March 2009 - Posts
Out of the six generations of farmers, I and my father were the only ones to benefit from the use of tractors,
I am second of four, father was eldest of four, grandfather was one of eight, G. grandfather was youngest of seven, G.G. grandfather was youngest of eight, and my G.G.G. grandfather was born in 1753
In these modern days of computers and search engines like Google, it makes it relatively easy to follow back into records that you may never have known exist, all done from the comfort of a chair. There are a few relatives that we have been in touch with who we may never otherwise have known, and there are far more folk doing their family tree than you would ever expect.
Its only when you find someone on a distant branch of your own tree that they can be merged to fill out a broader picture.Looking at very old wedding groups, to see and realise that the little lad sitting cross legged in the front row was your grandfather, and the old and stern lady with a bun hair do and a hat sitting on top was his mother. Then sorting out the two sets of grand parents and the four sets of great grand parents, not necessarily in the same photograph, it gets confusing, and they all have the habit of dying at widely different ages, and between one group photo and the next, some go missing and some new ones born.
Half the job involves looking round church yards reading information off the grave stones, and even in our case an engraved stone in the pub next door, he must have been a very good customer or owned the pub as well as farmed next to the church.
Out of the six generations of farmers, myself and my father were the only ones to benefit from the use of tractors, prior to that the modern or new machinery would be the binder for cutting and tying the shoffs of corn, and the horse drawn mowing machine to replace cutting grass with the scythe. The ginney ring to convert horse power into a rotating shaft in turn to power barn machinery, a winnower to separate the grain from the chaff, and grain would be taken down to the wind mill or water mill, for grinding into flour. Eventually a barn engine would be installed to drive a line of shafting connecting all the barn machinery to this one engine, usually (this is in my time) it was a root cutter and cleaner, a chaff cutter, a cake crusher, and a grinding mill.
A quarter of the farms land would be to feed the horse's, oats and the straw for bedding, plus a handy field of turf to turn them out at night, and enough grass land to make hay for them. A work horse can eat as much hay as two cows, so total farm output was severely diminished.
Man power was abundant, and a hundred and forty acre farm would have five or six men working outside round the farm, (now it's barley able to support one man in work and income), the younger single male workers living in, in the farm house, then in the farm house would a number of women making butter and cheese and other menial house hold chores.
There is still evidence in our house where the lodgers, or farm lads used to live, they had a back stair case and one room upstairs, the walls were always of lime wash. A dividing door on the landing up stairs was kept bolted from the farmers side, this enabled him to ensure they got up early, every morning. I heard tell from a chap who used to live in such accommodation that they lived on rabbit pie seven days a week and milk puddings and porridge oats, presumably snaffled from under the horses feed store.
He said he had never had rabbit pie from the day he left that farm till the day he dies, such was the misery that some of them endured as young farm servants.
Some families, like us stayed rooted within a few miles from where they were "dropped", marrying local, some strayed and spread all over the country. We have one lad born in 1840 who went to Australia and another who went to USA in the 1880's and had four children out there, so no doubt we should have relatives to find and visit world wide.
Of coarse there is, as in every family, the odd ones who we would prefer not to mention by name, such as the one who got a little thirsty (living next to the pub, or did he own it?) One who married a girl of sixteen after already having a child by him in the 1860's; they did go on to have another six children one of which was my grandfather.
I am the second of four, my father was eldest of four, my grandfather was one of eight, G. grandfather was youngest one of seven, G.G. grandfather was youngest of eight, and my G.G.G. grandfather was born in 1753, not found his family out yet but it is getting more difficult as you get that far back.
Not started mothers side of the family yet but she was one of nine, being a twin they were seventh and eighth born, so they will be an interesting search back into the great grand parents.
Mother's mother lost her husband soon after the last one was born, and had a farm to run, the eldest ones helped, but we were told grandma would often be seen out ploughing with a pair of shires, she was a big strong women of six foot, I remember her as not quite so tall being a little bent with age and labour. Grandma also was a big "Chapel" organist (in a little Chapel), pumping the organ vigorously with her feet and singing very loudly, then the Chapel did only hold about twenty, and all the kids had to attend twice every Sunday.
Click on the tag "Chaple" there is a picture of that same old chaple as it is today, it is used by the local scout group
So as you see, it will occupy many hour of time and searching, and visiting the different houses and farms that they had occupied at some time in the past, plus the church yards where they were finally laid to rest.
