Pig Stopping Days are Over? not now. 67

Pig Stopping Days are Over? not now.

Many of you older reader of this blog will know what its like when your knees start to bow out and they get very painful (it's when bone rubs on bone and they creak),my old dad always said, when he saw anyone like that "his pig stopping days are over", well nowadays its not.

My knees went out to almost eight inches apart, such was the ware on the joints and cartilage almost none existent, and at the age of ### I had both knees done. That was eighteen years ago.  It has revitalized my life although to help guard against wearing the new joints out too quickly we have installed a stair lift.

I know of a few folk who are afraid of going "under the knife", but short term pain (of the op) is well worth the long term gain of pain free joints, they never will be as they were when you were in your twenties, but you can get about relatively comfortably.

Knees

Knees are what you sit on when you small and cannot stand,
Knees are what you rely on when walk and need a hand,
Knees are what you bend, when you want to duck ya head,
Knees are what you rest when you finally hit your bed.

They carry all ya weight when ya walking out n' about,
They carry all the load when ya lift and think ya stout,
They start to give ya notice when they're getting worn out,
They're creaking when ya up and down nuff ta mek ya shout.

Joints they need some basting with goose fat to lubricate
Joints they give you pain day and night and won't abate
Joints they need replacing with some metal good and strong,
Joints that are pain free and ya life it will prolong.

I can tell you they're well worth it, under the knife must go,
I can tell you who to see, and explain and tell you all I know,
I can feel the benefit of these new and shiny joints,
I can stand and bend and walk pain free, out away on jaunts.

Owd Fred

A Lift it is a Must

Find it hard to go up stairs, the misses she's the same,
Fourteen steps long and steep, were both getting lame,
We puff and pant as we go up, our joints are getting stiff,
Not much better coming down, like walking down a cliff.

We looked and looked for way to help, a lift it is a must,
One that would take us up the stairs, one that we can trust,
Save our legs and save our breath, were getting older now,
Sent off to the knacker's yard, if I were a lame old cow.

Owd Fred

It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees

Emiliano Zapata (1877 - 1919)

Old Village Mortuary 66

The Old Village Mortuary as it is 2011

This is an interesting old building in the middle of our village; it is the old village Mortuary . For saying that there would be no more than two hundred people, if they were all rounded up, you could not see what need there was for it.
 But I was told that if there was a death or someone was killed in our area, who did not live in the village, that was where the policeman would take the body and the door locked. As you see in the photograph, it is the door at the top of the steps, in a loft above a cowshed, with a cool north facing window.

On a closer look at the window, it too is a secure one with iron bars across it, there again it was not to prevent escape but to stop invaders (or body snatchers) the window being some ten foot up a blank wall. I have not heard of a small village anywhere else in the country having one in existence, but then I have not travelled.
The door below has regularly used by the publican in recent years as a store room, a small window less lockup as this side of the building is in fact the pub yard. On the other side of the building is a cowshed window and a split door, one where the top half can be left open if need be. The lean-to tiled roof by the brick steps is the "fodder bing" (local name for feed passage) which runs' along in front of the cows where hay and other feed can be stored and pushed through directly into the cows troughs.

Just another quirky little building that will instantly be demolished in the interest of providing another building site. But what about the history to it

Accident, n.: A condition in which presence of mind is good, but absence of body better.

Unknown

The old Seed Fiddle 65

He pushed and pulled the bow, with each stride he took,
For the seed must spread thinly, according to the book.

The old Seed Fiddle

I still have a seed fiddle the same as father used when I was a kid. I used it to sow seed mixture in the corners of the fields for the stewardship schemes. I keep it in the office on top of a cabinet where it won't get damaged or run over by a tractor.

Father always had one for broadcasting grass seeds, but according to its instruction card pinned to it you can sow anything that will go through the aperture (that rules out potatoes). It also tells you how to calibrate and set the regulating lever.

If you have an Aero seed fiddle the chances are that the instructions are un readable or even worn away or just got torn off. However here is a copy of the exact instructions that should be followed



THE "AERO" BROARDCASTER AND SEED SOWER
______________________
WORKING DIRECTIONS
Place the stick of bow in position, by putting it through the coiled spring immediately in rear of distributor bobbin; fix end on stick; give thong one turn round bobbin the pass it through hole in handle of bow and secure tightly.

To alter machine to sow different quantities per acre, loosen the winged nut on bottom of box, set lever to number required, then tighten winged nut.

Using instructions

No2 sows 6 pints of Clover Seed per statute acre and 16 feet at cast. Or 2 bushels of Rye Grass to a statute acre and 16 feet at cast.

No3 sows 3 gallons of Flax or Trefoil to a statute acre and 12 feet at a cast.

No4 sows peeks of flax to a statute acre at a cast.

No5 sows 1½ bushels of Wheat to a statute acre and 24 feet at a cast.

No6 sows 2 ½ bushels Oats to a statute acre and 16 feet at a cast.

No7 sows 3 ½ bushels Oats to a statute acre and 16 feet at a cast.
                        Or 3 bushels of Barley and 20 feet to a cast.
No8 sows 4 bushels Oats to a statute acre and 16 feet at a cast.

 
No9 sows 5 bushels Oats to a statute acre and 16 feet at a cast.

No10 sows 6 bushels Oats to a statute acre and 16 feet at a cast.

 A shorter stick can be used for sowing headlands or narrow ridges

Keep your seed clean Keep your belt tight

Oil the journals and grease the stick well. Keep a regular and firm motion.


Never be entirely governed by the numbers as difference in the walk of the operator and the difference in quality of seed makes a gradual difference in the amount distributed therefore always measure in your hopper the amount of seed wanted of a cast or acre, and you will soon know how to set the machine to your walk, and never fail to get just the amount you want to the acre.

This machine will also sow fertilizer.
(If you want a new laminated card to pin back on your Aero Fiddle, I could post you one at cost,drop me an email.)


I like the bit where you can sow fertilizer with it, and as for broadcasting 5 bushels of oats to the acre, the bag on top of the machine must only hold about half of a bushel.


Father often liked to broadcast by hand, for this he had a kidney shaped deep pan that had two loops and a vertical peg type handle.

This will give you an idea of what a seed pan looks like.It would hold about half hundred weight of grain seed in old money thats 56lbs, or 25Kilos


It had a strap that went over his shoulder onto the loops to carry it in front of him, this allowed him to use both hands swinging one hand then the other as a marching soldier, picking up seed at the front and slinging in a wide ark to distribute the seed with each stride.
Fine seed like kale, it was a finger and thumb job, and with grain, in wet patches where it was too wet to get with the drill, it was hand full's at a time job.

I Remember the Seed Fiddle.

This happened in spring 1944 when I was 6 years old

Father he sowed the grass seed, with an old seed fiddle,
The field across the road, from house was all in stubble,
He filled up his fiddle, with grass seed and clover.
Seed bag as this end marker, his blue jacket at other,

Four yards move the marker, at each end of the bout,
March strait like a soldier, strides even and stout,
He pushed and pulled the bow, with each stride he took,
For the seed must spread thinly, according to the book.

Working all through the morning, half the field is sown
He was heading for the sack, on which he could sit down,
As a little lad to see my dad, went across the field,
Picked up his jacket on the way, look at me I squealed.

