What we were doing 50 years ago 83

Just been looking back in the old farm diary on what we were doing just fifty years
ago today

This is the relavant page fifty years ago today 27 Nov 1961

It seems we were clearing out an old open fronted cart shed to put a gate on the front and a hay cratch on the wall at the back, in order to inwinter some young stock

That week we had got a contractor in pulling in plastic water pipe with a mole plough, plastic water pipe had only just reached farm level around then I remember they cut a thread on the end of the plastic pipe, put an insert in and screw the brass tap directly onto the plastic as if it were iron. NEW NEW NEW.

This was the nearest they had to a cattle crush, and note the cattle, young stock all had horns, the cows would be tied up in the cowsheds by the chain. There are a few horses in the back ground.

Bamfords were a leading farm machinery makers back then, disc and drum mowers had not been invents then, still with the finger bar mowers. The gearless spider wheel, see bottom two pictures on the right of the above advert, had not long been about.

The muck spreaders were land wheel driven.

Tractors had no live hydraulics, when you dipped the clutch the PTO would stop

These are the new Massey Harris combine drills brought out around that time they planted the grain and fertilizer along at the same time, father bought one and pulled it with his Diesel Fordson Major.

At a later date they fitted them with tractor rear tyres (Fergy back wheels). I still have four of the old steel wheels about the garden as ornaments



This is the page marker thatv come with the diary

This is a calculation done on the back of the page marker, in long hand before we had calculators, I checked it with my calculator today and its spot on, don’t know what I was working out at the time.

Any ideas anyone, we had never heard of Hectares back then

 I doubt if school childen, or older school age kids would know how to do that calculation nowadays. Tell me if you do and I will appolagise

Owd Fred

Tom Abbotts, Best loved Village character born 1887 --- 82

Tommy Abbotts

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)

Post and Rails of Oak 81

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 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.

Owd Fred

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.

Owd Fred

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

Gardening as a Pastime ( or a Farmers Garden) 80

Gardening as a Pastime(with tractors always in the picture)

The roses get the green fly, the taters get the blight
The cabbage get the caterpillars, what a blooming sight,
Apples there are plenty, grub hole in every one,
Birds have pecked the plums, the rot it has begun.

A gardening Blog

Many potential gardeners who work, and travel some distance to and from work, just physically do not have much time to do what they would like to do in the garden. Then there is the people who just cannot stand gardening, like a neighbour we had in the village, (the wheelwright), his wife loved her garden, and he was committed to mowing the lawns front and back, and always commented to who ever would listen, that his garden should be tarmac end to end, side to side, then each spring he could just sweep it off and paint it green.

This was about the time they were building the new M6 motorway, and different "cowboy" contractors were "peddling" tarmac at night and weekends, to do the drive or garden paths, at a rate never to beaten, cash only, right into their back pockets. However his wife would not here of it, and they kept to lawns and boarders on the front and a veg. plot and some lawn at the back of the house.
This is how I sum up gardening

Gardening as a Pastime

The lawns are mowed the grass removed, starve it if you can,
Start in March or sooner, cut it twice a week's the plan,
Grows like mad till the summer, then brown and crusty goes,
Precious water sprinkled on, the time and cost who knows.

Had the mower sharpened, through mole hills it has cut,
They're only after earth worms, to fill their little gut,
Got to have a blow hole, to push the soil out,
Maize of tunnels under the lawn, so tough and black and stout.

The roses get the green fly, the taters get the blight
The cabbage get the caterpillars, what a blooming sight,
Apples there are plenty, grub hole in every one,
Birds have pecked the plums, the rot it has begun.

The wasps are round the jam pot, flies around the meat,
Its summertime enjoy it, try getting out the heat,
Cooler in the evenings, sit in the garden to relax,
Midges bite your arms and legs, round ya head attacks.

Cut the hedge about three times, clearing up the leaves,

Hawthorne holly and brambles, full of thorns it heaves,

Fingers sore and bleeding, enjoy the job they say,

Out in fresh air and sunshine, all this work no pay.