Our Family Tree
A family tree were working on, to see from where we came,
Of people who we never knew, we all have the same name,
We all remember our own grandma and grandpa as well,
But they remember their old folk, a tale of old to tell.
Big families of eight or nine, and some they lost quite young,
Some they stayed as spinsters or bachelors un sung,
Working on estates and farms, in houses cold and damp
Some on their own farms, on land their mark to stamp.
Looking back on old grave stones, name chiselled bold and clear,
Got to look where they're christened who their parents were,
Who they met and married, the families joined and spread,
The kids that came along so quick, along same paths we tread.
We scour along old census records from many years gone by,
See the age of head of household and all who lived and why,
Some left home at early age for to find some work,
Spread around the villages, none of them to shirk.
Need a bigger sheet of paper, as the families spread and grow,
William Thomas Charles and John, reoccur in all lines we know.
Now were back to where were found, back to 1753 we tow,
Following all the records of, the church and census as we go.
Our turn will come soon enough, as time it flashes by,
Never know when that will be, its better laugh than cry,
Name and date of birth and death, chiselled into stone,
A patch of good old England, neath turf that's our last home.
Countryman
It's easier to put on slippers than to carpet the whole world.
Al Franken
Many men can make a fortune but very few can build a family.
J. S. Bryan.
If he could not get class attention, throw a chisel hard,
Hit the back wall cupboard, like a dagger stuck and jarred.
All the class it stood and quivered dare not cross his path,
The respect was thrust upon you, dare not stir his wrath,
After our formative year at the small village school, it came as a shock to mix with such huge groups of kids, (over 600) a big proportion town kids, some showing aggression to us village kids.
But we soon realised that they could only do that when they out numbered us, and one good BOOO at them was enough to stand them back..
We had always been used to working in school in one classroom, but here we all had to up sticks and move round to specialist classrooms that dealt with a particular subject. The classes I liked most were the woodwork and metalwork classes, although the two teachers could not have been more different.
Harry Nuttall was the metalwork teacher, he always seemed to me to be a bit short sighted as he wore heavy thick lens glasses, and a brown smock, he showed us how to mark out with a scribe in sheet metal, the first thing to make was a round washer and a square washer, going along the scribe marks with the centre punch making a row of small dots to file the metal down to the size marked. Then we made a fire poker with a loop top to hang it up, progressing on to a brass toasting fork, and on to make a fancy bowl out of copper, first rubbing it with soap the heating it to soften it until the soap went black, more heat and it would melt. Next we hammered it with a planishing hammer on a leather cushion full of sand, gently hammering round and round and starting to hollow the centre. Rub with soap again and soften it again, repeating until it was rely hollowed out. Then we cut a bit of round brass rod and formed it into a circle and soldered it in the bottom so it would stand firm, and the same again round the top edge and the finished thing was buffed up and highly polished on an electric mop.
Mr Leese was the woodwork teacher, and because he wore a permanent scowl we called him Bulldog Leese. He showed us how to use a set square and scribe and how to saw a piece of wood following the pencil marks. Not being used to sharp saws we had the habit of putting pressure on the blade as you worked like cutting logs at home, but with his saws we were told in no uncertain terms that the weight of the saw was all that was needed. We learned how to make all the popular joint and dovetails and to match one lump of wood to fit exactly into the other then glue to make a firm elbow.
Some kids just could not get the idea of sawing straight, and Bulldog would not let them progress until they could. The same when using the plane, to keep it flat on the timber right to the end, and not let it tip as it went over the far end. Chisels of all sizes (he had twenty of every tool needed in woodwork lessons), these were kept in tall cupboards at the back of the class room hanging in rows on the inside of the doors.
Mortas and tenan joints were carved out with chisels so sharp and almost too dangerous for kids to use. Again there was always one or two who just could not do the job no matter how they tried, and this wound him up into such a rage. In fact to impress on us who was boss and who we had got to listen to he threw a chisel from where he stood at the front of the class, at the cupboard on the back wall in his frustration so hard it jarred like a dagger in the door. Nowadays he would have been dragged in front of the courts and suspended on full pay indefinably, but it was his way of making sure we listened.
At the ‘big' school we had metal work and woodwork these were our favourite lessons. You learnt very quickly with Bulldog Leese
We Had a Woodwork Teacher (1950 ish)
We had a woodwork teacher, we called him Bulldog Leese,
Had stern face and bad temper, no one dare to tease,
If he could not get class attention, throw a chisel hard,
Hit the back wall cupboard, like a dagger stuck and jarred.