On seeing what I'd done, he wasn't very pleased,
He lost his far end marker, and with grass fine seed,
There was no way of telling, where he'd sown up to,
At very early age I learned, what the markers do.

Countyman

It is like the seed put in the soil - the more one sows, the greater the harvest.
Orison Swett Marden (1850-1924)

That Unsettled Feeling 64

That Unsettled Feeling

Occasionally in life you get the uneasy and unsettled feeling when you’re unsure of the future and not certain as to which way life is taking you, well I got that feeling this last few months.

This you understand was written in 2012 when I was still a working farmer on 250acres 

Looking back over the years I got it when I first started school, then at eleven when we went to the big school in town, but that was soon over come within a few days when you got to know your way around.

The next time was when I got married and got my own house when I set up on my own farm (tenanted farm), then every now and then when things did not go how you would like, like loosing a calf or even worse loosing cow. I was always reminded by my father that “Where you have livestock, you have dead stock”.

Some of these feeling pass quickly, gone in a few days, other times they last for weeks and weeks or so it seems until you get used to the new situation. When in one of these periods I find it hard to concentrate enough to even write a blog, so I thought I would write a blog about this subject to see how many other folk have the same unsettled feelings and how they get through them.

Perhaps I better start to reveal what is causing my unsettled feeling,

Don’t know if a blog of this sort is in the right place, being a farming blogger and this is a medical blog, but the farmers and all folk who work on the land and in agriculture are not immune from these sort of problems,

So here goes

Well it started some 10weeks ago when I had one of my rare visits to the doctors. It was nothing, or nothing that I had not had occasionally over the years, and would not have bothered with, only my dear wife pointed out I ought to go and reminded me of my age (73). So that same morning I tracked off to see our doctor Sam H. he asked how things are and gradually got around to ask me the reason for my visit. Well I said, I get a bit of a twinge or sting every time I pass water (pee)  and wanted something (other than the old remedy of Pearl barley) to clear it quickly. ( Doctors used to tell you you have got "Farmers bladder"--- never ever having to hold onto ya water, feel you want a pee, just turn to the hedge or the tractor wheel and let it go instantly) never having to wait to go to the loo.

 Sam had already started doing a prescription of antibiotics to clear the immediately problem; when he suggested that I go to the hospital for some tests. (he had seen a trace of blood in the urine sample) An appointment came through the post for two weeks later to see the Urologist, who promptly put in motion kidney bladder and blood tests.

 This all done I waited for the results in a weeks time to be told the kidneys and bladder all clear. But next he wanted a biopsy of my prostrate, and yet another appointment came through for me go to the operating theatre ( at the Stafford Hospital, ) They took ten biopsies (felt like an old hen pecking at ya arse) in all, and the result came a week later positive, in other words I had got Prostrate Cancer.

 This now is the reason for my unease and not knowing what the future holds. But wait, more tests now to see if it has spread into bone and the lymph glands, this includes a full body bone scan with some radioactive injected into my blood stream left three hours then the scan taken fortunately this proved clear as did the lymph gland test.

So now the medication has started in preparation for radio therapy, this is a course of pills and injections to suppress my testosterone, apparently the cancer feeds on testosterone and if that is reduced or suppressed the cancer has nothing to feed on. ( do you remember we used to implant cockerels with summat like this to fatten them for christmas and their combes would go pale and walked about very passively. Well I felt just like a bloody caponized cockerel)  

Basically its hormone therapy and it is already giving me sweats and a lethargic feeling with no energy. The first three weeks of pills led up to a monthly injection/implant which I am told will go on indefinitely into the future.

The Radio therapy treatment will be starting in Mid December or early January this will include a thirty  mile round trip every day, five days a week for seven weeks

 If you’re a man of a certain age, fifty or over I am told, you should have a PSA test early to see if you have prostrate problem, neglected it will kill you.

The whole point of this blog is to warn older men (or those who are looking after older men) to have a regular test done; looking back in my diary I had a test done five years ago and it was clear back then,  you do not know you have it, and it's  too damn late if it gets into your bone and lymph glands. I was shocked and surprised; they told me mine is treatable. I am still working full time on the farm up early every morning, the only thing in the back of your mind now is that of  an uneasy and unsettled feeling which I fear is going to last a bit longer than it did in my younger days.

In preparation for the December January  radio therapy I have sold off all the 18 month old cattle that I would have normally keep through the winter, to reduce the work load. The suckler cows winter out and are fairly easy to manage and the weaned calves will be in one big shed for the winter

It looks like me (and the family) will be having a bit of an extended feeling of unease and uncertainty for a few more months yet.

The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.
Ursula K LeGuin

Should Have Put the Blade out of Gear 63

He Should have put the Blade out of Gear

These are tales father used to tell us round the breakfast table on a Sunday mornings when all the farm weekend chores had been completed, (until evening milking)

Father had been brought up by his uncle in the 1920`s, a single man who put him to work long hours before and after school, the school was a village in south Staffordshire a mile or so across fields and footpaths, Upon arriving at school the children's boots were inspected, inevitably on wet mornings they would muddy and no excuse would be aloud for not polishing your boots before setting out to school.

Hand Milking

Milking was the first job every morning, (even on school mornings) the cows rounded up from the "night pasture" (usually the nearest couple of fields by the buildings), every cow knew her own stall, tied up and ready for milking. Fetch with the buckets and stools, turn your cap round and head under the easiest cow to milk. With two gallon in the bottom of the bucket, there would be as much again of froth protruding out of the cone shaped pail.

Some were restless and fidgety, some with tails down right filthy, some were just hard to milk, some had pendulous udders almost to the ground and the teats pointing east west (these were usually the heaviest yielder's but the most awkward to milk) When the cows were all in milk it meant there was up to eight or ten cows each, a good hour and half's work.

Milk was carried in pails to the dairy by the farm house, tipped through a cotton wool filter to take out all that might fall into it (straw?) and into a high D shape receiving tub, There was a brass tap on the front so that you could graduate the flow of milk down the ribbed cooling block, locally called a fridge, this was made of copper and plated with tin (or some white metal) the copper a good conductor of heat and the tin easy to clean.

Water from the well is pumped and flowed up the inside of the fridge, the milk flowed down the outside, the aired water that left the fridge went into a cow trough for them to drink when they were turned out from the sheds. From the fridge the milk dropped into the large seventeen gallon churns, all hell would be let loose if anyone let a churn run over, which it inevitably did from time to time, it was one of those things you only ever did once.

Next job was to harness the half legged Cob, put him in the shafts of the float, back up to the dairy, load the churns and tie them to keep them from slipping or moving. The driver, usually the youngest lad ( my father), about twelve or thirteen would be trusted to encourage the horse to move swiftly toward the station, but not too swiftly out of the yard gate as it was a forty five degree turn round the end of the roadside ditch, this taken at speed would "Spill the Milk".