Nettles in the corners, tackle then if you dare,
Just the lightest touch from one, it'll make you swear,
Cut they come again times ten, fresh and green as ever,
Save them for the butterflies, neglect'll mek ya look clever.

Green fingers what a laugh, muck builds up under nails,
It keeps you fit and healthy, keeps ya weight off the scales,
Organically grown is good for you, but pests they are a pest,
Work with nature is what they say; you can only do your best.

Countryman

This is the bit the misses looks after and is in charge of, were both getting no younger and the veg garden went some years ago. Its trim the lawn, trim the bushes, cut the hedge (with the tractor flail hedge cutter I can manage that job well) boarders and bedding plants to the minimum, just enough to give a bit of colour and interest.

This is my effort on the yard in an old concrete water trough a few years ago.

This is just a farmers view of a tub of flowers, one line of writing for the flowers, and six lines for the background, think thats pretty normal.

No farmer ever looks at the flowers twice, but study what in the background, an old upturned grain hopper, five bays filled with HAY, and some haylage under cover, silage bales are stacked outside out of the picture. My loader will only reach to stack three bales high, thats it on the Agrotron in the background, and the hedge cutter on the Fastrac. The old barn legs have started rotting and have had a tump of concrete two foot up the legs. Standing parked between the green tractor and the barn, the Landrover flat trailer with an old three furrow Fordson Elite Plough, trust me if you look real close, you can see two levers sticking up, to see a better picture of the plough press the tag "Tractors", or" Plough" it on the page or blog (Two More of my Tractors".



Around this time also that it was fashionable to sow turnips from the air in June /July into the standing crops of corn, (wheat barley or oats). In this case it was barley, and the top end of the field was a single cottage, folks came out of their village houses to watch the aerobatics as the plane swooped low over the crop, dodging hedge row trees, then up almost vertical, turn and back down for the next run.

The man in the cottage watched as it swooped and turned short of his house, having got a grandstand seat so to speak. In the next few months the crop of barley was combined, and the rain and moisture had germinated a good stand of turnips in the stubble, trouble was the cottage garden had also got turnips growing in the garden, and worse still, a full and vigorous crop was growing in the gutters and spouting all round the house.

Of coarse when the seed was being dropped no one knew why he was diving and swooping and the turnip seed is so fine and no dust trail as the seed fell.
It was only a few years that that aerial spreading of seeds and sprays lasted, as the drift into adjoining fields and crops, and houses brought it to be banned, so the turnips sprouting in the spouting only happened the one year in our village.

This same cottage, the occupant often went to the local market to take eggs to sell, often a sitting of hen and bantam eggs. It was in the spring he came home with a sitting of goose eggs, and set them under a couple of broody hens, they duly hatched and rapidly grew bigger than the old mother hen, they started running and flapping their wings when they were loosed out in the mornings , as geese do.
 Then to his amazement one morning they took off, and flew round and landed back in the garden, soon they flew off for half an hour or more but always came back. The sitting of eggs he had bought were that of Canadian Geese, and in the autumn one morning they took off and he never saw them again. No goose for Christmas for him.


If there is no gardener there is no garden
Stephen Covey

Remember Mother's Christmas Cake's, 79

It's getting to that time of year when the Christmas cakes have got to made, and mother made hers without any scales, it was all done by rule of thumb,  as was her Christmas puddings and pickles jams and almost all her baking and cooking picked up from her mother over the years

Remember Mother's Christmas Cake's, every year made two,

Mixed it in a huge bowl, with many fingers helping drew,

Into the bowl put ingredient, measured by rule of thumb,

This all gets depleted mixing, a sticky mess become.

In her busy schedule of work, mother always found time to make her Christmas cake, but while she was at it she always made two. From her experience over the years, the ingredients got depleted in the mixing bowl, as four of us would be drooling and wanting a taste. When her back was turned it would be a big finger full or if we were lucky a big spoon full go missing, and what one had the others were all the more determined to get their share.