All the class it stood and quivered dare not cross his path,
The respect was thrust upon you, dare not stir his wrath,
No one liked his lessons, even those who could push a plane,
Perfection in this man and all his tools, but he was a bloody pain.
Countryman
Austin's service busses ran from Woodseaves via Seighford to Stafford and took us kids to the BIG school in 1950's. We (our village) were on the westerly route out of town, it was this same bus company that ran a service to the southerly route of the county town.
6.00 pm was the last bus for anyone working in town to get home on that southerly route, so it was always full to bursting, in fact the police one night noticed how badly that double decker was sagging in its springs and on the corners listed and leaned over with the weight. So on top of Billington bank, after the bus had struggled up to the top the police pounced and inspected its load. The bus supposed to carry fifty two seated, when the police unloaded the bus they had counted one hundred and ten. This was widely reported in all the papers and the bus company fined for over loading. It became a rule that they could put as many as they can cram on, on the bottom deck, and seated only up top.
If you look at the normal London double decker bus, the top deck has an isle down the centre, with six foot headroom, but these worn out utility type of bus had been built specially for a bus company up north where they had some bridges that would not take the full height bus. They were a good foot and a half lower, this was achieved by putting in a sunken isle along one side of the upper deck, the long bench type seats to take four people which had to be reached by ducking low along the seat, on sitting down there was just enough headroom to be comfortable. On the deck below the person who sat under this side isle had it almost touching their head. Our local bus company had bought a few of these worn out busses second hand, so you can see why they were so unstable, all the upper deck was loaded to the left hand side, and driving on the left as we do , the country roads always had a fair camber to the left. Going round some of the right hand corners with a left hand camber and a left hand load it looked a bit scary, as the bus buried its rear left wheel well up into its wheel arch. Don't think they had invented anti-roll bar in them days.
Our gang from Seighford always sat at the front upstairs and aggravated the driver by banging our feet on the floor above his head. Some drivers took no notice but
Tommy M. our regular driver at that time, got very annoyed, and on our route home, he ran the bus onto the grass verge and under some low over hanging branches of a tree. These buses running the rural route had dents in the top front panels anyway, so a few more made no difference. Playing about as we did and banging the floor, and not looking where we were going it came as a terrible shock to us as the twigs and light braches crashed the font windows at full speed. It did settle us down for a week or two, as we watched where we were going to be ready next time he pulled that trick.
However the stamping on the floor began again, and out in the country on a down hill slope he jammed on his brakes , jumped out of his cab, round to the back of his bus and came upstairs two at a time and faced us in a very agitated threatening manor. Of course we sat very innocently, but were trapped where we sat, as he stood shaking with rage in the sunken passage of the upper deck. Tommy was normally quite jovial type of chap with a terrible sssssstuter, and would take quite a time to get out of his mouth what he had got to say. But on this occasion, he was a different man, all his cursing language came flooding out loud and clear for all to hear, and not a stutter to be heard. The rest of the journey home he drove very erratically, and we paid full attention trying to anticipate which way to lean on the corners, so as not to be chucked about.
A couple of years on and Tommy got another job, it was with our threshing contractor as a mate to the driver of the threshing set. His stutter had not improved at all, and he often recalled the times of when we aggravated him on his bus. Who knows he may have been bated by other lads on other routes, but he got fed up and found another job.
Tommy the School Bus Driver
Each day we travelled off to the big school,
Caught the bus at a stop by the farm as a rule,
It was a service bus, tired old double Decker,
Second hand, and looked like an old wrecker.
We all had passes, and didn't have to pay,
Supposed to show, them every day,
Inspector shows up, every now and then,
Lost our passes, and out with his pen.
Threaten to put us off, going in to school,
Were very pleased, but pretend it's cruel,
A different matter, on the way home,
Delaying tactics, till a pass I loan.
On the upper deck, right at the front,
Our gang filled seats, swayed with the movement,
We stamped our feet, bov the drivers head,
Then looked out the window, at what's coming ahead.
Driver took bus, along the grass verge,
And under low branch, of a tree with a surge,
It rattled the front window, and roof of the bus,
We dived for cover, under the seats he's reckless.
For quite a few weeks, with that driver on,
It was quiet up top, till thought we'd test this moron,
Stamping again, over his head,
He put the brakes, on and stopped it dead.
Tommy the driver, got out of his cab,
Shot round the back, hand rail did grab,
Off up the stairs, and up to the front,
Shouted and shouted, he was most blunt.