On down the narrow single track road you would be fairly safe, as long as your Cob did not try to load himself up in the back of the neighboughs float pulled by a slow and old "Hack" (and usually driven by one as well). As you got near the station it was like the "Gold Rush" fortunately everyone going the same direction.
Fittest and fastest horses at the front of the queue, (if they did the milking on time,) and wait for the train, when it did come the floats were backed up in turn to the rail wagon, the full ones duly labelled loaded, and the tomorrows empties taken home. Then into the house, get changed and off to school with his boots polished and instant cane if he was late.

Fingers (or not)
In his school holidays father in his early teens would be sent off to mow with a pair of Shires. First the blade had to be sharpened like a razor in the barn, by his uncle, this made it easier for the horses to pull, and always take a spare one with you as well, half way through the morning the blade would go "dull" and block , so it needed to be changed. It was during a blockage that the fingers of the mower had to be cleared, and to an inexperienced lad like my dad he lifted the blade from the lever by the seat, then walked round to the back of the blade, and cleared it with his hand, (not with a stick) he should have put the blade out of gear.

At an unfortunate moment one horse did little more than stamp his foot, the blade did a quick couple of zithers and father lost two of his fingers, his little finger was taken back to the first joint and the flap of skin stitched over to cover the hole, similarly the next finger was cut off above the second joint the same again, taken off at the next lower joint. Stitching back on was not an option in them days and you did your work with what you have left.



This is my Father mowing, with his two shires Flower and Dolly, he had lost two fingers in the same sort of outfit that he worked for his uncle Dan some fifteen years earlier.

Soon after this picture was taken he bought his first tractor, a Standard Fordson which took a lot of hard work off the horses

I Remember Fathers Fingers

A tale he told us while working for his uncle Dan, he must have been around thirteen years old

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, while it was still in gear,
One horse did stamp his foot at flies, and 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

When you point your finger at someone, three fingers are pointing back at you.Anonymous

Animals in our lives 62

Milly the Jack Russell & Tinny the Cat

Off to the vet for stitching, twas young vet with a tutor,
But while he's knocked out, we got the vet to neuter,
Two lots of stitches made him sway, but stronger did he get,
Hardly leaves the house at all, so lazy is this cat you bet.

Animals in our lives

Is it any wonder that we dominated by our animals (and kids). When your stuck with an instinct to protect everything in our charge, they come first, come what may. Take our little dog Millie, she is a Jack Russell, she is not aloud to be "home alone". When her principle carer goes out (my misses) she will instantly bring me (Fred) up to the top of her "pecking" order.

 She will follow me about the house, and settle in the next chair, and sometimes settle on the office desk. The slightest hint that her principle carer is back and I am relegated to Zero. Only one look at the cupboard and she gets fed, whereas, I can look at the cupboard and I still have to wait until meal times.

Millie should be fed dog food once a day as she does nothing, in fact she is fed at our meal times and three times in between as well (or so it seams) .The dog food is rejected in favour of best sirloin, breast of chicken, and fish but not the batter. The belly fill cereals are way down her list of options as food.

When Millie needed an operation ( woman's problem you see) there was no stress on Millie on the run up to the big snip, but my misses was not to be told until the night before. Millie had a good nights sleep but her principle carer and me had a very restless night with the misses worrying about the impending op.

  Morning came with Millie not to have food that morning at all, in fact out of loyalty and gilt her principle carer could not eat either. We are talking about a normal human being and a mere DOG Millie, the one with no tail, unless you look closely. On with her heavy collar and robust dog lead (no escape for her) into the car and off I go to do the dirty deed, among stifled tears and fond fair wells (my god she's only going for four hours).

 No wonder I get rejected by most of the pets, it is always me who gets landed with the job of injecting them, or taking them to the vet where they almost invariably get injected as well. Ear drop jobs and nail clipping are other detestable jobs that I am involved in, no wonder she sees me as an expendable friend.

  Later that day I picked a bleary eyed Millie up expecting at least twenty stitches and a good four inch knife hole (like her carer had). But no, we put our glasses on to look closely and mistook her op wound for her belly button, it was one miserable stitch (two when the vet took them out). Key hole surgery you see.



This is Milly, as you see she is diplomaticly reads the right papers, (SOLUTIONS FOR AN UPHILL HARVEST ?)should not realy be on the table, but as you can see from the paws and the long claws she does not go out round the farmyard nowadays. Milly is not too keen on the cats and sometimes backs off with a bloody nose, where each cat claw has penatrated a little bubble of blood pops up, and she is not too pleased.

Milly is our little dog

Milly is our little dog, Jack Russell she is by breed,
Getting older now, and lot of exercise does not need,
But food she loves, and eats quite well
N' put on weight, her tummy to swell

In her own dish bran is added, it is for every meal,
This to help her keep regular, but cat food tries to steal,
Sours her tummy, makes it gurgle, make an awful noise,
Then eating grass to cure it, and then back in play with toys.

Of people she is choosey, the friends she has to make,
Will nip and pull ya trouser leg, outside you must take,
She knows when we prepare go out, will cower top of the stairs,
Have to go up fetch her down, sit in kitchen mid evil glares.

Pleased to see us when we come home, first we hear a bark,
Only half an inch of tail, wags her bum, swings it in an arc,
Races round the kitchen floor, dives into her bean bag,
Settles down with a new toy, chews it to a rag.

Getting grey and older now , knows everything you say,
Even gets on with the cat, and even tries to play,
A touch of noses when they meet, sometime a nip of tail,
But on the whole they're good pals, in their holy grail.

Countryman

This is to introduce Tinny (the cat)

The cats in our house only catch for sport, and that happens about once a week. Tinny, the currant beneficiary of our principle carers care, exploits this to the full. Its taken him all of six months to twig on to the system that lets him eat his belly full BEFORE going out on patrol, then strole about the stack yard for half an hour and back to the house.

We first noticed "Tinny" (as a stray cat) on the lawn one morning when we were having coffee. He had a humped back and squatting against the wall with his head down, and we thought it was a large stone. Then it moved, and realised it was a cat. We rushed out thinking he was injured, but no, he had his head jammed inside of a ring pull dog food can.

Thinking it might be a wild or nervous cat, we lifted him up by the can thinking he would drop out, but it was tight. To make any progress without injuring him, I had to pinch and pull the hair behind each ear a bit at a time until both ears popped out, then the can dropped off, or should I say he dropped out of the can.He was very dazed because he could hardly breathe, and obviously hungry, that was the reason for getting his head trapped.

When he started on our carers care, he would eat anything offered to him, and he was fed in the shed for at least two days, then he became conscious enough to know where it was coming from. This was when he was called Tinny, and was put on a "build me up diet", which included being wormed.

After a few weeks we noticed he was licking a patch on his fur partway up his back leg, and on investigation found it was a cut. When the fur was parted it opened into a round hole that you could put your finger in. It had to be stitched so we made an appointment for him at the vets, and they were instructed while they had him to knock his tabs off at the same time. This cost me a princely sum of fifty quid plus vat, all for a stray cat called Tinny.

At this point in time he became house bound and has never got out of the habit. From time to time he goes on patrol and catches only the smallest of rats for a bit of sport, but the small ones would eventually become big ones so he is forgiven.



