We Had a Woodwork Teacher called him "Bulldog" 77

After our formative year at the small village school, it came as a shock to mix with such huge groups of kids, (over 600) a big proportion town kids, some showing aggression to us village kids.
But we soon realised that they could only do that when they out numbered us, and one good BOOO at them was enough to stand them back..

We had always been used to working in school in one classroom, but here we all had to up sticks and move round to specialist classrooms that dealt with a particular subject. The classes I liked most were the woodwork and metalwork classes, although the two teachers could not have been more different.

Harry Nuttall was the metalwork teacher, he always seemed to me to be a bit short sighted as he wore heavy thick lens glasses, and a brown smock, he showed us how to mark out with a scribe in sheet metal, the first thing to make was a round washer and a square washer, going along the scribe marks with the centre punch making a row of small dots to file the metal down to the size marked.

Then we made a fire poker with a loop top to hang it up, progressing on to a brass toasting fork, and on to make a fancy bowl out of copper, first rubbing it with soap the heating it to soften it until the soap went black, more heat and it would melt. Next we hammered it with a planishing hammer on a leather cushion full of sand, gently hammering round and round and starting to hollow the centre. Rub with soap again and soften it again, repeating until it was rely hollowed out. Then we cut a bit of round brass rod and formed it into a circle and soldered it in the bottom so it would stand firm, and the same again round the top edge and the finished thing was buffed up and highly polished on an electric mop.

Mr Leese was the woodwork teacher, and because he wore a permanent scowl we called him Bulldog Leese. He showed us how to use a set square and scribe and how to saw a piece of wood following the pencil marks. Not being used to sharp saws we had the habit of putting pressure on the blade as you worked like cutting logs at home, but with his saws we were told in no uncertain terms that the weight of the saw was all that was needed. We learned how to make all the popular joint and dovetails and to match one lump of wood to fit exactly into the other then glue to make a firm elbow.

Some kids just could not get the idea of sawing straight, and Bulldog would not let them progress until they could. The same when using the plane, to keep it flat on the timber right to the end, and not let it tip as it went over the far end. Chisels of all sizes (he had twenty of every tool needed in woodwork lessons), these were kept in tall cupboards at the back of the class room hanging in rows on the inside of the doors.


Mortas and tenan joints were carved out with chisels so sharp and almost too dangerous for kids to use. Again there was always one or two who just could not do the job no matter how they tried, and this wound him up into such a rage. In fact to impress on us who was boss and who we had got to listen to he threw a chisel from where he stood at the front of the class, at the cupboard on the back wall in his frustration so hard it jarred like a dagger in the door. Nowadays he would have been dragged in front of the courts and suspended on full pay indefinably, but it was his way of making sure we listened.


At the ‘big' school we had metal work and woodwork these were our favourite lessons. You learnt very quickly with Bulldog Leese

We Had a Woodwork Teacher (1950 ish)

We had a woodwork teacher, we called him Bulldog Leese,
Had stern face and bad temper, no one dare to tease,
If he could not get class attention, throw a chisel hard,
Hit the back wall cupboard, like a dagger stuck and jarred.

All the class it stood and quivered dare not cross his path,
The respect was thrust upon you, dare not stir his wrath,
No one liked his lessons, even those who could push a plane,
Perfection in this man and all his tools, but he was a bloody pain.

Owd Fred

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

Farmers Skills know no Bounds 76

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father Extended his Garage

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

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

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

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

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

Owd Fred

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

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

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

Farmers Skills know no Bounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Owd Fred

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

The Bacon Rashers were 50/50 Fat and Lean 75

Flitch of Bacon Pair of hams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cottage Pig Sty

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

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

Countryman

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

Cheese and Mustard (1940’s) 74

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheese – milk’s leap toward immortality.

Clifton Fadiman  (1904 – 1999)

Trotters pigs trotters 73

 "Trotters"

Pigs  trotters

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

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

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

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

I Remember Killing the Pig

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Countryman

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

I remember Mothers Mid Week Chicken Dinner

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

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

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

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

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

Countryman

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

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

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

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

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

The Kitchen Floor it sloped.

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

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

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

Countryman

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

A Mouse in the Cupboard

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

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

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

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

Countryman

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

Village Tour 72

This blog will tell you how life has changed from a small almost self sufficient village, with all its own craftsmen, to one full of folk who work elsewhere, with next to no farm workers.