The mixing bowl was usually the big bowl off a wash stand set, where there was a big jug as well used in the days before bathrooms and wash basins. Its volume would be about three gallons, (fifteen litres if your still classed as a youngster) and it would be a good half full. All the currant, raisins and sultanas would be put in the basin late the night before and some spirits ( usually a bit of brandy but not very much as it had got to last all Christmas) would be poured over them to soak for the night. You can guess why at night.

The next day the table would be cleared soon after breakfast and all the rest of the ingredients set out. Among these was black treacle and this soon had finger dipped in, but as we knew father had a forty five gallon drum of this in the shed for the cattle, we used to take the small bung out, for it to slowly oozed out enough onto our fingers before the bung was bunged back in.

As ingredient were added two or three wooden spoons were stirring and tasting all the way through, then mother doled what was left into two big cake tins lined with paper. These were then put in the oven to cook, after a while drawing them out and testing them with a metal knitting needle, if it came out clean they were done.

They were then knocked out onto wire rack to cool, with quite a few burnt sultanas and currant on the outer edges just prime for pikeing, these soon got tidied up.

Just before making the marzipan the cakes were levelled up, the top sliced off to give smooth surface to ice, this again was a chance to taste the cake, then the marzipan was rolled out and stuck on with jam. Icing was mix and slapped on the top and smoothed down the sides to the cake boards. She stood no chance to smooth it flat and posh with so many helpers, so they were dabbed and called a snow scene. On Christmas Eve she mixed a bit more icing and coloured it red and piped a wobbly Merry Christmas across the middle.

I Remember Mother's Christmas Cake (‘s)

Remember Mother's Christmas Cake's, every year made two,
Mixed it in a huge bowl, with many fingers helping drew,
Into the bowl put ingredient, measured by rule of thumb,
This all gets depleted mixing, a sticky mess become.

Lined the tins with brown paper, popped them in the oven,
Couple of hours a needle test, on this she's often done
Lift them out when they're cooked; bump them out the tin,
Set them on a cooling rack, dark and rich within.

Us kids were so impatient, had to taste one when it's cooled,
Usually it was following day, four of us round it drooled,
This is why she'd made two, got to keep abreast,
Hid the other, we never knew where, it had got to ‘rest'.

Brought it out Christmas Eve, to marzipan and rough ice,
No use doing it sooner, as about the house are four big mice,
Snow scene's what she called it, a snow man on the top,
Greetings n' Merry Christmas, in wobbly writing she would pop.

At tea time Christmas day, it would suddenly appear,
Gasps of delight from us, when she cut it we would cheer,
Not much more could we take, full of turkey, trifle and mince pies,
So cake it lasted longer, aaaall -- over -- at -- last she sighs.

Countryman

Father always liked to do a bit of carpentry, and had his tools and workshop in a loft; one of his achievements was a trailer to go behind his Austin car. The different people who saw this in the making were sniggering behind his back thinking he would never get it out of the door. But this was carefully thought out in his drawings on a piece of cardboard.

The axle and wheels and mud guards (fenders to them who live a long way off our shores) were all removed and squoze out onto the yard. It was designed to take pigs and sheep to market, and also to deliver potatoes, round to customers in town. The trailer lasted about three cars, all second hand cars, but they did a lot of rough work, particularly when we were all in it at the same time.

However on the months running up to Christmas he kept his workshop closed and he went working in there at nights, making toys for Father Christmas to deliver on Christmas Eve

I Remember Father made Toys for Christmas

Father always used to make, all our Christmas toys,
Make them in his workshop, and hid them from us boys,
Made them out of bits of wood , laying about the farm,
On a big flat piece of ply, that was for the yard and barn.

Walls and gates and hedges, painted bit of wood they were,
That was all we needed now, so we could fields alter,
A couple of cows some sheep and pigs and hens,
Mother had to buy these, he made them little pens.

Saw and chop and whittle a log, till tractor it took form,
Fix on wheels he saved for this, painted colour that was norm,
Drawbar on the back as well, a trailer it to pull,
That he'd made a matching set, hiding place was full.