This is where Tinny sits in the morning sun, he is far from a posh cat, he is a happy cat. Never outside for more than half an hour twice a day, so when your planting out the bedding plants it advisable to be wearing gloves. About twelve weeks ago he got very miserable and was loosing weight to the piont we had to take him to the vets.
It was found that he had got some bad teeth, so he was put under and the offending teeth removed. We were shocked to find when got him home we looked in his mouth to find over half his teeth had gone, so now he does not have any dry cat biscuits, and the odd bit of meat he gums it to death, and keeps him happy for ages, he has also put his weight back on as well.

A Cat Called Tinny

We found a cat upon the lawn; his head was in a tin,
A tin that had a raged edge, and should be in the bin,
This hungry cat to reach a lick, of food that's in the bottom,
Shoved his head in over his ears, to get out was his problem.

He'd reversed around the lawn all night, in a bit of bother,
Sat there with his back humped up, he thought he was a goner,
Picked up the tin for him drop out, but firmly was he wedged,
So tight around his head it was, to his maker he was pledged.

To breath it was a problem, suffocation he just missed,
Pulled the hair behind his ears, to extract his head insist,
Found one ear and then the other, and out the tin he popped,
Lay there dopy in a daze, and stay exactly where he dropped.

Resuscitation's what he wanted, and he got it in the house,
This hungry cat around the yard, could not find his mouse,
A little bit of tender care, and food to fill his belly,
Day or two it was before, went out with legs like jelly.

So vulnerable was this cat right now, new home he had found,
And in the following weeks, found strength to trot around,
Into trouble again he was, an injury to his knee,
A hole in his flesh as though, was there to take a key.

Off to the vet for stitching, twas young vet with a tutor,
But while he's knocked out, we got the vet to neuter,
Two lots of stitches made him sway, but stronger did he get,
Hardly leaves the house at all, so lazy is this cat you bet.

Comforts what he yearns for, and its comfort what he's got,
So a name is what he's short of, one that's relevant to his lot,
‘Canny' doesn't sound right, then Tinny' came to mind,
‘Tinny's' what he's called now, now he's safe and sound.

Countryman

I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equels.

Sir Winston Churchill (1847 – 1965)

The Village Green 61

Yes we still have a village a Green; it has not been built on yet, maybe because it’s a triangular shape with the lych gate to the church on the north side and the village school on the south side just across the road.

As I remember it when going to school, it had not been fenced off and the large triangle of grass would taper off to the edge of the road that passes through the village, the road having a junction branching off west side of the green running off down to the Ford, that is why our village name and the local town ends in Ford.

To the east side of the green are two cottages known as the spite cottages, these were built to hide the view from the vicarage to the large black and white Hall half a mile away. The occupants of the Hall possibly the lord of the manor who owned the estate at that time did not get on with the vicar, and always thought the vicar was spying on him. So these two cottages were built to spoil his view, built out of spite, and there after became known as the Spite cottages, they are Church Cottage and Ivy Cottage.

In the 1940’s there was no public bus serve to the village, then when it did come it only called at one end of the village at a road junction near the Old Hall, as I said half a mile away from the Green. After a short while it was agreed that the bus service would drive up the length of the village and turn on the green opposite the school.

This worked very well all summer until the winter set in, these old double deck busses did not have very good lock and they took the liberty of taking a wide sweep to turn in one circle without the need to reverse. As you can imagine, the front tyre of the bus bit into the grass on the green forming a muddy rut where all the folk attending Church on a Sunday had to pick there way through. This had got to be stopped.

Another regular annual visitor to the green was the Council tar pot, which was parked once a year for about a week while they repaired all the local roads. Originally this had shafts on and pulled by a shire horse, then latterly had a short drawbar to replace the shafts to be pulled by a council truck. The tar pot was on steel wheels all well preserve with the liberal dressings of spilt tar, it resembled a small steam engine with it tall chimney coming out in a elbow at the front of the tar pot, there was a lid on the top where blocks of tar could be lobbed in, in big solid blocks to be melted down over the fire box the was below.

 For some reason this was always parked in the west corner point of the green out of the way, when the men came they would rake out the ashes and when hot enough would test if the tar had melted down the length of the hand lance that the tar was sprayed through,. Over the years this tar soaked into the ground in that area along with the ash from the furnace, and when that practice eventually stopped it eventually grassed over and blended into the green.

So it would be in the 1950’s that it was decided that the Green had got to be fenced off, this stopped the buses from swinging round, the grass area would be reduced and an equal area was paved with tarmac, the kerb and pavement formed and a row of concrete posts put in with a fancy chain hanging low between them and two gateways in the length. From the one gate a path was paved up to the lych gate and through the other was the access to the village pump.

A commemorative tree was requested to be planted on the green, and with permission granted by the parish council and a hole was dug near to where the old tar pot used to be parked some years before. The tree was planted and staked for support, it lasted through the summer of planting then the following spring it failed and did not survive, in all it was replanted another two times with the same result, and no one had twigged the real reason was the ground was polluted from the remnants of cleaning out the tar pot boiler.

The Village School is directly opposite just across the road, and at one time the Green was used as a playground for the older children at break times

Quote from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Village_green

 A village green is a common open area which is a part of a settlement. Traditionally, such an area was often common grass land at the centre of a small agricultural settlement, used for grazing and sometimes for community events. Some may also have a pond, originally for watering stock.

The green is traditionally at a central location and provides an open-air meeting place for the people of a village, for example at times of celebration, or for public ceremonies. May Day festivities are traditionally located at the green, with the Maypole erected at its centre.

The common use of the term village green reflects a perception of a rural, agricultural idyllic past. However the actuality of such locations always has been very wide, and can encompass woodland, moorland, sports grounds, and even — in part — buildings and roads. They may also be positioned far from the centre of the community, especially if the community has moved, or been absorbed into a larger settlement.

   

An unwelcome brush with the Law 60

A Sunday morning brush with the Law

One Sunday morning ten years ago I was taking a load of rotted muck with the tractor and trailer down to an allotment in town, on the way I had to pass the police depot along side the M6 motorway.

As I was loaded I did a rolling exit out of a road junction, but unfortunately a motorway patrol car was just coming down off the bridge, (they were just going for a tea break, and thought I had no brakes), I carried on over the bridge and in another quarter mile, then a siren started blasting and headlights and beacons flashing. They pulled diagonally across the road in front of me, as if to test my brakes, the brakes were spot on and did not ram them as they deserved.

One officer went round the outfit and found nothing wrong, so I was loaded into the back of the patrol car and locked in. I might add that around rotted damp muck ruck ya boot get mighty clogged up with muck and all this went into the back of the patrol car. They took a note of my insurance they had already seen the up to date tax disc. So there nothing else to do but breathalyse me, they said keep blowing, blow, blow, blow, all I had drunk, as all I ever drink was tea.

Not able to pin anything on me or the outfit, one got out and unlocked the door to let me out, can you imagine a pair of size twelve wellington boots well clogged up with muck, and the two front seats well pushed back for their comfort, left me no option but to wipe my feet on the way out.

I think they were too lazy to find anything on the motorway to make up their daily quota and found me as a soft touch. It was just a pity it was not pig muck, they would have remembered that.