It was the old farm workers that worked together , chattering all day, and getting all the local gossip, and as kids it was these people who molded and shaped our lives from a very early age. They had all the old skills and traditional way of working that is lost for ever to the next generation.


As well as drink you can get, a little bit of grub,
For a gathering of the locals, this was the hub,
News and gossip turned around in the village pub.

As in all small villages it changes over the years, in some way for the better, in others for the worse. The village pumps went some fifty years ago, these were a meeting point for gossip, and news was soon spread from end of the village.

The school on the other hand has expanded, the frontage is as it was in years gone by, but round the back a complete new complex of class rooms has been developed.
The blacksmiths shop closed with decline in the Shire horse population and tractors took over the heavy work about the farms.

The village wheelwright's work shop closed when the wheelwright retired, which coincided with the metal hydraulic tipping trailers and the popularity of the light metal gates and wheel barrows. The coffin making gradually ceased when the in town undertakers took over with the motor hearse. In the early days the hearse was a four wheel trolley housed behind the church, and the wheelwright took the coffin on the hearse on foot to the house or cottage.
 For the years I remember he worked with one of the town undertakers, he made the coffin and dug the grave, they did the transport. Now that craftsman and his trade has disappeared from the village.


The village pub has survived up until recently when it closed for some months at the end of 2009. It has been hit by the recession along with a lot of other country pubs, it now opened again for food in February, and seems to be bumping along, only just surviving. It is hoped that it will pull through as it will take the heart out of the village if it closes for good.

The post office shop closed some years ago when the GPO decide to do away with many rural post offices, that again is or was right in the middle of the village, the shop itself went into decline with the rise of super markets and the improvement of transport. Near every household has at least one car.

The postman used to come on his bike four miles from the sorting office to deliver mail and parcels, that changed over to a van a long time ago, in fact some forty years its been delivered by van.

The farms have reduced, ours is the only one left in the centre of the village, four other "in the village" farms have been closed and the land amalgamated with the surrounding farms. Where at one time all the cottages had farm workers in them as they were all tied cottages to the different farms.

Now nearly all the cottages have been sold off or let to folk who work outside of the village.

The church itself has not changed but the vicars job is now spread over three other village churches, spreading his message to a greater number of people over a wider area.

A Tour of the Village (1950's)

The Village has its own clock, for to tell the time,
On the tower of St Chads, every half hour it does chime,
This its done for many years, and to wind it up you climb,
Three big weights on cables, crank it many times.

In the tower set in oak frame, sit its ringing bells,
Ropes and wheels for swinging, its congregation tells,
Come to church for service, to have your sins expelled,
All the parish can hear them, peal of Village bells.

The vicar has his job to visit, all parish elderly and the sick,
Take all the Sunday services, with sermon long and epic,
Christmas Easter Harvest, Christenings funerals and weddings quick,
He is kept so busy looking after, all village elderly and sick.

Out and down the church path , is the village green,
Under the lych gates, standing all serene,
Looks a little weathered, for all the years its been,
Guarding the church yard, on the village green.

Also on Village green, was the village pump,
Standing in the corner, on a grassy hump,
To prime it work the handle, almost had to jump,
Water all the cottages, from this well and pump.

Across the road to educate, is the village school,
Teacher at the blackboard, sitting on a stool,
There to help the children not to be a fool,
Basic reading writing, maths in the village school.

Further down the village, was the blacksmiths shop,
Making all the horse shoes, on the anvil hot,
Hammer always ringing, shaping metal without stop,
Give the horses new shoes, to make them clip and clop.

Undertaker in the village, is at the wheelwrights shop,
Lays out and measures them, makes a coffin non-stop,
His brother digs the grave, and family lines the coffin
All the week they make farm carts, in the wheelwrights shop

Next again is Holly Bush, our local village pub,
As well as drink you can get , a little bit of grub,
For a gathering of the locals, this was the hub,
News and gossip turned around in the village pub.

Down at the post office, in the village shop,
Sells all essentials, also chocolate sweets and pop,
Letters parcels postal orders, have a hefty whop,
Rubber stamp saying S------d, in the village shop.

The postman comes on his bike to visit, six days of every week,
Delivering post and parcels, each morning his bike it creaked,
Collecting all the gossip while, having cup of tea he'd speak,
All about what he'd learned, on his round six days every week.