Sometimes they were too big, had to keep outside,
Trolleys with old pram wheels, all of us could ride,
Someone had to push of course, unless we found a bank,
Seating it was a little crude, it was just a nice smooth plank.

The toys he made were very strong, and a long time lasted,
Each of us we played with them, till next younger one he wanted,
His turn to help to ware it out, and pass it on again,
Then it was the turn of wood worm, to chew to dust the frame.

Countryman

If you can give your son or daughter only one gift, let it be enthusiasm.
Bruce Barton

Family Tree Back to 1753 78

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.

A family wedding group of Henry and Bertha in 1872

 You can see the same old house as it is now, different owners as it's now a hotel, it has a tiled roof and is a wedding venue and the above picture is included in their brochure  

Matilda  1848 at that time it was all thatched including the porch you can see the same old house 

 Littywood Manor Farm Bradley Stafford as it was ,


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 seven children the youngest 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.

We Had a Woodwork Teacher called him "Bulldog" 77

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.

Owd Fred

Knowledge and timber shouldn't be much used till they are seasoned.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Farmers Skills know no Bounds 76

Old nuts and bolts of any size, they build up in the shed,
But finding one the right size, too thick too short the thread,

Over the years you pick up most skills needed to run the maintenance of your farm, the obvious one is laying concrete, and brick or block laying. Before ready mix came about loads of sand and gravel came in ten ton loads and cement in one cwt (50KG) paper sacks. The mixer was the old traditional one with a Petter or Lister petrol engine, and later diesel engines.

Brick laying needed a lot of practice and got a lot easier with the advent of concrete blocks, depending on the size, it was the same as laying twelve bricks at a time
Another one is plumbing, although that has changed beyond recognition from my early days when it was all on galvanized pipe, with the cutting to length then threading the pipe ends, applying plumbers paste and winding in the hemp wool, tightening up the elbow or what ever fitting was needed.

Nowadays its all plastic piping and the joints are push fit or ones that are tightened by hand, of coarse the copper pipes are almost as easy and are reserved for use in the house or dairy, even some of that can be replaced by plastic push fit connecters and tees and elbows.

Roofing got a lot quicker when asbestos corrugated sheet came in replacing the need for a steeper tiled roof, with less supporting timber as well. Then the spouting and guttering now all in plastic, almost ever lasting, although it needs a lot closer brackets and has a tendency to sag and then over flow at the slightest bit of bird crap that builds up.

Urgent building jobs always seem to want to be done when the weathers cold or wet, the same with mending a burst pipe or joint, invariable it happens during frost and snow and always in the muckiest corner of the field or shed when its been leaking for some time. Ball valves loose the cover and bored stock play with it until the stem bleaks or bends.
Carpentry is nearly always six inch nail jobs as smaller nails get lost too easily, my father liked his joinery and made many thing over his lifetime from toys at Christmas for us kids to a trailer to take his pigs and calves to market and many other thing about the farm.

The old finger bar mowers had wooden connecting rods and wooden swath boards that needed replacing from time to time, wheel barrows needed new sides and legs as the rotted out. Farm carts and wagons had running repairs, and when the tractors came in they were all were converted to a single short wooden drawbar to replace the shafts.

After he retired he made four grandfather clocks, and four farmhouse kitchen tables to fit there respective kitchens, as well as an assortment of stools and chairs and a welsh dresser. Most of his timber was very old oak that he had found about the farm over the years and saved, a certain amount of ash, elm and yew timber used for specific jobs.

Father Extended his Garage

This was when they retired to a house in Bridgeford.The bulk of his timber stock was stored back at the farms.

Father extended his garage, called it, his ‘workshop',
So keenly he worked in there, only for meals would he stop,
In it he had all his tools, including a new lathe and a saw,
His plans for what he is making, on a bit of cardboard he'd draw.

For timber he'd look round the farm, old elm and ash and oak,
If it's useful for what he wants, into the roof if his garage he'd poke,
Half ton he stored this way, garage not designed for this,
But the timber dried out, and danger of collapse he dismiss.