Progress isn't made by early risers. It's made by lazy men trying to find easier ways to do something.
Robert Heinlein  (1907 - 1988) 

The Hay Sweep 59

A Hay Sweep Fitted to the Standard Fordson

Fire was always a major hazard near the railway lines, a cinder blown out of the chimney with the smoke of the old steam engines, would land in a bit of dry grass and catch fire; this would burn with a bit of following wind up the embankment quite often burning the fence on the way.

Father had a field of wheat ready for the binder, but before he got to it the wind had blown fire through the fence into twelve acre standing crop, and nothing anyone could do to stop it once it got hold. On another occasion it was a field of hay that he and the men had been working in all day, and were aiming to collect it after evening milking, this was done with a hay sweep fitted on the front of fathers Standard Fordson, the crop being pushed up to a stack in the middle of the field. But when we went to the field it was just black smouldering stubble, it had all burnt except in a couple of corners, the half stack of hay left over from the previous year had gone as well.

The lengths men who worked along the railway line, try to keep the embankments cut, and burnt off in a controlled way, but sometimes a cinder would do it for them when no one was about.

It was these same lengths men who would hop over the railway fence and load the farm wagons with shoffs of corn, father would make sure he took down plenty of pitch forks as there was five or six in the gang. The cart was loaded in about five minuets flat, and off back to the farm with his load drawn behind his Standard Fordson, and back with the next one in half an hour.

No money seemed to change hands, but eggs, taters, and other produce on ration was exchanged for work done, and the main meeting for these exchanges was the home guard meeting at the Village hall.


The railway "lengths men" were a gang of about six men who maintained the railway tracks and fences on their length between half way to Stafford and half way to Norton Bridge based at Great Bridgeford. Father got to know them well as they were also in the home guard.

When father was cutting large field of corn they would hop over the fence for half an hour and help stook the corn, with a gang like that it soon got done. It was the same again when it came to loading the shoffs of corn from the stooks. Father always took down plenty of pitch forks in anticipation, and they knew when to be working close by. No money changed hands but he gave them plenty of taters and eggs and in the case of the engine driver he got half a pig.

The Home Guard Contraband

The railway line it ran through, some of father's land,
He got to know the railway men, quite a happy band,
They were in the home guard and all the farm men too,
They often jumped over the fence, to load a wagon or two.

For this he gave them taters, or anything they hadn't got,
Often at the home guard meetings, the sergeant got forgot,
For this is where it all changed hands, just behind his back,
If they ever got found out, they'd be on the rack.

An engine driver was among them, he'd got what we want,
He slowed his train by the field, tender full of coal he flaunt,
Every morning at nine thirty, rolled off big lumps of coal,
Father loaded it on his cart, this man he did extol.

A coal house full of best steam coal, mother to do the cookin,
Big bright fire that roared round flue, she was so pleased herein,
Only cost a half a pig, its contraband you see,
Delivered by dad and Eric in a coffin, the law could not foresee.

Countryman

Talking about war time rationing, I still have my own old ration book, and it still has a fair amount of coupons still in it. On looking it still has nearly all the sweet coupons, most of the tea coupons are used and the cheese and fats and sugar coupons.

There no meat coupons left, but mother took all the books with her and tended to use all the coupons out of one book before she picked up the next, but then you should not use coupons in advance of the date.

So she must have saved up and got a "stock" of coupons in the various books. This book is for the year May 1953 through to May 1954 but then some time early in that period rationing must have been withdrawn and rationing ended.

There is twenty six pages in the book and on the front has a F.O. CODE No. M - J - 1 and a serial no. AT 565118 Ministry of Food the my name and address.

We had our own eggs and milk, and early on in the war mother would make cheese and butter, and very occasionally she would make some bread.

Refer you to Blog 22.08.08 ( press the Tag "Weather")The Weather Forecast by Owd Fred's Mother at the bottom is "I remember Mothers Pantry"

Now Eric had a Big Car

I remember during the war, and after for a while,
Everyone had ration books, cues could stretched a mile,
In the village it was not too bad, as contraband it moved,
Under the policeman's nose, the law they disapproved.

Now Eric had a big car, with a carrier on the back,
And when someone died, the coffin he'd take on rack,
Covered in a black cloth, everyone knew what it was,
From the wheelwrights' shop, no attention draws.

The coffin it was just made, no lining did it have,
Father had just killed a pig, in exchange for coal he halved,
Laid the half pig in the coffin, for transport to his mate,
Then lined the coffin and delivered, just a little late.

Countryman

The village wheelwright made the coffins and dug the graves and laid people out, read the two wheelwright blogs



Education is not the filling of the pail, but the lighting of the fire.
W.B.Yeats

The Standard Fordson 58

This was drawn by the Standard Fordson

The tractor getting worn and old, its steering getting stiff,
On every blooming corner, became a bigger loop and if
Only it would straiten up, and not run corn down,
Father on the binder would be warring his worst frown.

One foot was still in a loop of rope

I remember as a kid of six or seven how we loved to have a ride on the empty trailers back to the field to be loaded. On this occasion I had just missed my chance for a ride and I was on my own, when I though I would run and catch up and climb onto the back end of the wagon.

This was drawn by the Standard Fordson driven by my father, and with the noise of the engine I could not get his attention. When carting the shoffs of corn (wheat) it had got to be roped on as it had got to travel across five fields and gateways, and the ropes were always wrapped up, drawn together in large loops and bound round the top with the last bit and hung under the back of each trailer.

When I caught up with the outfit, I thought I could put my foot in the swinging rope and claw myself up the backend of the gormers and onto the trailer. But it did not turn out like that at all, having slipped with my grip I fell backwards to the ground, it was only a few inches off the ground, but fell. Trouble was one foot was still in a loop of rope and it started dragging me across the fields, my god it was lumpy, and the old Fordson could only go at eight miles per hour (thank goodness).

 I rolled this way and that, I curled up to try and free me foot time and again with no luck. Eventually one of dads helpers saw my dilemma and stopped him, all he did was to unhook my foot, put me across his knee and gave me four of five good smacks across my back side to teach me a lesson, across a back side that was already battered and bruised from the drag, it was one lesson well learned.

I Remember Father bought a tractor

Father bought a tractor, to help the horses out,
Twas a green Standard Fordson, bit noisy had to shout,
Spade lug wheels iron up front, to give it grip in mud,
War time demanded ,plough up grass,to grow a lot more spud.

Winter ploughing with a tractor, quicker it would be,
But colder with the sitting, and no walking so you see,
You cannot have it both ways, to hurry was a must,
So on with army great coat, a hat and scarf, no dust.

We came to move to Seighford, to spade lugs he fitted bands,
To stop the lumpy driving, from Doxey, need many hands,
Lot of road work at the Beeches, up to furthest fields,
Rubber tyres then were fitted, with the higher yields,

As the years went by, we lads we kept on growing,
We learned to drive the tractor, as trailers men were loading
It progressed on to bindering, to cut the corn make sheaves,
The men were all occupied, to stook the corn till eve.

The tractor getting worn and old, its steering getting stiff,
On every blooming corner, became a bigger loop and if
Only it would straiten up, and not run corn down,
Father on the binder would be warring his worst frown.

His anger at a driving era, was there for all to see,
If the whip he had for horses, it would soon be used on me,
It soon became apparent, that, good driving is a must,
At each and every corner, the steering to adjust.

