Owd Tom Abbotts (1886-1968) 50

This is a tale told in verse, but it captures every day life of the old man back when I was of school age, about his dry humour.
His pipe that he was never without, he had three caps and a top hat all for different occasions, (One cap to do the milking in, one to work about the farms in and his best cap to go to town in, the bowler was used at funerals).
And how his sister made the tea for the harvest men ---- with beastings (cows first milk) they were very frugal and thrifty, nothing ever wasted.

Owd Tom Abbotts (1886-1968)

 Owd 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 all 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 become 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, beestings 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 in Seighford neath headstone.

Countryman

Here I should have put a picture of their tomb stone in the Church Yard of St. Chads

Corn Harvest 1940's 49

Corn Harvest 1940's ( No2 )For those on tuther side of the pond read WHEAT harvest)

When father came to Seighford, he grew a lot of wheat,
He built it into corn ricks along the stack yard neat,
Started at bottom getting wider up to eves,
Then narrow off to great tall point, all built out of sheaves.

The main cash crop apart from sugar beet, was wheat this was sown usually after a break crop of grass as in the Norfolk four coarse rotation of Roots Barley Seeds Wheat, before sprays were brought out it was always important to give the ground a rest of perhaps 3 years of grass, to break the cycle of annual weeds, the only troublesome weeds were docks and thistles, which were pulled or spudded in the growing crop.
Wheat is sown in the autumn, then when ripe cut with a binder during August, the shoffs of wheat are then stooked in the field and left for 2 church bells ( ten to fourteen days) before being carted in to the barn. It was our first real driving job in the school holidays to drive the Fordson tractor pulling the binder with father at the controls to adjust the binder according to the crop.

Wheat stooked in the field and left for 2 church bells ( ten to fourteen days) before being carted in to the barn, although if you look close this looks like oats being stooked


In the days before the tractor this was a job for a team of three horses with one man in the seat of the binder machine and the reigns to steer the horses, the horses would be well used to the job, and walked close along side the crop to be cut. Only at the corners they needed guidance when they had to step sideways in unison because of the long pole stretching from the machine up to their collars.

After two weeks in the stook, the shoffs of wheat are loaded onto the wagons and taken to the rickyard, where it was built into the remaining bays of the barn. The first in the bays would be the hay for winter fodder for the cows and horses, then the corn would be built into ricks in the rickyard the shape of a house with the top going up to a ridge.
 This was then thatched with the previous years straw that had been saved for the job, father would go down to the Moor Cover wood to an area that was being coppiced and cut hundreds of thatching pegs, a lot could be saved from the previous year and reused so it was a matter of topping up the number you were short.
The straw was then straightened and taken onto the roof of the stack and pegged down with string between pegs to stop it being blown away, starting round the eaves the next layer overlapping the lower one until he reached the top of the ridge. This would keep the stack dry until the threshing machine came sometime during the winter.

I Remember Father Showed us how to Thatch

When father came to Seighford, he grew a lot of wheat,
He built it into corn ricks along the stack yard neat,
Started at bottom getting wider up to eves,
Then narrow off to great tall point, all built out of sheaves

Then before it rained, he would have to get it thatched,
Gathering the thatch pegs, the thatch to rick attach,
With big long thatching ladder, which the wheelwright made,
He took bundles of straw up top, never he afraid.

He wound ten  pegs as bobbins, with forty feet of twine,
Then started at the gable end, first thatch was pegged in line,
On two feet up the ladder, the straw he overlapped,
The twine was tight from peg to peg, into rick were tapped.

The ladder rolled twice along the roof, two more pegs allow,
And on again until complete, to thatch he showed us how,
The eves were trimmed with shears, and sides of rick also,
To give a weatherproof stack, the result of reap and mow.