For ten or more years he worked in there, no spare time had he,
Made tables and chairs and clocks, these thing he made ably,
It wasn't one in his shed, but usually four of each item he made,
Finished and stained and polished, to his high standard he'd grade.

Got bad on his legs with age, and a stool to work from he put,
Not safe to use his machines, this it kerbed his workshop output,
The things that he made, he made to last, generations to enjoy,
Solid as if to last for ever, all those skills he did employ.

Owd Fred

Most of the jobs mentioned above we learned from him but welding came in a bit late for father to take up, however for me, with thirty years of practice on the electric welder, with good metal, and welding with the job flat on the bench or on the ground, I can make a joint that will hold, but if on the slightest of slope or vertical welding I am reliably told its "Pigeon Sh1t" welding. The more you try to strengthen the joint the lumpier it gets hence the name.

Spanners were all whitworth and then when Fordson tractors came over they brought the AF fine threads and a completely different set of spanner sizes, then more recently the metric spanners have taken over with another set of sizes. So most of my old whitworth spanners have dwindled away till now fifty years on only a few remain. If your anything like me nothing gets thrown away, hence the boxes beneath the bench full of a wide assortment of spanners, some specific to a particular machines.

The old tractors came with a set of wheel spanners, plug spanners, and a general set to fit all nuts on that tractor. Ploughs had spanners and cultivators; I think the only thing in those days, without a spanner, was the set of chain harrows.

Farmers Skills know no Bounds

Over the years you learn most skills, enough to get ya by,
Welding plumbing laying bricks, ya mind ya must apply,
Laying concrete with a slope, grids and drains dig in,
Mend the roofs and spouting, protect the stock within.

A builders job is in his hands, a trowel and shovel need,
Pegs and line and spirit level, practice now for speed,
Anyone can do the job, an eye for accuracy to lay,
Bricks and blocks to make a wall, mistakes are on display.

Plumbing now with plastic pipes, and easy joints push fit,
Gone are the old iron pipes, a lot of work admit,
Cut with hacksaw threads to cut, paste and hemp wound on,
Elbows tees and feral joints, with pipe wrench now all gone.

A breakdown now, repair with weld, another job to learn,
Clean the rust off on the joint, with weld rod at angle burn,
Steady flow and curled up ash, or that is how should be,
Mine resembles pigeon sh1t, in lumps and holes for me.

Old nuts and bolts of any size, they build up in the shed,
But finding one the right size, too thick too short the thread,
When ones found that's okay, but now you need a pair,
Then the jobs impossible, enough to mek ya sware.

Cotter pins they're soft and bend, can never get them out,
Top and tail it breaks off, in hole with rust we clout,
The right size nail comes handy, tail end bent round double,
Get you moving, harvest time, and gets you out of trouble.

Farmer's skills know no bounds, most things he will tackle,
Jack of all trades master of none, but saves a lot of hassle,
Do the job to how he likes, no one to tell that's wrong,
Confidence in home made skills, built and made real strong.

Owd Fred

Computers force us into creating with our minds and prevent us from making things with our hands. They dull the skills we use in everyday life.Clifford Stoll (1955)

The Bacon Rashers were 50/50 Fat and Lean 75

Flitch of Bacon Pair of hams

This is what I remember about the day the pig was killed, it happened a bit more that once a year and everything and everyone had to be ready for when the butcher came with his gun.

We watched all this when we were kids, fingers in our ears,
Then bang the butcher shot him, and cut its throat mid tears,

Every house and cottage in the village had a pig sty, and the farms had three or four sty's where they would keep an old sow and breed there own pigs needed for fattening. There would be only one boar in the area and most of the sows would be taken to visit him at the appropriate time.

The cottagers would buy a weaner and feed it mostly on scraps from the house and garden, nothing was ever wasted, if it was edible (for the pig) it was fed to it. Bare in mind that most had big families and a large cultivated garden, and all vegetables and fruit were grown and some would be preserved for winter use. Potatoes and carrots hogged, onions dried and strung up fruit bottled and apples trayed and stored and of coarse there was always a hen run for eggs and some for killing for the table.