Countyman

As we progressively older and into our lower teens, we in turn were able to start driving the old Fordson, the first most important job that seemed to go on for a week or so none stop was that of bindering the corn, that was where we took it in turns to drive. ( Corn - wheat ,oats and barley. for you lads reading from USA) and sometimes beans and often had a field of dredge corn, which consisted of barley, oats, wheat, peas and beans, this was a difficult crop to binder as if you did it too early the wheat would be still green, if you did it too late the barley or oats would be shedding.


When the dredge corn was threshed the grain was in them days as near to a balanced ration for the cattle as you could get all home grown. During the war and for quite a few years after imported grains , maize and soya were in short supply as were groundnut, palm colonel, and linseed cake. These were the by product of the oil crushing mills in Liverpool where Bibby's produced a balanced cow corn in cubes,or was it their soap factory (remember ASTRA perfumed soap, it made a change from the war time carbolic soap) where they utilised by-product into dairy cake.


It was on a factory visit to the docks (Father had started using Bibby's Dairy cubes) at Liverpool to Bibby's factory that they also took you round the soap factory as well, and they even gave out a few paper wrapped bars of their Astra soap to each of their visitors, I can't tell you how thrilled mother was with "her" perfumed soap, but needless to say we never got a smell of it.

At the docks we saw no end of pair of shire horses pulling wooden wheeled wagons about with up to six tons at a time, of coarse it was all level pulling on cobbled and paved streets in and around the docks from ships to warehouses, but of coarse Bibby's factory was right on the dock side.

Another thing we saw that day was steam lorries or wagons still working from docks to warehouses a bit further inland, in fact when we were going home on the coach we saw then them chuffing along the main roads at amazing speeds fully loaded. I have never seen one in work on the roads since that day out to Liverpool.

I seem to have got side traced from my original story; the old Fordson was getting well worn by the time we got to working it, in particular the steering. On full lock the inside front wheel would turn its angle almost to touch the engine, and it took an enormous effort to get it from there to the other lock. Cutting corn with the binder this happened on every corner, and occasionally did not make it soon enough, and ran some of the corn down in the process.

Father always rode "shot gun" on the binder as he was very particular as to how low the straw was cut, he almost licked it off the ground, and he adjusted the string to where the shoffs were tied according to the length of straw, and originally would have had to steer the three shire horses pulling it as well.

But now we were steering the coarse, and any deviation would be shouted at of very severely and heavily frowned at, in fact we were glad that he did not still have the long whip in its holder that he could "title" the shires with or I've no doubt it would have soon been used on us.

Needless to say our arms got stronger by the minuet and rarely ran into, or even edged the crop again.

We got that used to the job it was up to us to convert the binder back onto its road wheels, on to the next field and back into cutting mode again, when you think back we were doing it "Formula One" stile pit stops, a lot faster than the men could do it so they let us get on with it.


Father always had a policy "Flog the young" but then another saying he had contradicted that "Wear the old bgugers out fost"

We had a crafty Fox 57

We had a fox that's crafty, and the hunt they could not catch,

This went on for couple of seasons, no other fox to match,
Gave them the slip every time, along the brook he walked,
Then back to Moor Covert wood, where he put up and stalked.

Over the years you get to know the wildlife on your own "patch" so to speak, the rabbits at one time, there was literally thousands about, with grass fields along side the woods bare of grass for a hundred yards out. And its no good growing kale or mangels anywhere near a rabbit warren, or try to grow oats or wheat unless they were a field or so away. Then Myxamitosis hit the rabbit population and brought then almost to zero.

Pheasants were not too a plenty, as they relied on what they hatched naturally. There was two older men who took the role of game keeper's, and they always kept the Magpies in check as they would take eggs and young poults, some times trapping them and often shooting them, and there did not seem to be many birds of prey about either.

There were never many Badgers about in them days, I've no doubt they would have been kept to reasonable numbers by the keepers.
Foxes seemed to be in good numbers with an earth in most of the larger woods, and an artificial earth in one of our smaller woods, this was always kept open when they were hunting when the natural earths were stopped.

At one time ( it was in the 1960's )there was a crafty fox that dodged the hunt for two or three seasons, he was put up from the Moor Covert wood, his wood, adjoining our fields. This was always the first to be drawn as it was near the railway line and foxes were encouraged to chase westerly direction into the heart of the estate land.

From a vantage point in the village church yard, you could see the top end of this wood, and often see from the distance when the fox had been flushed out, chasing across a field then through a small wood and on across two more fields. By the time all the hounds had started hollering and picking up the scent, the fox was a couple of fields in front of them and the hunt followers on horse back a fields distance behind the hounds.

After a half mile chase, this one fox always turned and headed for the back of the village and paddled along the shallow brook for quite a way then into the house back gardens. From there he turned into a direct route back to his own wood, this took him through the back of Church Farm where I farmed at that time, often going up the stack yard, but more than once came through the farm yard through the cattle and past me while feeding stock. From there he went through the Church yard and along within twenty or thirty feet of the spectators who witnessed just what he was doing, then another quarter mile back to the Moor Covert.

The hounds lost the scent every time at the brook, and the huntsman was reluctant to let the hounds into the well cultivated gardens to try to pick up the scent again. After five minuets milling about the hunt gave up and went on to draw another wood.
On his outwards run the fox was lobbing along fairly quickly, but on his return run when the hollering hounds went quiet, the fox was doing little more than a slow trot. He would have not run more than a mile each time out.

This was repeated about three times each season, and for more than two seasons, it was thought he must have died of old age, or caught by the hounds inside his own wood, too slow to get away from them.
It got that spectators would talk to the fox, as he passed by them, and a good group go up there especially to see this old fox in action

Hunting has now been banned and no more meets on the village green, it was not too bad a mess on the turf fields where they chased when there were only ten or twenty horses, but towards the end when there was a danger of the hunting ban, it got up to ward a hundred followers. The hunt would encourage most of these to follow lanes and tracks, so as to minimise the damage
.
While it was a good spectacle looking from the distance, what with the three or four red jackets and others meticulously turned out in black jackets and light coloured jodhpurs, and the horses highly groomed and newly shod, a greater proportion of then latterly had no idea of how to behave in respecting gates and crops.

 So thankfully the ban came about, balking the hooray Henry's and the hooray Henrietta's from gathering in huge numbers to parade the fields and tracks. I was always for the hunt and supported them over the years until the number of followers suddenly went up.

We Had A Crafty Fox

We had a fox that's crafty, and the hunt they could not catch,
This went on for couple of seasons, no other fox to match,
Gave them the slip every time, along the brook he walked,
Then back to Moor Covert wood, where he put up and stalked.

They block the earths the night before, keep fox out on the top,
Then put the hound in at far end, and draw the wood none stop,
Out pops this crafty fox, cross the field through Ash Pit wood,
On again across some fields, the hounds pick up the cent its good.

Hounds a hollering two fields back, can see from Church Yard hedge,
Fox he disappeared across the back lane, for the brook I pledge,
Walked down stream to the gardens, turning back towards the wood,
Heading up the Church Yard, along by where hunt spectators stood.