Owd Fred

The threshing was done by a contractor who had a complete threshing set, of box baler and binder, pulled in the earlier days by a steam engine then latterly by a single cylinder Marshall Tractor which was more manoeuvrable and a lot smaller than the steamer.
Two men travelled from farm to farm in sequence with the machinery going round the local area about once every two months. Once in the village he called at all the farms that needed corn or straw for the cattle, it took a gang of nine men to operate, that meant one man from every farm would follow it all through the village.
The driver of the steam engine would arrive from Woodseaves on his bicycle ( about six miles) at six am to get steam up ready for an eight thirty start, he would stay with the steamer all day and oiling moving parts and bearing on the equipment it was driving and feeding its fire with coal.
Two men would be pitching the shoffs of corn onto the thrashing box, it was an easy job throwing down from the top of the stack until lunch time, then hard work getting harder till the end of the day when it was pitching from ground level Two more were on top of the box one cutting the strings (or bonds as they were called) and one usually the other operator feeding the crop into the drum, the grain came out of a row of chutes where two more men bagged it off weighed it if it was for sale and stitch the top of every sack, other chutes took off the light grain and one the weed seeds.

At the other end the straw emerged into either a baler if it was for stock bedding or into a binder if it is to be used for next years thatching, this occupied another two men and with the driver that makes nine.
On moving from the village he would often be seen calling at the Hall pool to take on water for the next days work on the next farm.

This is like the threshing set that used to travel around the farms in our area  , the steamer was eventually replaced with a single cylinder Field Marshal tractor

I Remember Ozzy Alcock

Ozzy Alcock drives a threshing set, about the parishes' local,
He's well known by everyone, steam engine blowing whistle vocal,
A cheery smile and a wave, to us kids all standing in a row,
A second stream of smoke arose, from his pipe it did billow.

A wiry man with a broad and bony face, under his oily cap,
Prominent jaw bone always shut tight, not in his nature to yap,
Very keen eye that missed nothing, set deep under his eyebrow,
They were bushy hung over his eyes, dust they did not allow.

His greasy cap well pulled down, over right eye jaunty angle,
Its really is well water proofed, not for him a spangle,
You never saw the top of his head, could be clean and polished,
Whispy grey hair all sticking out, comb he must have banished.

His head was forward of his shoulders, keenly looking out,
His nobly knuckles with grip like iron, nothing let breakout,
Fingers oily and black with coal, never picked his nose,
Thumbs resemble Z with pressure, to top of pipe impose.

Twist he always smoked and chewed, and sqit tabaca juice,
Scraped out the bowel of his old pipe, black and burnt with use.
Cut the twist with his old pen knife, then rub it in his hand,
All mixed up with oil and coal dust, for flavour he demand.

Always cut a knob to chew, made inside mouth and near black,
Rinse it out with brew of tea, and eat his mid morning snack,
He's on the move all day long, walking round the live machines,
Arm between the belts a flapin , to oil an oil cap dust he cleans.

Never had his arm pulled off, looked dam close to me,
He's done it all his life it seems, experience on his side has he,
Couple of shovels full of coal, to loco fire he stokes
Plume of dark smoke blows across, water into the boiler soaks.

At the end of the working day, steam engine quiet and very hot,
A round disc just like a plate, place up on funnel top,
Makes it safe to leave all night, among the chaff and straw,
Easy to get lit next day, tall chimney makes it draw.

Onto his bike he climbs with bag, and home with bearings all well oiled,
His mate he does the same, their clothes with dust and dirt all soiled,
They're not much cleaner the next morning, had a shave and scraped it off,
Start again with loaf to toast, cheese and home made cake all day to scoff.

Owd Fred

Farming looks mighty easy when your plough is a pencil, and you’re a thousand miles from a corn field.

Dwight D Eisenhower (1890-1969)

The Post Office Shop 48

The post office shop  every village had one and our had the usual enamel signs nailed to the wall "Lions Tea " was one and some others besides, you can just see on the picture

This picture is how it was before they built the Cumbers council houses in 1953 numbered one to ten with a high hedge bank on this side of the road.

 Next house along was Philip Boultons cottage, then third one was the small holding and wheelwrights shop, with the Holly Bush pub in the distance on the right.

  

The Post Office Shop

In the centre of the village, was the Post Office shop,

They sold most thing, shelves stacked to the top,

It was run by old Mrs Smith, and her daughter Nelly,

Jars full of sweets up on the shelves, along with raspberry jelly.