Tommy had got, a most terrible s-s-s-stutter,
He blinked his eyes, and looked down to the gutter,
Eventually his words, came out with a rush,
Had to listen carefully, when he was in full flush.
On this afternoon, on the way home,
In his anger he forgot, all about his syndrome,
His words came out, flooding and direct,
His words were perfect, no stutter detect.
We thought we had cured him, a relief it was,
To this poor mans stutter, we had the cause,
When he had calmed down, on the next day,
His stutter was back, and he was okay.
Some times as a stunt, he would drive past our farm,
Make us walk back, to cause us alarm,
But we didn't mind, some old lady we'd find,
Had got to walk back, drivers name she maligned.
Got to know Tommy, good driver he was,
Always waved and piped, on way by in his bus,
He never did get rid, of his terrible stutter,
Was how he's made when, he wanted to chatter.
Countryman
Knowledge and timber shouldn't be much used till they are seasoned.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
All the years I knew him, he always had some wit,
Smoked a pipe and chewed tabaca, and showed us how to spit,
He had a bike sit-up-and beg, handle bars reached his chest,
On Friday went to town on it, his hat he wore his best.
These are characters 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 Tommy Abbotts in the 1940's when I was a lad growing up.
An old man, when I was a kid growing up, I can picture him now.
Tom Abbotts
Tom was born in 1887 and his sister Nellie in1893. A as far as I know, they had lived in Seighford a long time, possibly all there lives. They lived in the back half of the large house, on the left on the way up to the airfield. The house had two fields that adjoined his garden and buildings except for the little cottage that stands back off the road not a couple of yards from Tom's house. He was an old man, when I was a boy in the late nineteen forties, and worked round the different farms in the village; He kept two house cows to provide milk butter and cheese, and reared half a dozen calves. These he then grazed on one of his fields, The other field he kept shut up in the spring for hay. These fields ran up to Bunns Bank and along to the next bend on the road onto the airfield the down almost to The Beeches Farm rickyard. In total he must have had about ten acres, together with the small range of buildings that are along side of the road, the ones with the G P O letter box.
‘Owd Tummy' as he was often called locally, was about five foot nine. He would stand with his right thumb in his waistcoat pocket, his left hand giving his pipe undivided attention. His feet would be at ten to two, and his weight evenly on both feet with his knees just forward of being locked (as you would stand in an earthquake). He had a slight hump on his shoulders, and would carry his head be in the forward position as though ready for milking? This was his regular stance when looking at the cattle or when in deep thought, and when talking to neighbours. His face was always the same, a nose slightly narrow and pointed, and no extravagant expressions, almost what we call pan faced, But he only smiled with his eyes, I expect the pipe balked a big grin (?). His dark wide open eyes always seemed to sparkle, maybe because they often seemed to be wet, a good laugh and out with his hanky out of his pocket to dab them. Round his neck he nearly always had sweat band, to call it a ‘'neckerchief would be too posh and a cravat posher still. I've no doubt it was a habit from in the days when he used to break into a sweat. But these days he was a man who could pace himself and work at his own speed.
Quite a slim man in his time, but in the years, I knew him his trouser waist band had been modified by his sister Nellie, to cope with his expanding midriff, So discrete was this adjustment, that you could only see it when he bent over forward with the wind behind him, to blow his jacket up. She had cut the middle seam down the back of his trousers from the waist band about four inches, then the bracers buttons were put on the point of the opening, the fork of the bracers holding everything together comfortably. His trousers were of a coarse tweed, and charcoal in colour with matching waste coat and jacket, clean but well worn, and modified as the years went on. The jacket had leather patches on the elbows, and a strip sown on round the cuffs. The waistcoat was not outwardly modified but had stretched to the figure it contained, if anything had been done, it was ten or so buttons may have been brought up to edge of the material. A watch and chain stretched across the waistcoat into one pocket, the matches in the other, and tobacco pouch in his inside jacket pocket. On the few occasions that his pipe was not in use it was stuffed in the top pocket of his jacket. More often than not it was in his teeth with his left arm hanging off it, with his first finger hanging over the bowl always ready to pack the tobacco if it went out.