On all the farms they have cows, and they produce the milk,
Beef and chickens hens and geese, sheep with fleece smooth as silk.
They have mixture of everything, corn for cows and pigs,
Hay and roots, rolled oats and peas, feed the cows produce the milk,

In all the cottages were the families, men who work the land,
Herdsmen, n' wagoner's, n' those to anything can turn their hand,
Early start in all weathers, generally a happy band,
They work late at harvest time, all these men who work the land.

Countryman

A sense of curiosity is nature's original school of education.
Dr. Smiley Blanton.

Mother's Traditional Christmas Puddings 71

We all had a stir, with the wooden spoon, and to make a wish,

Four silver thrupeny pieces added, one to each basin we'd pitch.

Mother's Traditional Christmas Puddings

Now on 30 November it is Advent Sunday, and its before this date is when you are meant to make your traditional Christmas puddings.
At home when we were kids we all helped on the mixing of all the ingredients including the insertion of the silver thrupenny piece into each pudding basin, then we knew they were actually in each of the puddings that were made. All four were steamed in the old Birco electric boiler before storeing on the top shelf in the pantry till christmas.

  It encouraged us to eat the pudding at Christmas time always hoping to be the one that finds the coin, but alas at times it got swallowed accidentally.
  Mother never lost any, she watched carefully the following day, and the coin was always recovered. I don't know how many times those coins had been through our guts, but they were recycled and used the following year no matter what.


We still have two of those silver thrupenny bits in a mug in the cupboard right now, if only such coins could tell a tale of their travels over all the years

Our puddings would be more than double the size in this picture, rarely did it ever have time to put holly on top, and it was deemed to be too dangerous to fire with four young lads to keep an eye on, and a waste of good brandy.

Mothers Christmas Puddings

Mother made her Christmas puddings, well before Advent,

Got to be stored and maturing, a month or more to ferment,

All the ingredients were ready, along the pantry shelves,

Big bowl for mixing fetches out, for a wooden spoon she delves.

Raisins, currants, sultanas, beef suet, sugar and flour,

Nuts, eggs, lemon juice n' peel, stale bread too hard to devour

Then to the bottles, Guinness and the Brandy,

A mixture of spices, everything's on the table ready and handy.

Thirteen ingredients there is said to be, to mix all in the bowl

To fill four big basins, keep us going till New Year was her goal

We all had a stir, with the wooden spoon, and to make a wish,

Four silver thrupeny pieces added, one to each basin she'd pitch.

Puddings tied down with a cloth, corners pulled up tied on top,

Steamed for a good two hours, stored on top shelf she'd pop,

Cool it was would store for months, in fact its only one,

Exiting it was to see who, gets the thrupeny piece be-gum.

The thrupeny pieces mother kept, safe from year to year,

Same ones boiled every time, occasionally swallowed I fear,

She watched so closely following day, lose them she would not,

These were rare when we were kids, and dug it out the pot.

It had been a long tradition, for these puddings that she makes,

Made them every year the same, not long does it take,

Save one for Easter time, another special day,

See who's got the thrupeny piece, the one who shouts hooray.

Countryman

Part of the secret of success of life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.

Mark Twain (1835-1910)

Not so many bulls about farms these days 70

Not so many bulls about farms these days, particularly the dairy herds. Before the advent of Artificial Insemination, you often reared a bull calf out of one of your own best cows, the resultant heifers coming into your herd and completing their first lactation, would be very hit and miss. Also you had three more years of calves on the way before the bull had been proven.

It was not uncommon to see cows with curled up toes and long pendulous udders often having front teats pointing east west. However once AI came in and a few years later they could offer proven bulls with superior confirmation, the misshapen feet and udder started to disappear within ten years. Another benefit was there was less dangerous bulls to handle in your own yard one your own farm.

Alost every farm in our area could relate to a narrow escape or injury from trying to move or separate a bull from the cows.

At home the bull had his own loose box, the only window was a brick arched half moon hole on the back wall where he could put his head out, but even then he could see nothing, only fresh air. To serve a cow in season, she was loosed onto the farm yard and the bull pen door opened to let him out, while he was busy the cowman would pop in quickly and bed up with straw and put in some dairy nuts or corn, and being used to this routine, as soon as the cow had been served he would head back to his pen at full gallop and the door shut.

However training the bull to get used to a routine was hard and dangerous, this one day (in around 1946) when we got home from school father was in the house and mother had been away for the day. This was a bit unusual and we thought nothing about it until evening, when the cowman Philip came to the door for his wages, mother answered the door and first thing Philip asked was “how’s the old chap”.