 When you opened the door, ping would go the bell,

And out pops Miss Nelly, to see what she could sell,

With pearly rimmed glasses, slid halfway down nose,

And wrap round green piny, crossed over her clothes.

 She was slim with big feet, and walked with long strides,

Looked at you over her glasses, emotion she hides,

Hair combed back low, over her ears to a bun,

Without a word being spoken, she asks for what you have come.

The sweets in big jars, spread along the top shelves.

We ask for a quarter, lifts it down and into it delves,

Very precise with the needle, on what she weighs out on her scales,

Not over or nor under, prides herself on thrift with her sales.

A bacon flitch hangs from a hook, covered in muslin gainst blow-flies,

She cuts it while hanging, thin slices they not however she tries,

The ham she lifts down, and cut by hand off the bone,

With long knife that she used, she always kept it well honed.

For cooking and baking, all the provisions required,

And outback a paraffin tank, fill your drum as desired,

This was measured out, as if customs and excise,

And only after hours, to leaved counter not tended not wise. 

Nelly also ran the village Post Office, this she did with ease,

Stamps and postal orders, parcels well wrapped if you please,

She franked the mail out of the post box, each with a loud thump,

Then it was ready for the van to collect, parked by the village pump.

 Her mother was old, and had got no teeth in her head,

Big eyes magnified by her glasses, too large so it was said,

Not very mobile but nothing, and no one she missed in the shop,
In her chair in the kitchen she listened, intently as if to eavesdrop.

 As they got too old for work, they retired away to a cottage,

Kept a few hens, and grew a few things for her pottage,

They had lived very frugally, and nothing wasted at all,

And now are at St Chad, a bygone village of people AWOL. (the Churchyard)

________

Nelly was a very serious middle aged woman and still a spinster, she could "nail you to the wall" with one stern glare. However one snowy winter us lads had made a slide along the footpath along side of the road, and from round the corned came  Miss Nelly carrying he bucket of eggs to sell in the shop (she kept hens in a run just down the road up Smithy lane ).

One step on the slide and she landed on her back and the eggs spread all over the road, of coarse no one was in sight, we watched from a distance while she got up and continued her way back to the shop minus her eggs. We dare not go in the shop for days for fear of bursting out with laughter.

It was not done intentionally, its just that we knew how she could  frighten us to death with one glare.

Don’t be afraid of growing slowly, be afraid of standing still.

The cows have got a leader 47

The cows have got a leader, and she watches all the while,

Miss her when she finally goes, to meet her maker's bullet,
End up as tough as old leather boot's, n' fill a of pack of suet.

Well its that time of year again  when the calves have got to be weaned, the shed has been prepare , the troughs along the front have got gates above them to stop the jumpers, the water trough has extra rails to stop them going through, enough bedding thrown down to last a month, a ring feeder positioned where it can be replenished from outside. The cows will shout by their field gate for three days, and the fencing in that area checked, and a lane end gate kept shut as a long stop. Where the cows will be bellowing is at the bottom of the gardens of nine houses, all of whom are "city" types, so to try to keep them sweet I ring the end one up each year, to forewarn them of the impending noise.

The Suckler Cows

The suckler cows they graze all summer, until we wean the calf,
When the calves we take away, cows they bellow not by half,
The calves the same in shed we keep, until they settle in,
Gates are high and fences too, all to stop them from esca-apin.

Three days it lasts, until they feel, the pain of hunger's stronger,
The cows they clear off down the field, and hang about no longer,
Calves have no choice but stay, feed them corn and feed them hay,
One month they need get used to living, in the yard all in a bay.

They all get wormed and gain no weight, till frettin they've forgotten,
Put them out on clean grass, feed supplements, no silage rotten,
There they will grow and gain the weight, they lost plus plenty more,
When at last they do get fat, read the scales its there we can't ignore.

Countryman

One of last years calves at weaning

Chocky's with her new calf April this year 2011 

This is Chocky a Simmental cross Friesian, leader of the herd, she is no oil painting but always has plenty of milk, you can see her long square face in the picture, how wide her muzzle is, almost as wide as her eyes, and she is the one who has good eyesight and good hearing and always knows what is going on, on her patch.

