lost two finger on one hand in an accident clearing the blade of a horse drawn mowing machine when living with his uncle. In all my life I had never known him own another pair of gloves.
Grandma's Shopping Day
This happened along Butterbank Coton Clanford Nr Stafford ( around 1920)
My old grandma she had nine kids, she took them all to chapel,
Twice every Sunday she played the organ, till rafters they did rattled,
Squashed in and full it seated twenty; all singing load and hearty,
This was mothers training, a life of hymns and chorus cheery.
Grandma was a keen driver, of the horse and float,
And when she went to town, two pins in hat and on with coat,
Load up the younger kids to help, all singing in the back,
To get supplies to last the week, then the whip she cracked.
A fine old trot the cob strode out; to town not long it took,
Sell some eggs and butter, done the shopping no kid forsook,
Halfway home the road got narrow, another trap was bearing down,
Twas a neighbour who had a row, and grandma put on a frown.
Grandma pulled her hat down tight, and then she set her jaw,
She was not the one to give way, and flip the horse some more,
The float hub cap it struck the trap, and knocked the wheels from under,
Not looking back she kept on track, and home with face like thunder.
In modern terms you would say, that this was only road rage,
No one he could complain to, his trap in pieces sat in rampage,
Grandma upright stood six foot, and no one crossed her twice,
Count her hat pins as a gauge, to see if it's safe to ask advice.
Countyman
Heated with coal and logs, lit by paraffin lamp and candles, and when Grandma got modern, she had a wireless powered by an accumulator. (accumulator a glass battery with two terminals on the top, four screw caps on the cells, and a cord loop to carry it about, it was taken to the local garage to be charged up)
The Cast Iron Range
In years gone by when cooking was done,
Cooked with coal and logs, in pots upon,
Then the cast iron range, came into use,
In house and cottage, all black and spruce.
Blazing dancing flame, reaching up and back,
To chimney hood its drawn, all sooty and black,
Had two ovens, with big black knobs,
To cook for the family, and bake the cobs.
Kettle on a hook swung over the fire,
Always on the boil till tea we desire,
Pots on the side to boil the taters,
Pan on the trivet fry bacon for the platters
A toasting fork, to toast the stale bread,
Hung on a nail in the homestead,
Nothing was wasted, all was used up,
Meat boiled off bones, made broth to sup.
For years and years these ranges were used,
The lectric came in, and every one enthused,
Cooked with a switch, on the wall turned on,
Off and all went cold, missed the faithful range be gone.
Countryman
(Cliché)
Grandmother used to say, "The black cat is always the last one off the fence" I have no idea what she meant, but at one time, it was undoubtedly true.
Solamon Short
All this election fever has been getting me down, shall be glad when February comes and Obama finally installed. All you contributors to these posts and blogs are getting older now, and cannot come to terms with a president of their own age or even younger. At some point there comes a time when the younger generation have got to run things, and us older ones take a step back and mutter under our breath, and hold on tight.
It happens at home on the farm, when a keen up and coming young farmer needs to be given his head. It does not do to stifle new ideas, and new thinking, encouragement and support is what is needed once a firm direction is found.
This I think is what Obama needs, provided he brings in a team who will support and advise and carry out a well thought out plan of direction. However I read everything, and cannot keep up with well thought out blogs that my betters write, so back to what I remember from years ago, and how my elders coped under stress, and how they worked through the pre-war depression days, then through the war time years.
What about this then, it's so modern, it's plastic.
Plastic Card
Down to do the shopping, they're open till very late,
Paid for on a plastic card, flexible friend a mate,
A number that they call a pin, must be punched in right,
This can use any time, even day or night,
Slong as money's in the bank, it will spit it out,
Over drawn is evil, of money you've got a drought.
Spending more than what you've got, do ya sums all wrong,
The trouble that it causes, bank letters they are long,
Makes ya sweat and worry, and cannot settle down,
Pace about and have a shout, it gives ya face a frown.
Countryman