 Mother asked him why, and he replied that the bull had had him down on the yard that afternoon, and had escaped with a good heavy bruising of his legs and thighs.  Mother was very shocked and upset that father had not told her, he knowing what her reaction would be had not planned on telling her. But Philip had let the cat out of the bag.

A few years prior to that incident, soon after we had moved to Seighford, we had a new young bull, and the plan was to tie him up in a single stall along with other cows, usually if the bull and a cow are crammed into a single stall, and eating, you stand a chance of getting a chain round his neck. It was only a slim chance that did not pay off, as the old man Harry who was helping father and Philip the cowman at that time, got a mauling and badly knocked about.

The bull was put down and old Harry never came back to work on the farm again, in fact he got a job with the County Council as a road man, and his stretch of country road was about three miles, all through the village and right past his own house. His one leg was so badly damaged the for the rest of his life he had a very bad limp, as though one leg was shorter than the other

I had a narrow escape one day when walking a young bull down the lane to run with a bunch of heifers. We had reared the bull from a calf and had him leading all through his early years, but now he was up on his toes so to speak, and realised when we got within a hundred or so yards from the field and he could see the heifers where he was going.

He started walking faster , faster than I wanted to go, then he started bouncing, up with the front, then up with the backend, all the time getting faster. He had got his head in front of me and was shouldering me sideways closer and closer to the hedge bank, a steep grassy hedge bank about  three foot high, with a three foot hawthorn hedge on top, a just off vertical six foot.

 I started doing the wall of death walk along the near vertical grass, then on the next bounce his shoulders almost underneath me I was pitched clean over the hawthorn hedge. Fortunately as well as a pole, of which I lost grip, I also had a long chain that was attached through his nose ring up round his horns, so had still got a hold on him. Apart from a few bruised ribs and a dented ego, it was a hard lesson to learn and just lucky to have gotten away with it.

The bull, our bull, was often tethered on a long chain with a 56lbs weight to anchor him to one place, the chain was threaded through his nose ring and fastened round his horns. He soon learned to move the weight by lining up the chain in the middle of his nose and under his chin, and then lift his head up sharply. He could do this from along his side and flipping his head violently, so violent that on one occasion the half cwt  (25kg) was flying 10 foot in the air, all the energy pulling the chain was round his horns and nose with no weight on his ring.

So to sum up, no bulls can be trusted, not even the Herefords and Aberdeen Angus, also some newly calved cows are just as dangerous. All these animals are seven to ten times heavier than us, so proper handling and housing facilities are essential. There has been a  lot of people killed over the years and still up to this date. Don’t be in the wrong place at the wrong time, you will be badly hurt or killed.

Lighting the Kitchen Fire 69

I Remember Mother Lighting the Kitchen Fire

If the oven door was slightly open we found out that the cat even slept in the oven over  night. But she soon found out that that was not a good place to be.

The kitchen range was the main source of heat for the whole house and it also had a back boiler to heat the water in the taps, so this was lit every morning of the year. Mother would put some chopped sticks on the hearth or in the bottom of the oven each night so the sticks would be dry as tinder for lighting the following morning. As you can imagine the hearth was a nice warm place for the cat to spend the night and if the oven door was slightly open we found out that the cat even slept in the oven. But she soon found out that that was not a good place to be.

 A shovel full of ashes was cleared out from under the grate, some news paper runkled up and sticks put on top then a shovel full of coal ( best steam coal from the railway, rolled off a steam engine tender as it past through our fields, dad knew the driver and they exchanged contraband when food was on ration). A match was applied and both dampers were pulled out to draw the fire round the oven and boiler, then she went on with other jobs such as getting breakfast for when morning milking had finished and we all came in. Read on

I Remember Mother Lighting the Kitchen Fire

First job every morning, is to light the kitchen fire,
It heats the water in the tap, heat this end of house entire
Chopped sticks were placed, hearth night before,
It catches light instantly, and with damper out it roars.

One Sunday morning after breakfast, when father tales us told,
We heard a scratching and a scowling, from the oven wo behold,
Mother opened oven door, out popped our poor old cat,
Door left part open night before, to keep warm at that.

When mother put match to fire, she latched the oven door,
To pre heat for Sunday joint, not knowing who was indoors,
The poor hot cat shot out the door, to cool off in the snow,
Not out there long the milk she sort, she was all aglow.