One thing she cannot resist is a bucket with a bit of corn, and once she starts moving hopefully in the right direction the others tend to follow.

The Cows Have Got a Leader (This descibes old Chocky)

The cows have got a leader, and she watches all the while,
She knows exactly what ya doing, sometimes make you smile,
Only got to touch the gate latch, and up will go her head,
And walk towards the gateway, without a word being said.

Go to count them every morning, and check that they're all okay,
They think they want a new field, and walk off all that way,
Oblige them at your peril, as they mob you round the gate,
The fencing got to be strong, if you've got to make them wait.

If more than one walks in the field, leader walks the other way,
Takes the whole lot with her, she must know its testing day,
Got to walk round whole dam field, head them to the gate,
Seems that they have forgotten, and vet's is here by eight.

Leader walking off right way, the others following her lead,
Off towards the gateway, but they're gathering speed,
All stop short of going through, and start to circle round,
A young one makes a break for freedom, loose the lot confound.

A bucket with a bit of corn, the leaders up for that,
Always first one at the trough, and give her a little pat,
She follows where you walking, out off out down the lane,
Other think they're missing out, and follow once again.

So cherish your old leader, she can save you a lot of time,
Show the young cows where to go, while she's in her prime,
Miss her when she finally goes, to meet her maker's bullet,
End up as tough as old leather boot's, n' fill a of pack of suet.

Owd Fred

Out of all the herds around the world, there cannot be many who have not got a leader, ours is quiet and and come to the call, at the same time if she gets past you into a new field, just by pushing past, she will and the others will follow.  On the other hand we have had some very stubborn leaders and it makes hard work handling the whole herd.


Tell me if you have had the same experience, and what is youir leader like ?


Tongue- a variety of meat, rarely served because it clearly crosses the line between a cut of beef and a piece of dead cow
Bob Ekstrom, Pitt, MN

Weather Blog on my Farm 46

After one of the driest years since 1976 it looks like the fodder situation is going to be tight, last year quantities of hay and silage were lower than normal, and bearing in mind what my farther always said, “A bay of hay is worth more than money in the bank” we still have almost a bay of hay left from last year.

We have almost 60acres of peat meadows that nearly all of it is mown, some years its too wet and spongy and even if you can mow it and even bale it, the difficulty is hauling it off.

But this dry year has been kind to us on the meadows; the grass (and a few rushes) has grown well and produced around average yield of bales. Our biggest problem is the fishing pools that have been recently established on the meadows down stream, they are the nesting ground now for a few hundred Canadian Geese. In mid June when each pair has hatched eight or ten goslings, they emerge from the area of the pools to graze on my meadows, holding back the growth of grass over up to four acres.

The cows and calves have been taken down on those meadows to graze the aftermath, the only green grass we got, grass on the higher ground has gradually burnt up and now that some rain has come it will still take a long while to recover.

This is a 2008 picture dated  August, this year all the vegitation has been grazed down to the edge of the water

We hear about the Hurricane Irene flooding New York, we hear about heavy rain up the north of England and Scotland, we hear about harvest held up by rain in the South east and south west. But here in the Midlands of UK 30 miles North West of Birmingham the rain has missed us since last February. On the forecast maps on TV the cloud formations seem to part as they come over Wales and head north of us, or just skim south, we see the clouds passing us by.

However today August 27, 2011 we have had a few sharp showers, with more rain falling now will do the pastures good, it will take quite a few nights of continuous steady rain to soften the ground for the moisture to soak in properly.  But that has not happened so far.

Up date to Sep 4^th 2011 still no rain, only enough to damp the concrete on the yard, no rain water run down our drains through this spring and summer. I think we must be the driest spot in the UK.

What bit of damp we have had has just stopped the grass from dying off, the cattle have stayed down on the peat ground for over a month now, the only place where we have grass

Father always told us that

 “A bay of hay is worth more than money in the bank”

I Remember Albert Hine (45)

Albert was an old character the I remember from my school days, he worked with shire horses on the farm where I farm now. For such a short man he seemed to take long strides just to keep up with the shires he worked with, and was never without his pipe. As withe nearly  all the gardens belonging to the farm workers it was well cultivated and his major crop was tobacco, no one else grew it and he was proud of the fact he grew and dried a whole years supply, store in his small house

This is Ivy Cottage where Albert lived.