Back to the pig, as it got fat, and I mean fat, not like the lean "baconer" types of today, you would start think about its slaughter, and where the village pig bench was, and clear a clean place for it to be killed. Also you would need to think about where to hang it up for it to "set" for five or six days.

On the pig killing day at home, the boiler would be filled and boiling ready, pig bench scrubbed off, the butcher would set out his equipment, including his pistol, and a noose that would be put over the pigs snout and behind the pigs fang top teeth. Butcher did the leading and two more pushing from behind to encourage the pig out of the sty where it had resided almost all its life.

Along side the pig bench the pigs legs were lifted from under it and rolled onto the bench then without any hesitation the butcher put the pistol to its head and shot it. It was a struggle to keep it on the bench as its legs whipped and flailed, while the knife went into its throat. A bucket was on hand to catch the blood for the black pudding, and thing quietened down as the kicking stopped.

All the while this was going on us kids would be peeping round the corner as the squealing and noise and the gun going we had our fingers in our ears, also the gushing of blood frightened us. Then one at a time we went in closer to see the steaming pig being scraped after hot water was poured over it. Then saw the butcher dip the pigs feet in the scalding water as if to clean them only to realise in the back of his scraper was a big hook which he hooked into the pigs trotter and ripped the hoof off each of its toes.

Next they cut a slot in the pigs hocks and inserted a "tree" , its like a heavy wooden coat hanger that they will lift the pig up to the beam above.
As if he was drawing a line down the middle of the pigs belly, the butcher stroked his sharp knife gently down to reveal the pigs guts. As these gradually oozed out into a wheel barrow that was put in place for them to slide into,

Useful things like the kidneys heart and liver were saved and hung up on a butchers hook. Inside there was what they called a vale, which was also saved, this was to wrap faggots and had a certain amount of fat in the webbing. Off with the trotters and the head, and then it was left to "set".
The cutting up came some days later the main quarters left whole to be salted down, some fresh pork was saved for immediate use, and some pork went to some friends who also killed a pig some months before.

The head was boiled and the meat and brains was compacted into big basins to make brawn and the jelly stock from the boiled trotters poured over to top the basins up level. When covered these would keep for a reasonable while, and tipped out then sliced and used as you would corned beef.
During the war time rationing you were supposed to get permission to kill a pig but I suspect a good many got them killed and distributed without anyone knowing.

"Trotters Pigs Trotters" was printed last week 6.11.11 showing the pig bench as well.

The Cottage Pig Sty

Cottages had a pig sty, as most houses did,
Fatten up a piglet on scraps from house is fed,
Kept it eight or ten months, till it's good and fat,
Shame to see it come to its end, often had a chat.

Always had a name, knew when its time for food,
For this its always ready, door it often chewed,
Killed for pork and bacon, hams in salt well cured,
Hanging in the pantry, muslin covered till matured.

Countryman

There is no power on earth that can neutralise the influence of a high, simple, and useful life.Booker T. Washington (1856-1915)

Cheese and Mustard (1940’s) 74

Every now and then, in the pantry the last lump of cheese would be going dry and crumbly, but it was still all used, very very rare for good food to be wasted back then.

I'm not talking about the fiddly bits of cheese you see in the shops and super markets these days all fancy wrapped and stamped with a sell by date.  This was a real wedge off a whole round block of Cheshire and Cheddar Cheese, probably fifteen or twenty times the size mentioned above.

When mother got down to the last lump of dry cheese, there was a number of ways of using it up.

It got put on toast and grilled, or for a change (preferably Cheddar) put in the bottom of a sauce pan along with some milk heated and melted into sticky almost runny glue with liberal shakes from the pepper pot then that poured or ladled onto toast. I must say that at this stage if it was left to go cold it would resemble a piece of leather; you really could nail it on the soul of ya boot.

Another cheese dish father liked and he did it right on his plate, at tea time, again it would be the same crumbly Cheshire type Cheese. He would break and crumble the cheese over his plate, spread a half a tea spoonful of powdered mustard over it, then with the back of his fork, mash it all together with enough vinegar to make it all into a paste which would be spread onto hot muffins or toast.