Big shovel full of coal brought in, and bank the fire up hgh,
The beef was put into the pan, vast heat it was then to apply,
When part done and she looked in, great waft of heat and haze,
Tatters placed around in fat , to roast till brown and brazed.

Our Sunday morning tales dad told, lasted to coffee time,
As long as nothing else came up, to delay the ending what a crime,
Then we all turned out, a brush apiece, to sweep up round the yard,
All trying to imagine all the escapades round uncle Dan's farmyard.

Countryman

Don't seem to have a relavant picture to this blog so, this is just a picture of trees in our back fields, the big oak on the right is almost dead and is a prime candidate for firewood.


Uncle Dan's Fire

This would have happened in the 1920's when father was in his teens; he and his mates were inquisitive as to know the sleeping arrangements of his uncle Dan and his house keeper.
 Them years ago straw was in battens not bales, so they decided that they needed to wake them up quickly in the middle of the night, and the best way was to light a fire in the middle of his front lawn, well lawn, it was a sheep grazed patch of grass round the house, lawn mowers for farmers were sheep.

They brought a few battens of straw stood up wigwam stile and chucked in a match, when the fire had got going well, they stood round the corner and shouted FIRE.

Uncle Dan's Fire

I remember father telling us, about his uncle Dan,
Lived in his farm house, and they did get a plan,
His house keeper lived with him, had to check which room,
And wondered how to find out, they dare not assume.

They went round one night, out to his front lawn,
Way after they had gone to bed, curtains they were drawn,
Built a pile of straw there, and set the lot alight,
Hiding round the corner, twas middle of the night.

They had done all this, and shouted loudly FIRE,
Only wanted to see witch window, what was to transpire,
If they looked out same window, that it would confirm,
What they suspected all along, just to make him squirm.

Father never did tell us, what the outcome was,
Told us we're to young, to understand the cause,
Always looked after uncle Dan, right up to the end,
Buried in Bradley church yard now, his courage we commend.

Countyman

It is with our passions, as it is with fire and water, they are good sevants but bad masters.Aesop (620 BC - 560 BC)

To Cut and Cart the Kale Blog (Mid 1940's) 68

To cut and cart the Kale  (Mid 1940's)

This was tale about what happened to my brother and I when I was 9 years old and my brother just over 6 years  1946. I was just old enough to work helping the then cowman Philip to load kale for the cows, a job he did every afternoon ready for the following days feeding.


Philip had a tremendous scramble to get us out, I know I was first out and standing by on my own in a daze, and after a short while my younger brother Robert emerged all muddy an shaken.

In winter time father grew Kale to be used up to the turn of the year, after that the cows went onto mangels that were kept safe in a covered hog to protect them from the frost.
The kale was Marrow Stem and drilled early April it would grow up to six foot high, as the name suggests over half the feed was in the centre of the stem, the marrow.

This was cut by hand and loaded in the afternoon by the cowman onto a flat four wheeled dray pulled by one of fathers shire horses, then thrown out onto a grass field near to the sheds for the cows to go out for exercise the following morning and brows their ration of kale.
Cows in them days were all tied in stalls and only went out once a day in winter, so the sheds could be cleaned out and bedded up properly.

Some days we would go with the cowman Philip and ride back on top of the load of kale, he was only a young chap in his twenties, and a bit of a reckless driver (of the horse), like turning the horse and the front turntable of the dray quarter turn and the horse would snatch to get the load moving, on this one occasion tipping the load onto its side.

That would not have been too disastrous only my brother and I were buried under the load. I believe Philip had a tremendous scramble to get us out, I know I was first out and standing by on my own in a daze, and after a short while my brother emerged all muddy an shaken. On the way home we were sworn to secrecy on what had happened not to tell our father ( the old chap as Philip called him) or he might have got cussed in no uncertain terms. The secret was kept and Philip kept his job for another twenty years.

To Cut and Cart the Kale

We used to go with cowman Philip, to cut and put out the kale,
This was done with horse and flat dray, come sun or snow or hail,
Half and hour to chop the stems, and fell them in a row,
Then load them up, stems to the middle, cold its' down to zero.

Old Flower she turns and pulls, hard as she goes to the gate,
Through muddy ruts we had to walk, for a ride we had to wait,
We were not very big and had to be lifted up on top of the load,
Down hill now all the way home, a half a mile on the road.