This is one of a pair of farm cottages known as "Spight cottages", situated on the vicarage corner they were built to prevent the view from the Old vicarage to Seighford Hall half a mile away. ( The vicar and the Lord of the Manor did not like each other and these cottages were put up to block the view from the vicarage hence the name "Spight Cottages")The other cottage is situated between it and St Chads Church.(On the right in the picture) 
As a tied cottage it belonged to the Yews Farm, and at one time it was occupied by the cowman, then latterly by Albert Hine who was the wagoner. In the 1950's it was stripped of its ivy and both cottages were cement rendered and painted white.

I Remember Albert Hine

Dated in the 1940’s and 1950’s

Albert was a Waggoner, for Charlie Finimore,

A strong and healthy man he was, and stood at five foot four,

In his younger days it’s told, he would walk out of the hills

With a ewe under each arm, in winters cold and chills.

 He lived at Ivy Cottage, where he grew his own tobacco,

For to keep his pipe alight, it was not a laughing matter.

As the summer days got longer, so pick leaves did  he,

And hung then in the living room, the ceiling  could not see,

 When dry and almost crisp they got, into a draw he pressed

To keep them through the winter, by large old chimney breast.

He rang church bells on Sundays, with a team they were so loyal,

They practice in the mid week night, as if expecting royal,

 He had a box, of twelve inches, though he was in his prime,

The little man he rang the tenner, keeping stead time.

The team with him at that time, they are well remembered,

It written in the belfry sill, names and bells all numbered.

All day he worked with horses, a carting muck with two,

He had the one up in traces, as the load was from the Yews,

Up to the Noons Birch field, where he hooked it out in rucks,

Ten paces up, ten paces wide, so even was the muck.

 Describe the man were looking at, a jerkin he did ware,

Tied round the middle with binder twine, to hold more than just a tare,

Corduroy trousers tucked in spats, round his hob nail boots,

Cap raked left and pipe raked right, pouch and matches in a box.

His old waist coat worn and taty, kept his big watch n matches dry,

The shirt it had few buttons , and the collar he kept it by,

For high days and holidays, when everything was clean,

And home guard duty, when the sergeant, he was very mean.

 His platoon was made up of men, who worked around the farms,

They mustered in the village hall, to train as fighting men at arms,

The pork and bacon beef and taters, butter eggs and creme,

All of these were traded, mongst the brave old fighting men.

Albert kept his pipe and bacca, it was woodbines for the rest,

As the smoke it was so dense, no room for enemy they jest

This ploy worked well , no men got lost, and warmer they could keep,

Till sergeant came and caught them, so loaded up his jeep.

 Two cows he kept and young stock, and a few old tatty hens,

The fields where he kept them, had sheds and tidy pens,

He mowed along the grass verge, all the way to Stafford,

To make his hay to keep them, and drew water from the ford.

 All his life he worked dammed hard, but slower he did get,

Albert met his maker, he was one you can’t forget,

Popular and cheerful, he lived to seven, tee

Buried in Seighford church yard , remembered by me and thee.

_________

 

Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through our life trying to save.

Will Rogers  (1879– 1935)

I’m Trying to Remember 44

Memory is a fickle thing for me, and looking back years ago it seems most clear, but then there is no one going to challenge what you claim to know.

My misses loves her garden,
And the old blacksmith made wicket

Details of the most irrelevant things come to mind, and always after you should have remembered, and too dam late to tell. 

 I’m Trying to Remember

I’m going to try to tell you, about the thing forgotten,

All that slipped my mind, unpleasant things so rotten,

It’s just as well it slipped my mind, can’t remember that,

This page it will never get used, till memory it comes back.

I don’t recall that happening, forgot that’s what I said,

Could get into a lot of gripe, I’d remember if I’d bled,

Only need a trigger, to set my mind alight,

Could understand if I were blind, I would have no sight.