He always had the same tobacco. It was twist (to me it looked like a stick of liquorish) which he cut a chunk off and rubbed in the palm of his hand before replenishing the pipe. The times when he was working with both hands, he would cut a chunk of baccy with his pocket knife, pop it in his mouth and chew it. Every now and then he would have to eject some tobacco juice, with a long ‘per-sqwit' which if it had been aimed to go somewhere. it always got there in a long unbroken stream.. He always wore boots, not a heavy type, but lighter sorts that would be polished from time to time. They had about ten lace holes and went well up above his ankles, almost to the calf of his leg. On working in the fields when there was mud about, he would wear some older boots and leather leggings.
To get about to fetch supplies and go to other farms, his only form of transport was his old bike, an old sit-up and beg type with rod brakes, twenty eight inch wheels. The handle bars were almost up to his chest when standing by it, and the seat as low as possible. It had a full chain case, and a carrier with a spring clip that would hold his mac in case of rain, and around the hub of each wheel, inside of the spokes, was a loose small leather strap ( like a small dog collar) to keep the hub bright and clean.
Each Friday he would go down to Stafford for his shopping, which was carried home in a carpet bag slung on his handle bars so deep was this bag that it hung right down to the middle of his front wheel. It certainly looked like a piece of carpet folded into two and stitched each side and with two cord handles which hung on the handle bars. It was flat and hung flat. Even when full it still hung flat. The only reason for going was to pick up a joint of beef from the butchers, and have a look in at the Sun Smithfield cattle market.
From the back door of the house you turned right , then left round the pear tree and another ten yards, you would be in the loo. A wooden seat with a bucket type, that had to be regularly attended to. (Emptied). A deep hole would be dug in the garden, (it resembled a bear trap only with no twig on top, would hate to have fell in there in the dark) and this would last about three months, filled over and then a new one dug. Next to the loo was the pig sty, which most village houses had as standard, A single piglet was purchased when it was old enough to be weaned. Weaning took place when the sow was getting fed up with them, and the piglets would start chewing instead of sucking, and were eating in the trough with their mother. They would be fed on all sorts of house hold scraps like potato peelings, outer cabbage leaves and stalks, and only topped up with pig meal purchase from the corn merchant. On reaching maturity, the butcher would call and kill the pig and the flitches of bacon and hams cured by salting , These would be hung in a cool room in the house with a muslin bag over to keep the flies off.
Most of what they ate was home grown in the neat but large garden. , Everything would be preserved for winter. Potatoes and carrots dug and hogged, beetroot boiled and pickled, runner beans picked, sliced and salted, and packed in stone jars, plums and pears picked and preserved in kilner jars. Eggs were preserved in glycerine to seal the shells, would keep up to four months; eggs were also hard boiled and pickled. The only thing they bought seemed to be salt, coal, beef and bread. They kept about twenty hens in a large run behind the pig sty , and it would be disaster if the hens got loose in the garden, these were kept for eggs and for eating.
All the cattle were reared from calves by Nellie, named and thoroughly spoiled; they could almost milk them in the middle of the field ((hand milked into a bucket). When it came to sell them, it was more traumatic than they let on, it was as if one of the family leaving home for good.
On a large proportion of the garden Tommy grew mangols (mangol wursels) .These were pulled and topped and taken into one of his sheds to protect them from the frost, to feed to the older cattle through the winter. Hay was the other main feed; this was cut in early July by one of the neighbours who he had worked for during the spring, quite often my father. The hay would be turned and tedded with great care for four days, and if the weather held good, father would bale it. This would be after 1958 when balers first came out before this date it would be carried and stacked loose. Us lads, and the cow man and the Wagoner (now called the tractor driver) would all go round, cart it and stack it in his yard , Tom would do the supervising in the pose I described above Nellie brought the large enamel gallon jug of tea, with a handfull of cups and mugs. Everyone with cup in hand held steady for Nellie to pour out the welcome tea Philip the cowman had a sip, and as Nellie and Tom turned away round the stack Philip dashed his tea under the hedge. On her return Nellie topped his mug up again, Philip thanking her and complimenting her on the tea, but the same thing happened, it was dashed under the hedge again discretely. My brothers and I saw all what went on, and when Nellie had collected up the cup and had gone back to the house, we enquired why no tea? Being an experienced cowman, he had observed that the only cow Tom had in milk at that time, had only calved the day before. That meant that the rich creamy tea had been made with beastings, this he could not stomach. Nellie being very thrifty, in her mind had made a good milky brew.
