Monday, 9 June 2014

Fathers Fingers

Fathers Fingers

After breakfast on a Sunday mornings, when all the essential farm work had been done, father would tell us tales of when he was young, and as with this one, the more blood and pain the more we enjoyed what he told us.  He lived and worked for his uncle Dan, a single man with a house keeper, he must have been around thirteen years old when this happened.
The mowing machine blades had to be very sharp, a blade that had gone dull would make it very heavy pulling for the pair of horses pulling it, one slip and the fingers were off.
This is my father in 1940 mowing grass for hay with his pair of shire horses. It was with the same sot of outfit that he lost two fingers as a school boy in the mid 1920's 


Fathers Fingers

Father lost two fingers, while mowing hay one day,
He was helping Uncle Dan on the meadows, not at all at play,
Only thirteen started working, horses in the shaft,
The mower blocked with grass, clearing it by hand (how daft)

He lifted blade and went round back, it was still in gear,
One horse did stamp his foot at flies, gave the blade two shithers,
This was just enough no doubt, cut two fingers in one go,
He never said how he stopped the blood, there must have been a flow,

The little finger it was off, above the lower joint,
The next was off above second, clean cut to a point,
Hospital took one off at knuckle, and stitch the flap of skin,
Tuther left half a stub, of finger what a sin.

No safety men to bother them, it was get him back to work,
They healed so slow, it was a blow, but not a time to shirk,
A motor bike he bought one day, to get about much quicker,
It had a belt to drive, hand clutch, and blow up tyre,

Mother he did find one day, while he was out on bike,
He gave a lift and she did find, how cold the bike could be,
Knit pair of gloves did she, to fit his fingers short,
Then regularly did see her out, and then began to court.

Round the table Sunday breakfast, father told us tales,
Of how he helped his uncle Dan, less fingers and no bales,
We had to always asked him, to tell us that again,
Of how he lost his fingers, and all about the pain.


Owd Fred

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