Into the turf close to the farm, throw the stems off in the field,
Cows to eat the following day, and hope to improve their yield,
Winter feeding of the dairy herd, a never ending job,
Nice to get into warm cowsheds, cows in their bedding flop.

On this one day when we were with him, loading up the kale,
Turned old Flower, tipped the load, such a sorry tale,
Slid the load of Kale off, all over me and my brother,
Philip dug fast to find us, as under the load we'd smother,

We were OK a little dazed, soon came round and recovered,
Squared the horse and wagon, to load up again we staggered,
On the way home Philip asked us, not to tell the old chap,
Father never knew why, we were covered in mud in a mishap.

Owd Fred

On the way up to the kale field with Philip he stopped ( he may have stopped before when he was on his own ) under an overhanging nut bush, he pulled old Flower the shire well over onto the grass verge and well up under the hedge and stopped well under the thick of a good crop of hazel nuts.

He had the long cutting hook that he cut the kale with, and pulled down those nuts that would otherwise be out of reach, we were already standing on the wagon. As kids this was exiting as we filled our pockets and Philip cracked some for us to eat. Then a loud voice came from the big house across the grassy orchard, "oooyyyy what are you up to", they had seen the bushes swaying about and came out to investigate.

We all went flat on the wagon and flapped the reigns on old Flowers back and we were off. They knew who it was and what we were up to, and as no damage had been done nothing was ever said. But they never realised how many nuts we had got.

I Remember Philip Boulton.

At the Beeches we had a cowman, his name was Philip Boulton,

He liked his beer at weekend , was at the pub quite often,

Lived in a cottage by the shop, front door opened from the pavement,

It had low doors and ceilings, and dormer window casements.

Only a young chap just got married, and never learned to drive,

Went everywhere on his bike, except the pub till he'd revive,

The bike it had low handle bars, and a dynamo driven headlight,

A sad a crumpled saddle bag, nothing in it to excite.

He always wore a bib and brace overall, and a singlet vest,

Even in the winter time, when working bared his chest,

Wellingtons or wellies, with turned down tops so short,

Even in the summer time, no working boots to sport.

A round faced man, hair combed flat back,

Receding over each temple, and he never wore a hat,

What few teeth he had, dentist ventualy pulled the lot,

And a full set of dentures fitted, no more for him the rot.

He looked after all the cows, fed and milked them all,

In the winter had some help cleaning out the stalls,

Often us lads would carry milk, to the dairy there to cool,

Filling up the churns for transport, before and after school.

He'd harness up the horse, on afternoons in winter,

Cut and load kale onto the wagon, he was quite a sprinter,

Throw it out around the field, next day for the cows,

They're turned out for exercise, and the kale to browse.

For many years he stayed with us, until he saw more money,

A factory job and no weekend, he left in such a hurry,

His cottage was never used again, pulled down to pile of rubble,

Bungalow built on the site, back off the pavement out of trouble

Owd Fred

Being a drinking man he (Philip) frequented the Holly Bush pub two or three evenings a week only just up the road. When, as kids we occasionally called at his cottage, we would be offered a cup of tea, but not cups as we were used to, these were pint sized, he had nothing smaller.

There was a little cast iron stove with the huge kettle boiling hanging from a hook on the chimney crane, his toasting fork that he or his wife would poke or re-arrange the logs on the fire, and a square table in the middle of the small room covered with a colourful piece of worn oilcloth. Each side of the fire was what passed for  two arm chairs, any one else had to sit on the old wooden kitchen chairs. In front of the fire for the kids to sit on was the peg rug made out of strips of cloth from worm out clothing.

On the left is the village post office shop, and next on the right of it in the middle of picture was Philips farm cottage , a tied cottage to Beeches Farm. Extreme right is the chimneys of the Holly Bush pub Seighford

 

I think the house had been built before the roadside pavement had been established because from his front door you stepped down a step into the house, the door opened directly onto the pavement. The doors could not have been much more than five foot six and inside the beams in the living room come kitchen no more the six foot.

I suppose in them day's people were not so tall, or maybe it was the estate thought they would save bricks by only building a cottage with very low rooms. As I remember it , it was the only cottage that had round edge (feather edged) tiles on the roof, quite fancy for a farm cottage, and what's the betting that the tiles had come off another larger house that had perhaps been demolished to replace it's original thatched roof. Who knows?


Remember, people will judge you by your actions, not your intentions. You may have a heart of gold - but so does a hard boiled egg.
Unknown

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