Beastings are produced by the cow for the first four days of lactating and they contain antibodies to protect the calf. They are extra rich to nourish a new born calf from birth. If beastings from the second milking are put in a large flat basin and put in the oven to slowly cook on low heat for an hour and a half, with a bit of nutmeg on top it comes out set like custard . Very nice hot or cold for pudding, and very popular with us kids (but not in tea)
Tom and Nellie were very private people, very few went into the house. It was like stepping back in time, even in the 1950`s. Then all of a sudden they bought a television and a long tall aerial was mounted on the tallest chimney.
As they got older they gave up the land and sold the cattle .The garden was getting too much for him, cultivating it less each year. Then in 1963 at the age of 70, Nellie died, Tom had relied on Nellie for the cooking and washing, and coped on his own remarkably well until he was finding it difficult to get about especially in the winter months. The neighbours were alert to his situation, and someone called on him every day to do his bit of washing, get the coal in and chop the sticks for fire lighting etc. He had no immediate family as neither of them had ever been married. The only relatives lived a long way off. Then in 1977 Tom died at the age of 90. He remained cheerful, and great fun to all who knew him. He had been like this all his life. He was a man who never raised his voice or lost his temper, a very shy man with strangers. A man of few words, and good listener. Although his face did not show it, he was a very jovial man who enjoyed a good joke, but seldom did he ever tell one.
His grave was dug and the coffin made by the village wheelwright and his brother, Jim and Bill Clark, as was Nellie's. Bill was grave digger and Jim made the coffins. Tom and Nellie's grave is near the top step of the back lane path of St 'Chad's church, among other old characters and residents of Seighford.
I have written two blogs about the village wheelwright some months ago, click -- Wheelwright,
Owed Tom Abbotts
Owed Tom Abbotts lived in a cottage, with his sister Nell,
They kept three cows and calves, and a few old hens as well,
Cattle grazed across four acres, the rest was mown for hay,
In his garden he grew his mangols, fed in short winters day.
He helped his neighbours, when they're short handed,
With drilling hoeing weeding, with others he was banded,
At harvest time he stacked bays, till in the roof was bound,
Longest ladder then was cast, him get back to ground.
All the years I knew him, he always had some wit
Smoked a pipe and chewed tabaca, and showed us how to spit,
He had a bike sit-up-and beg, handle bars reached his chest,
On Friday went to town on it, his hat he wore his best.
His shopping bag hung on his bike, a long carpet bag it was,
All stitched up on either side, flat by front wheel because,
When it was loaded it was safe, hung by strong loops of cord,
Should it be carried in his hand, it almost dragged with the hoard.
As a young man stood up straight, he'd be all of five foot eight,
Old and stooped and round of back, shorter still as life dictate,
Feet a splayed for easy stance, and knees a slight of bend,
One thumb hooked in waist coat pocket, tuther to pipe distend.
He always had a cheery smile, his eyes were almost closed,
When he had a dam good laugh, tears ran down his pointed nose,
His face was brown and ruddy, from working in all weathers,
On his nose and chin could see, red veins mapped his features.
On his feet were black boots, well up above his ankle laced,
His trousers had a gusset, hold his expanding tummy braced,
It was a different colour , and could see when he bent over,
And buttons of his bracers , straining hard to cotton anchor.
Waistcoat matched his trousers, a suit some point decide,
Ten buttons some were missing, four pockets two each side,
One it held his pocket watch, secured to button hole with chain,
Another held his match box, England's Glory was it by name.
His jacket didn't quite match, been stitched around the collar,
Pockets drooped like open mouth, weighed down as if to cower,
In one was his bacca pouch, top pocket reserved for pipe,
Pipe was mostly in his mouth, not always did he light.
He carried a little pocket knife, his baccy Twist to cut,
When he rubbed it in his palm, into his pipe he put,
With cupped hand around his pipe, he lit it with a match,
Puff and suck till it was lit, mid curls of smoke detach.
Eventually it went out again , and back into top pocket,
Out with the Twist and cut a knob, chew into old tooth socket,
This is where he learned all us kids, to squit with baccy juice,
It went with long streak so far, to reach his poor old goose.
Tommy had a bowler hat , kept on peg inside of his back door,
As kids he let us try it on, and asked him what it was for,
It was used to go to town in, now for only funerals touted,
He kept it brushed and steamed, though it became out dated.
Now it was only flat caps, that he was nare without,
Into town he used his best, to walk around see whose about,
One was used to milk his cows, grease and cow muck plastered
And one used round house and village, not so much it mattered.