Not in any hurry now, trotting back from where he came,
The hounds have stopped a hollering, and lost the cent again,
Happened every time he's put up, he knew a trick or two,
This crafty fox he must have died, of old age, the hunt he did outdo.

Owd Fred

In fresh snow, of which we don't have very often or for very long, it's always interesting to see the foot prints of hungry wildlife, and where they are going almost invariably looking for food.

Foot print of people, the size of their feet, and how many, and where did they go. It's the same with vehicles with different size tyres and should they really be up there.

The prints in mud which we seem to have for a good proportion of the year, you notice if someone else as been up the lane since you went last, any fresh cattle foot prints, and which way did they go, and are they my cattle that have escaped. Without knowing you have become a tracker

Tracks Across Fields

Tracks across the fields, and tracks off down the lanes,
In the snow in the mud, fresh tracks still it rains,
Paws n' feet n' hooves n' boots, wheels with grippe tyres,
Big and small, heavy and light, not long then they expire.

Every print has a tale to tell, on who has crossed your path,
See the direction that they went, and if they're causing wrath,
Follow to see where they go, and if they came back that way,
Intruders can see, up to no good, or if they're out to play.

All the prints tell a tale, the pattern they leave behind,
The claws on paws and the gait of the stride aligned,
There's webbed feet and long toes, belong to who knows,
And there's birds that land, and take off like the crows.

There's cows and there's calves, and horses with shoes,
See how many have passed, that way from the clues,
Tyres leave prints be it bikes or cars, tractors and all,
Speeding and skidding, or getting stuck when they stall.

You can read every where, who's has been up that way,
Prints and tracks tell a tale all and every day,
You may be alone, but someone's been up there,
A crossing of tracks, in the lane be aware.

Owd Fred

The English country gentleman galloping after a fox- -the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.
Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

Mother Always Worked So Hard 56

Mother Always Worked So Hard (1945)

Mother always worked so hard, to rear her brood of kids,
As we grew bigger and in our teens, we must have cost her quids,

Back in the 1950's there were six of us to sit round the kitchen table for meal times, plus for a few years dads brother, uncle Jack, that made seven. It was around this time that mother had to have some help in the house each morning for about three hours. It was not like we were away at work all day, we were all in for every mealtime and no letup. For quite a while we came home from school at lunch time, before the days of school dinners.

Mother Always Worked So Hard (1945)

Mother always worked so hard, to rear her brood of kids,
As we grew bigger and in our teens, we must have cost her quids,
Four of us lads and our dad, Uncle Jack as well,
Looked after all of us, knitting socks and jumpers she excelled. 

Big appetites we had, and thrifty she had to be,
Most things grown about the farm, including all the poultry.
Eggs and chicken, more often old hen, regular we had,
Potatoes beans and cabbage carrots, all grown by our dad,

Rabbit pie most every week, killed a pig and cured,
Only thing she did buy, big lump of beef well matured.
Bottled all the fruit she could, and salted down the beans,
Got the meals and baked the cakes, did washing in between,

Baker came three times a week, six loaves every call,
Corn flakes she also brought, lot of boxes I recall,
Through the war and rationing, never seemed go short,
Well fed, we all worked hard, and not much time cavort.

Countryman

At our peak before any of us left home the baker called three times a week and dropped of twenty loaves of bread The breadman took mothers grocery list on a Thursday and delivered the order on Saturday morning, this included five boxes of Kelloggs Cornflakes per week. There was no sliced bread in them days, and as we got older so the bread that mother got thicker and thicker slices.

The old thatched cottage up the road was the Woodman's Cottage. And he had a son and two daughters, and it was the middle daughter Dorothy who helped mother for getting on for twenty years, her brother Colin he worked as a fireman on the steam express trains

This is the woodman Arther Lawson with Colin as a little lad and Dorothy standing in front of him also their dog, the younger daughter Audrey would be younger still.

This picture would be around 1930. This old house was taken down when the new council houses were built in the village, and Dorothy got married she and her husband Bill moved into one and Arther her dad moved with them. The family lost their mother when they were still quite young.

I Remember Breakfast

I remember sitting down, all six of us to breakfast, (7 including Jack)
Father always sat upon a bench; he made it so it would last,
We all sat round with our chins, ledged upon the table,
And watched as mother lifted out, boiled eggs with a great big ladle,

The bread was hand sliced all in doorsteps, a whole loaf at a time,
With scrape of butter, and cut into fingers (not mine,)
Double yoked eggs we could not sell, all boiled to a tee,
Salt and pepper for the oldest, not including me.

Top chopped off the eggs we scoft, all waiting for our porridge,
A two gallon tub of best raw oats, (said to improve our knowledge)
The lid had tilted with the froth and glued it to the stove
This had boiled two hours or more, and into it we dove.

(No instant porridge them days had to simmer a long time to cook properly)

The bowls were deep the spoons seemed small, as mother delt it out,
With fobs of stale bread in the bottom there to fill us up no doubt,
Some had syrup some had sugar, with milk the lot we floated,
But when this had gone, we had no space, full to top and bloated.

When bacon breakfasts we did have, cut from flitch in pantry,
Mother armed herself with carving knife, the flitch hung from a gantry,
Twelve slices she would cut all thick, no shrinking up or curling,
The lean and fat was of equal portions, it didn't need much turning.

The doorstep bread as I have said will float in fat from frying,
When turning black, it filled the kitchen, with haze beyond denying,
It smelt good and tasted good, with eggs, bacon, and black pudding,
This went down with mugs of tea, the kettle was always boiling.

Out we went to work it off, all satisfied and jolly,
Come hail or rain or sunshine, we always knew that we,
Were waterproofed from inside, top of head to feet,
With mother's special breakfast, it kept in all the heat.

Countryman

I Remember Mother taking us to Bed,

It was 1943 when there was only three of us.

When it came to seven o'clock, and we all started yarning,
We had milk and oveltine, nothing else till morning,
She carried us all up to bed , eldest on her back,
One each hip up the stairs, enough make her crack.

Up the wooden hills we went, she struggled to the top,
Flannel flashed around us, and into bed we flopped,
First she made a great deep furrow, deep in feather bed
Snuggled under, eiderdown with worn out fluffy ted

Central heating not invented, only one room warm,
Bedroom bove the kitchen, where the pillow fights were norm,
Father up the stairs he came, in bed were we real quick,
Feathers floated round the bulb, all snoring he would quip.

When father took his slipper off, we knew he must be slow,
He chased us round the bedroom and under bed we'd go,
Like rabbits down a bolt hole, he couldn't get us out,
He never really hurt us, but he had a dam good shout.

Countryman

Don't be afraid of growing slowly, be afraid of standing still

Grandma always had a very strong ‘best’ float 55

Grandma Kirby  (1920)

This is a story about my grandma, who worked against all odds to rear her brood of nine kids, and some of the things she got up to, and realise where I get my temper from, though it takes a lot of provoking these days to wind me up.

Mothers younger days
In his late teens father got his first rented fields, about 12 acres with a small shed where he bought his first sow, then swapped it for his first cow and started milking, this was adjacent to his own fathers farm, where just a few hundred yard down the road on another farm where my mother was born and lived. Mother was brought up on the farm at Coton Clanford, she was one of 9 children and was a twin, they were the 7^th and 8^th born and reared by there elder sisters, grandma was widowed not long after the youngest was born.