He loved it but as kids it was a bit too hot for us, (it would blow our heads off)  I have tried it occasionally over the years since, not many households keep Colman’s Mustard Powder on the pantry shelves these days.

On the subject of mustard, a number of tins of dried mustard powder were always kept in stock for emergencies, (we have a tin in our pantry right now). On a number of occasions the vet has applied a mustard plaster on a cow back when she has had a difficult calving,  or slipped and hurt her back, it’s a tin of mustard mixed into a paste with a bit of warm water and spread onto a large square of brown paper then applied to the cows loin area or where ever a bit of heat was wanted.

  This was also often used on the man of the house if he had a bad or aching back, it is surprising how much heat it generates when its on your skin and protected with the old shiny brown paper glued on with the mustard. (I speak from experience)  

Cheese – milk’s leap toward immortality.

Clifton Fadiman  (1904 – 1999)

Trotters pigs trotters 73

 "Trotters"

Pigs  trotters

We watched when we were kids, fingers in our ears,
Then bang the butcher shot him, cut its throat mid tears,

I never knew who owned the pig bench but it went round all the village to who ever had got a pig ready for killing. All the cottages had a pig sty and most would kill a pig at least once a year. During WW2 when food was short and everything on ration, pork bacon hams and lard was moved around the village and the surrounding district under cover, on the "black market" so to speak.

Never saw money change hands anywhere, for instance, we had some fields of corn (wheat and oats for those reading over the pond) down by the railway line, and at harvest time a gang of lengths men on the railway would hop over the fence and load the farm trailers in a few minuets, then over again  later when down for the next loads, these would be paid in kind, it could be a flitch of bacon, a ham, or some pork.

In the case of the Steam engine Driver who lived in the next village, he slowed down each morning and rolled off big lumps of "steam coal" along side our  fields and father was ready withe a farm cart to load it up for our own household use. for this he had a half a pig. (delivered in a coffin, but that's another story)

I Remember Killing the Pig

About once a year the butcher called, for to kill a pig,
Scrubbed off the pig bench, it was heavy and big,
Don't know whose it was, but around the village it went,
To lay the pig on when it's killed, four wooden legs all bent.

Starve the pig from day before, empty belly they need,
Then the butcher prepares his tools, then the pig to lead,
By a noose round his snout, mid squealing protest struggle,
Took three men to lift on bench, to hold it on n grapple.

We watched all this when we were kids, fingers in our ears,
Then bang the butcher shot him, and cut its throat mid tears,
It happened fast, the kids will learn; catch the blood in bucket,
Kicking stopped, and bucket full, into pantry put it.

Very hot water poured all over, and scrape the hair all off,
He scalded the hooves, with a hook ripped the hoof clean off,
This was the worst when he opened it up, all put into the barrow,
Save the heart, liver and kidneys, same sequence always follow.

Then with a "tree", like a big clothes hanger, lifted pig to beam,
Left to set almost week, butcher returns, to watch were keen,.
The head comes off to make the brawn, boiled in a great big pot,
The rest is quartered, for to salt down, onto the setlas brought.

Some fresh pork saved to use right now, take the neighbours some,
Other do the same as well, almost every month a treat become,
Two hams in muslin bags are hung, on hook in pantry cool,
The bacon too is done the same, enough to make you drool.

Mother makes the faggots and black puddings from the blood,
Nothings ever wasted, fat is rendered down, the scratching's good,
Lard for frying and cooking, stored all in big stone jars,
Lined up in the pantry, all the work done, by our poor old m'a.

Countryman

Mother would not kill off a hen that was young and healthy, or an old one that was NOT laying, it was always a bare arsed one, that was almost spent out. They were never aloud to die, she would get them just before that get it plucked and in the pot never having gone cold.