Tommy's ears were large and thin, for a man so short,
Ragged round the top edge, frost bite they must have caught,
They tucked back nice and even, his cap they're there to hold,
His head he kept it nice and warm, ears out in the cold.
His garden always nicely dug, and cow muck spread a plenty,
Grew his household veg and spuds, and runner beans a bounty,
The biggest plot was that of mangols, for his pampered cows,
The three of them all bedded up, roots chopped for them to brows.
We called round my dad and me, and Nelly made us a cup of tea,
One of Tom's cows had calved, the others had dried off you see,
Milk she poured all rich and yellow, beastings from his old cow,
She had to stir most vigorously, tea too rich to drink right now.
In winter time when he was younger, Tom he carted coal,
Picked it up from Bridgeford Station, Seighford was his goal,
Brought it over Bridgeford bank , with donkey and a cart,
This it filled the time o'er winter, before drilling corn did start.
So it was that he got too old, to work about the farms,
Even gave up his cows and garden, that he loved and charmed,
Then he lost his sister Nell, and lived a few more years alone,
He himself succumbed to life, both still in Seighford neath headstone.
Countryman.
I Remember Singling Sugar Beet
I remember singling sugar beet, on Barn Field it was long,
Ten of us following close, and talking in a throng,
Owd Tommy he was slow, and he got left behind,
Ground was dry and dusty, not enough to blind.
Now George he's in his thirties, his bladder wouldn't hold,
Got to have a pee now, halfway down the row behold,
He pee'd on top of Tommy's row, and then he carried on,
Till Tommy came across a damp spot, in his row deadon.
Further down we all watched, as he stuck his finger in,
To see what had wet the earth, held muddy finger by his chin,
We all rolled with laughter, till we told him what was on his paws,
Poor owd Tummy takes a joke, short straw he always draws.
Countryman
Young men, hear an old man to whom old men harkened when he was young.
Ceasar Augustus (63 BC -14 AD)
On Sunday 5th April 09
In case some of you readers are interested in ploughing, or more to the point ploughing matches, this is a big one.
I have the privilege this year of hosting,"The Staffs. Vintage Club Match" , taking part in it myself, driving my Fordson E27N with its trailor plough.
Vintage Ploughing on Sunday 5th April 09
Upward of a hundred tractors take part, with the proceeds going to charity
There are classes for Open Vintage Trailed and Mounted, Classic Mounted Novice and Open and World Style, Ferguson classes, and Garden tractors.
It is going to be held this year at the Yews Farm, Seighford, Nr. Stafford, Staffordshire, and for the sat. nav. brigade its ST18 9LQ
(Three miles to the West of Stafford, about three miles from J14 of the M6)
Should you want an entry form ring Tom Cheadle on.
Tel. 01889882091
Mob. 07803077229
For pictures of my Fordson E27N click the tag "Plough" in the left colmn and go for "Two more of my Tractors"
I Booked into a Ploughing Match
I booked into a ploughing match, their to show my skill,
See how straight and even, my opening split instil,
A moment's loss of concentration blows the ideal apart,
Spend the rest of all that day, looking like upstart.
Good many tractors on the field, all like minded to plough,
Markers out all over the place, beyond the plots allow,
Down and back complete the split; wait for judge to mark,
Close it up, flat top or pointed, critical watchers remark.
Some pause for lunch walk to see, how the neighbours done,
Body language tells it all, a grimace purse of lips so glum,
They try to break your confidence, concentration goes,
Look back and see plough blocked up, new expletives compose.
All best mates when ya make a mess, condolence all come in,
A very polite clapping for best in class, everyone wishing to win,
A jolly good bunch of ploughmen, relax till judge comes back,
See who's is best of the bunch, and who has got the plaque.
Countryman
The Elusive Cup
A disappointing outcome to the Stafford ploughing match 16 September 2006 . Using the E27N and Elite plough for the first time.
Off to the ploughing match with great intent
Good weather helps but the land is wet
Off down the field on the first run
Back up the second the twists begun.
Tipping in the third as though no skims
Blocking up the plough and the trouble begins
Coming up the fourth won't bury the stubble
Land wheel slipping and we're in trouble.
Off up the side of the neighbouring plot
Tape measure out to see what we've got
To start the cast it must be parallel
Or the finish, odd sized will give you hell.
