Mothers Knitting -264

I Remember Mothers Knitting

In the evening to relax, mother always knit,

Jumper’s scarves and socks, and gloves all made to fit,

All sizes knitting needles kept, neatly in a draw,

Some rolls of wool rolled into balls, left over from before,.

When the wool is newly bought, it comes in big long skeins,

We were asked hold out hands, and not aloud complain,

We took in turns to hold it, while she wound it into ball.

Sometime she would have, ten skeins of wool n’ do it all.

She knitted socks, with three needles steel,

Round and round she’d go, knitted fast by feel

Starting round the top, made grippe to hold then up,

Then Knit one pearl one to heel all without a slip-up.

Check the length of leg, for who it’s made to fit,

Cotton thread along with the wool, for heel is being knit,

This adds to its strength, when the holes appear,

Darning is inevitable, with all of our footgear.

We have to lie back with one foot, high up in the air,

Then new sock is pulled on, with three needles not a pair,

See how long to make the foot, were growing every year,

Then cast it off up to a point, last thread of wool to shear.

When knitting jumper she had, two great long needles blunt,

Plain band around the bottom, and pattern up the front,

Working from her women’s book, does cables blobs the lot,

Hold your chin up while it’s tried, she’s such an old fusspot.

To finish off around the cuffs, n round the neck she knits,

Try it on and pull puled well down, just to check it fits,

With there being four of use, could hand it up or down,

Used for best so smart it looks, going to the hoedown.

Owd Fred

Mother had a Grip like Iron --263

Never in all my life have I ever come across a woman with such power in her grip, if mother once got hold of you, you stood no chance of escaping, in fact I've seen her crack a walnut, and that takes some doing 

Mother had a Grip like Iron

When mother was young she had helped, around the family farm,

Milking cows by hand them days, strengthened sinews in her arms,

Her hand were still ladies hands, no bulky muscle show,

Belied the strength built into them, beyond you’d ever know,

Mother had a grip like iron, nothing failed her grip,

Screw lids on jars and bottles, give it me she’d quip,

The grip she had to skin a rabbit, or ring an old hen’s neck,

Crush a grape; she’d crush a walnut, power she’d got by heck.

Round by the coal ruck was her hammer, there to break the coal,

Coal it came in big lumps, some from steam loco it was bowled,

For coal alone the big lump hammer, it was there reduce.

Best steam coal was hard and bright, cracked it down for use,

When we were young she’d lace our boots, bow she’d pull real tight,

They never came undone all day, right into the night,

Sewing did with button thread, no tear came open again,

And buttons only came off once, thread she used times ten.

With age her hands were not so nimble, feel it gradually went,

Knitting that she’d done all her life, on wool she no more spent,

Her skin and nails were without blemish, soft and pink they were,

But on grip she never lost her strength; she was the best mum ever.

Owd Fred

Black Gold ---262

Black Gold

At great expense they drill for oil, black gold to be refined

Wells are sunk beneath the earth, through rock and soil grind,

Pumped and piped on its way, into many products turned,

Ammonium nitrate, tar and pitch, petrol diesel, n’ heating oil burned.

It’s running out and hard to find, now digging neath the waves,

Risks are getting higher, as for greater profit craves,

Barrel price keeps going up, and at the pumps the same,

There’s plenty more where that comes from, or that is what they claim

Biofuels the thing right now, grown on our land and earth,

Each season brings a new crop, to feed it now not worth,

Another market for our wheat, no surplus stores we need,

Persuade the millers pay the price, and end the waste and greed.

Energy from wind power, great turbines in the sky,

Out upon the hill tops, no wind no power supply,

Tide and wave power harness now, reliable as can be,

Clean and safe, its ebb and flow, the energy is free.

Owd Fred

Self Sufficiency 261

Miles per gallon's going up, so is car's per mile,
Speed is what's on most people's mind, then end up in a pile.



Self sufficiency

In my Fathers years of farming, there was the great depression of the nineteen thirties followed by world war II, which concentrated the governments minds on farming and food production. In my years following the war and rationing farming was appreciated and was treated with importance,
But now our country has once again got into the habit of importing ever increasing amounts of what the country needs to feed its inhabitants, and once again gone into a great (financial) depression.
 
A great majority of people do not give food, or food production any thought and is almost taken for granted. Just a hint of shortage creates a panic by government and individuals as to where they can buy to make up the deficit. But when it is a world shortage and nowhere to by it from, then food prices shoot up.

Houses built before and for some years after the second world war, had sufficient garden to grow a proportion their own food, Then the pressure was on to build more new houses, and on a given area of land they were crammed closer together, in towns and cities they had the high rise flats.

Allotments all over the country have suddenly been revived there being a waiting list in many places to get one. This is where folk who have no garden other than a square of lawn, can go and cultivate an area of ground on which to grow food or any thing they like, (more often used just to get away from her in doors).People these days seem totally incapable of being self-sufficient, no matter how much they grow at home or on the allotment.

I remember father telling us that it took a war to bring the country to realise why they have farmers, and much later towards the end of his life, he harked back to it again, hearing us younger generation moaning about making ends meet and paying more and more wages to less and less men on the farm.

Food Miles

On looking back when I were young, all them years ago,
The horse and cart were still about, a lot we didn't know,
Cars and tractors taking over, plenty of fuel they sup,
Fuel brought in from over seas, and local garages set up.

This has snowballed over the years, cannot comprehend,
Where all the traffic's going to, so fast around the bend,
Miles per gallon's going up, so is car's per mile,
Speed is what's on most people's mind, then end up in a pile.

Everything is carried about, and often back again,
Out to distribution centres, finding jobs for men,
Wear and tear on tyres and roads, burning up the miles,
Costs all added onto their goods, customer pays up and smiles.

At one time, veg came out the ground, flour came from the mill,
Chickens walked about the yard, pecking happily to get their fill,
A pig was fattened on scraps, from the house and garden,
Talk food miles, it was food yards, when things were all on ration.

Only thing that Mother bought, was cornflakes in a packet,
Then tins of peaches she would buy, from other side the planet,
Had these when bottled fruit ran out, ate with bread and butter,
Wheat was ground at water mill, bread baked next to the butcher.

Packaging's the thing right now, it's wrapped and wrapped again,
Keep the food clean and fresh, or that is what they claim,
Bin through many hands, and machines to wrap and pack,
Getting older by the minute, a use-by date on pack will slap.

Where do you put all the waste produced, pop it in the bin,
Land fill holes are filling up, rotting down n' methane begin,
It all boils down to negligence, in what were doing to our earth,
How it's changing for the worse, all getting bigger round the girth.

On looking where it's going to, well beyond my years,
Food's way down the list to buy, as" farmers" get the jeers,
Bring it all in from abroad, more transport still is needed,
"Look after those who tend our land", make sure the warnings heeded.

Countryman

There is no love sincerer than the love of foodGeorge Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)