 It was a struggle for her to run the farm and rear such a big family, it was not uncommon for her to be seen with a pair of work horses ploughing, and doing all other laborious work that had to be done about the farm, helped of coarse by some of older children and a faithful bachelor cousin Charlie, who stepped in and stayed with her for the rest of his life.

This is the old Coton Clanford Chapel as it is today, its now used by the local scouts as a HQ, but when it was used as a chapel it had seating for about twenty and a pulpit and an organ that had to be tredled, also a small vestry at the back (lean to at the far end). Still got the original iron railings along the front. There are three foundation stone built into the front wall one each side of the porch and one above, but they are that badly weathered the sandstone lettering is now unreadable.



The Chapel was situated just down the road where, as grandma played the organ and sometimes conducted the services, it was compulsory for all the family to go twice every Sunday, a very small building holding no more than 20 seated but at times many more would pack into its small room. Very loud and enthusiastic singing was the main aim of the venue; later mother was in the Seighford school and St. Chad's church choir.

Grandma, mothers mother (Mother had lost her father and father had lost his mother,) was a very tall and robust woman, about six foot and sixteen stone, not a person to be ignored. When I knew her as a little lad she was getting bent with age and nowhere near her youthful height, She always wore a hat and a huge hat pin, normally black and a black dress almost ankle length and a dark three quarter length coat with big pockets, and to top it off when going to chapel or visiting she always had her fox fur. This hung around her shoulders with a clip on its jaw to make it look as though it was biting its own tail. The foxes eyes were bright and very piercing, and as it hung over the back of our chair at home one night father was manipulating its head round the settee just as the cat was purring round the other way, when the cat saw the piercing eyes glaring at it, the fox jumped forward .

Need I say the fox lost a lot of fur and father got cussed in no uncertain terms, amid peels of laughter from all the family?


Grandma always had a very strong ‘best' float to go to town in, most people had traps or gigs, rather light and delicate in build and lightly sprung for comfort, but she had to have something that would take at least a good proportion of the family.Like car drivers now they had "road rage" and aggressive drivers as well in them days. I fear to tell you that grandma was one of these.

A long standing feud with a person who used the same road to Stafford and back, found themselves using it on the same day, on a very narrow section of road along Butterbank, but they were going in opposite directions. Neither would hold back to let the other through, so with a quick flap of the reins grandma increased speed, and rushed the gap, she set her jaw, and clenched some of her teeth, her hat pulled well down and pinned in all directions as usual .

 With one wheel on the grass and a steady eye for the road beyond she got through, slowed the cob to a trot she never looked back. If she had looked back as some of her family helpers did, she would have seen a trap still moving along the road slowly, the driver on his back side in the middle of the road, and the axle and wheels of the above mentioned vehicle twisted and half way over the hedge.

The hubs of the respective vehicles had met with great force, grandma having the greater weight in wheels and cart contents, lost only a scuft to the paint, the other almost totally destroyed.


Mother started school with her twin sister at the age of 3 in 1912 at Seighford school walking just over a mile past Oldfords farm and across the footpath that comes down the cumbers (a field south of the school, one I farm now) the footpath coming through the blacksmiths garden a cottage by the side of the school, where the school care- taker lived. The head master then was Boss Plant and the infant school teacher was Miss Pye who taught me to write in the same class some 30 yrs later.

From my own recollection of Miss Pye, she was getting quite old when she taught me, but she was quite slim and elegant, old fashion in her dress always wore her hat when cycling to school on her sit-up and beg bike, it had a heavy looking chain case a large basket on the front, and carrier on the back where she strapped her rain coat, and on the rear wheel it had protective cords threaded from the mud guard to the spindle in a fan shape to stop her dress and coat catching in the wheel.

She taught us to write in big bold sweeping loops then later how to join them up , I notice even now there are some people, taught by Miss Pye, who write very similar to each other, including mother and myself. Miss pyre retired and lived on to over a hundred, she lived in the same house all her life.

On leaving school mother went into "service" in a big house up the Stone road at Stafford to bring in the essential money to help keep the family at home surviving. It was a very lean time for farming and not enough work at home to keep them all in full time employment; grandma always said she looked forward to Sunday mornings as there was no postman to bring unwelcome bills.

It was around this time father bought a motor bike, an old Valasett belt driven machine and he and mother used to travel the area on a Sunday afternoon when she was off work but he had to be home for evening milking. Mother being an absolute wiz at knitting, knitted him his only pair of gloves he ever had for on the bike , they had to be specially made as he had lost two finger on one hand in an accident clearing the blade of a horse drawn mowing machine when living with his uncle. In all my life I had never known him own another pair of gloves.

Grandma's Shopping Day

This happened along Butterbank Coton Clanford Nr Stafford ( around 1920)

My old grandma she had nine kids, she took them all to chapel,
Twice every Sunday she played the organ, till rafters they did rattled,
Squashed in and full it seated twenty; all singing hearty and loud,
This was mothers training, a life of hymns and chorus proud.

Grandma was a keen driver, of the horse and float,
And when she went to town, two pins in hat and on with coat,
Load up the younger kids to help, all singing in the back,
To get supplies to last the week, then the whip she cracked.

A fine old trot the cob strode out; to town not long it took,
Sell some eggs and butter, done the shopping no kid forsook,
Halfway home the road got narrow, another trap was bearing down,
Twas a neighbour who had a row, and grandma put on a frown.

Grandma pulled her hat down tight, and then she set her jaw,
She was not the one to give way, and flip the horse some more,
The float hub cap it struck the trap, and knocked the wheels from under,
Not looking back she kept on track, and home with face like thunder.

In modern terms you would say, that this was only road rage,

No one he could complain to, his trap in pieces sat in rampage,
Grandma upright stood six foot, and no one crossed her twice,
Count her hat pins as a gauge, to see if it's safe to ask advice.

Owd Fred

Heated with coal and logs, lit by paraffin lamp and candles, and when Grandma got modern, she had a wireless powered by an accumulator. (accumulator a glass battery with two terminals on the top, four screw caps on the cells, and a cord loop to carry it about, it was taken to the local garage to be charged up)

The Cast Iron Range

In years gone by when cooking was done,
Cooked with coal and logs, in pots upon,
Then the cast iron range, came into use,
In house and cottage, all black and spruce.

Blazing dancing flame, reaching up and back,
To chimney hood its drawn, all sooty and black,
Had two ovens, with big black knobs,
To cook for the family, and bake the cobs.

Kettle on a hook swung over the fire,
Always on the boil till tea we desire,
Pots on the side to boil the taters,
Pan on the trivet fry bacon for the platters

A toasting fork, to toast the stale bread,
Hung on a nail in the homestead,
Nothing was wasted, all was used up,
Meat boiled off bones, made broth to sup.

For years and years these ranges were used,
The lectric came in, and every one enthused,
Cooked with a switch, on the wall turned on,
Off and all went cold, missed the faithful range be gone.

Owd Fred

(Cliché)
Grandmother used to say, "The black cat is always the last one off the fence" I have no idea what she meant, but at one time, it was undoubtedly true.
Solamon Short