Even furrows with good in's and outs
Firm for a seed bed well turned over each bout
No hand work or gardening is ever allowed
But it happens quite often when the judge turns around
To measure the land each bout is a must
As narrow it gets down to three or bust
The penultimate run is always shallow
It's to hold the plough firm as it turns its last furrow
Everyone's an expert who watches your last run
But get in the seat to feel how it's done
They block your eye line at the end of the stint
All standing astride, its all wavering and bent
Everyone says we must not blame the tools
Not everyone there, that we can call fools
Experience shows by the polished plough
Who puts it away with a tinge of rust now
Never again, and the thought that it's rotten
When the next one comes along and you've forgotten
Try once more for that elusive red card and cup
The knees will go weak, when you're eventually called up.
Countryman
Father liked his fencing, post and rails of oak,
These will last a lifetime, a very fussy bloke,
Usually on the boundary fence, everyone can see,
Up from where he laid his hedge, its how he learnt me.
You don't see many fences now done with cleft oak post and rails, but I still have the wedges that we always used for the job. In case any younger generation have never seen it done, it's a way of splitting the oak trunk down into the required sizes along the grain of the wood. Sawn rails where the grain waivers, and the saw crosses the grain that rail will split and break at the slightest push, and no matter how carefully the rails are sawn they cannot follow the grain exactly like you can with a cleft rail. Posts are cleft the same, and for the corner or a gate post, they liked to have a post with a big knot where a branch had been cut off, this gave it a good anchor, with the heavy end in the ground. When the rails were nailed onto the posts, they were fitted with the bark side down, it was like splitting an orange into segments, the narrow or pointed edge up turned the rain and they lasted longer.
The wheelwright and his brother would often split willow for rails, these did not last as long as oak, and were no good at all as posts, as in damp ground they would take root and grow on into a tree. Willows were and still are a dam nuisance if they are any where near land drains, the fine roots matt up and fill the pipes for a good way beyond the canopy of the tree itself, a new willow is started just by pushing in a willow stick in damp ground or on meadows it will strike instantly.
Father's Post and Rails of Oak
Father liked his fencing, post and rails of oak,
These will last a lifetime, a very fussy bloke,
Usually on the boundary fence, everyone can see,
Up from where he laid his hedge, its how he learnt me.
Every now and then, the estate would fell a tree,
Good straight trunk, cut into lengths, for post and rails you see,
Six foot for the posts, ten for rails, wedges and hammer then,
Split the trunk each lump in half, half and half again.
No waste at all, when you cleft the trunk, all is utilized,
Looking at for what the job to do, for thickness it is sized,
Posts dug in every nine foot; rails to fit are trimmed and perused,
These are always fitted; bark side down, rain it won't infuse.
First thing to go after standing for years usually it's the nails,
They rust and go weak, to the ground it drop the rails,
New nail needed but its not green oak, nails they soon bend,
Drill the rail, and nail it up, another decade of life extend.
Countryman
There were few jobs father liked better than hedge laying, but he didn't always have much time to devote to it. He kept his own bill hook for that job hidden, so no one could spoil the edge that he had got on it, he had a holster that it went in when he was working. There was an axe and brushing hook that he used on that job, also sharpened to perfection, a wooden mallet, knee pads and one left hand heavy leather mitten to protect from the thorns.
If it was a roadside hedge, it took twice as long to do as everyone passing stopped to talk and natter, but the pride he put into the job was beyond description. It is only at the local Ploughing matches, that you see the older generation, working along side a few very keen youngsters, working to maintain this old craft.
I Remember Farther Hedge Laying
Father liked his hedge laying, and every winter he,
Set about a big rough hedge and stock proof it would be,
First he cut the hedge stakes, in the wood where it was code, (cold)
Then to sharpen on a block, on cart he would then load,
He honed his axe and bill hook, to cut wood as if were carrot,
Put on his holster and leather glove, took a big wooden mallet,
He stripped the long tall growers, cleft them and also mention,
Always layer them up a slope, and in the stakes were woven,
The top of his hedge was bound, like the top of a basket might,
He used long whippy willow strips, wove them firm and tight,
Burned up all the brushwood, with a great big blazing fire,
Then he cleaned the ditch out, and put up new barbed wire.
The new growth grew up through, from stools all in the bottom,
A good dense hedge and stock proof, was the desired outcome,
Not need laying now for decade, till the gaps appear,
Then the master will return his skills to make a new frontier.
Countryman
The Grass is not, in fact, always greener on the other side of the fence. Fences have nothing to do with it. The grass is greenest where its watered. When crossing over fences, carry water with you and tend the grass where ever you may be.
Robert Fulghum