I remember Mothers Mid Week Chicken Dinner

In mid week we often had, "chicken" for our dinner,
Tough old hen more soup than meat, always it was a winner,
So after breakfast mother went, to feed the laying hens,
On her way she would note, the one who's still in pens,

If it looked as if not laying, she would ring its neck,
Hang it in the coal shed, all flap and no more peck.
Pulling on the old tea cosy, well down over her ears,
And an old mac kept for this job, doesn't matter how it appears.

Feathers and the fluff do fly, and also mites do run,
This is why she's well covered up, as it is so often done,
With the news paper on the table, to be drawn it is now ready,
And out with good sharp knife, off with legs and neck all bloody

Nick below the parson's nose, with hand the guts she pulls the lot,
Saves the heart and gizzard, also neck to make the stock,
Into the pot this tough old hen, no time for it to go cold,
Steamed for a good two hours, till lid is hot to hold.

Into the pot goes all the veg, and a heap of part boiled taties,
Given another half hour simmering, before it hits the platters,
We all come in for dinner time, lunch to someone posh,
Plates piled up, our bellies to fill, we loved our chicken nosh.

Countryman

In the kitchen at the Beeches the kitchen floor sloped from east to west, with the fire place range on the south side. (Get the picture)It was a blue brick floor the same as in the stable, and the walls were the bare bricks painted, one colour usually green half way up and a lighter colour round the top usually green, to the side of the chimney brest was mothers new Jackson electric cooker, where she cooked the bacon or porridge in a mornings before the range had properly got going.

I remember the porridge would lift the lid with cooking and spill down the sides welding the pan to the cooker, Porridge had to simmer for an hour just to cook, no instant heat and eat, like the two minuet porridge of today, they were rolled raw oats.

To the other side of the chimney brest was a built in cupboard with a half bottom door and half top door stable door style if you like to call it, there was some hot pipes running through this cupboard and the Kellogg Cornflakes were kept to keep dry, along with the sugar and flour. This was a cupboard that was often raided by mice but they disappeared up into the ceiling following the pipes.

To the north side was a large cupboard with four draws at the bottom, and two big opening doors on the top half, on the top shelf dad kept his pipe and bacca though he did not us it that regular, us kids tried it out one night with dried tea leaves, cus we could-na find any bacca. We all had one good drag and it literally spun us off our feet, and I never ever smoked again, perhaps a good lesson learned early.

Also on the top shelf was the shot gun cartridges, quite a few boxes, stacked as these were used to get our rabbit dinner once a week, and occasionally a poached pheasant. In the rest of the shelves were the bottles and jar that had been opened and part used like jams and pickles and that posh word for salt vinegar and pepper, a cruet.

The Kitchen Floor it sloped.

I remember when we were kids, kitchen floor it sloped,
Sat down at meal times, mother to top end coped,
Kitchen table vinyl cloth, also it did tilt,
Father down one side, safe from anything that spilt.

Always there is one, who's clumsy as a kid,
Put him at the lower end, own mess he is amid,
Tip the water over, or a cup of tea,
It runs down the table, straight into his knee.

Four of us took it in turns, not to be so clumsy,
Other three would laugh, all sitting dry and cosy,
A dam good lesson that it was, with instant results,
Chair at the lower end, reserved for bumble foots.

Countryman

We had visiting mice in the house from time to time but mother was crafty, and they did not last long, She always had a couple of mouse traps and a lump of stale cheese pressed onto them, being thrifty the same piece of cheese would often catch more than one mouse.

A Mouse in the Cupboard

Sitting in the kitchen one night, by the kitchen fire,
Mother knitting father reading, us lads getting tired.
Then we heard a rustling, in the cupboard by chimney brest,
It was Kellogg's corn flakes trickling, a mouse the little pest.

He had sat and chewed a hole, right through cornflake box,

Found food for his little belly, where our mother keeps her stocks,
He disappeared up round some pipes, still the flakes they fell,
Keeping warm and well fed, if we find him give him hell.

Set the mouse trap on the shelf, loaded up with cheese,
For this it would attract him, one bite would make him sneeze,
Spring will slap him on the head, teach him not to steal,
Wasteful little blighter, to us it was our meal.

Countryman

Quotation
A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety.
Aesop (620BC-560BC)