Can’t remember what we just said, got to say it twice,

Doesn’t sink in just like that, please give me advice,

I hear alright, goes in my head, soaking in it does not do,

Said again, begin to grasp, the words I must pursue.

Its all a part of getting old, or that is what they say,

Remember well from years ago, when we went out to play,

But last week, even yesterday, what ever did we do,

Need to dredge deep into my mind, I haven’t got a clue.

________

The good you do is not lost even though you forget it.

I Record My Memories 43

 

In the 1940's most of the young men of the village had been called up to the armed services , so it was all the older generation of men working on the farms and on the estate.

As we got to the age of ‘call up’ the war had ended and younger farm lads could be exempted, and father had a lot of papers to sign just to keep us lads at home and prove there  was enough work for all of us on the farm.

I Record My Memories

I record my memories, of where I lived my life,

People who lived and worked here, all about the strife,

The ones that moulded me, from very early age,

Learning how to cope with life, recorded on this page.

I started with my mother, and all the things she did,

Father’s next on how to work, and earn an honest quid,

Then it’s all the neighbours, of how they influenced me,

Its on to school and educate, to use my head you see.

Everyone’s an influence, in a small village like ours,

Tell you tales when they were young, they went on for hours,

Some were porkies I’ve no doubt, but non of them were lies,

Stories told and past down, told before they meet demise.

______

Looking Back them Years Ago 42

This is The Beeches Farm where I was brought up, the house was built in 1862,  it is almost a copy of where I live now at Yews Farm, built in the1830's  (picture in the snow in the right hand margin)  , and note the dormer upstairs windows, and the lower roof.

 Just compare the two pictures, half a mile apart

A traditional farm yard with cowshed and stables on two sides of the yard and on the other side almost out of site is the lofts where the corn (wheat and oats) was stored for grinding.
Below was the mixing shed, the engine shed and the milking machine vacuum pump sheds, also a row of loose boxes for calf rearing and pig stys, all brick and tiled roofed building exept the hay barn.




When mother thought we were safe to leave alone for a couple of hours, mother and father went to the weekly whist drive up at the old club room, the Beeches farm was a few hundred yards  down the road from any other houses.

I can never remember our back door ever being locked, though the door had a big bolt solid with paint and not workable.

So you can imagine what went through our minds when we eventually heard the back door catch click and foot steps into the back kitchen.

 Looking Back them Years Ago

Looking back them years ago, when we were little boys,

We bumped our knees and elbows, and father made us toys,

Played around the farmyard, in and out the sheds,

Testing all the puddles, thick mud into the house it treads.

When at first we started school, father trimmed our hair,

Combed and washed with new cap, new shoes without compare,

Short trousers and new jacket, a satchel on our back,

We all went there to study, but often got a smack.

Times tables chanted every morning, and the alphabet,

Till we knew them off by heart, of this I‘ve no regret,

Isn’t till you leave school, that you realise,

How useful school and education, help to make us wise.

Father showed us all his skills, from very early age,

Studied Farmers Weekly, read almost every page,

The pictures they were mainly, of inter-est to us,

News and reports on prices, what a blooming fuss.

We also had the Beano, a comic for us kids,

Dandy and the Eagle, must have cost dad quid’s,

Him he had his farmers weekly, it must be only fare,

Mother had a knitting book, for inspiration n’ flare.

It must have taken fifteen years, till we felt grown up,

Left alone at home at night, parents meeting as a group,

In fact it was a whist drive every Friday night,

We supposed to be in bed, but sometimes had a fright.

An owl it hooted in bright moonlight, scared us all to death,

Door that blew in wind, with fright we nearly lost our breath,

Scooted up the stairs so fast, and under the bedclothes dove, (another word for dived )

In darkness we were frightened, it was for courage that we strove.

On hearing the back door open, it was never locked,

Foot steps in the kitchen, bedroom door we chocked,

Then we heard mothers Coo-eee, relieved to hear her call,

Have you missed me duckies, we bloomin have an all.

So our sheltered life was over, sometimes fended for our selves,

Mother learned us basic cooking, as long as plenty on the shelves,

One at a time we left home, with basic thing that we were taught,

This knowledge we’re to build on, foundations life not bought.

                                                 ________