The Cooker

Not Mother's but the same era!

When I was a little girl Mother had a cooker.  A gas cooker.  A pre-war jobby and a bit of a monstrosity by today's standards.  Cleaning just the hob (which had to be totally dismantled for the job) seemed to take forever, as I remember.  

She had a big silver kettle on that cooker so she could make tea as needed.  There was an eye level grill, useful for toast.  But that was it.  Everything was cooked on the cooker.

I have a double oven.  And a hob.  Both easy to clean.  And an electric kettle.  And a toaster, rarely used these days as I rarely eat toast.  But I also have a microwave.  And an air fryer.  There's an Instant Pot too as well as a bread maker and a slow cooker.  

And of course I have a fridge, a freezer, food processor, electric whisk, blitzer.  And a dishwasher.  

How on earth did Mother manage?

(I don't know.  But I do know that she bought me my first dishwasher and my first freezer as she was determined that I wouldn't have to do the same as her!)

N is for Nancy

 Nancy was my mother.  I've written about her several times over the years but I've never told you about the time she was the (late) Queen's understudy.

When the Queen did an official visit to open or inspect anything,  timings, safety etc had to be checked.  Obviously HM knew exactly what she was doing but anyone due to be presented to her wouldn't be so sure.  There would be a rehearsal so that everything would be alright on the big day.

In 1974 the Queen came to open a major steelplant in Scunthorpe but my mum (who was about the same height) was the understudy for the walk through.  She had to arrive in the a car so positioning could be checked and red carpets perfected and then she walked though the steelworks.  The stopwatch was in use throughout.

At one point she caught her heel on one of the many railway tracks which run through the works and the rehearsal had to stop until the problem was sorted.  Everybody practised bows and curtsies, the photographers checked their angles then everyone went home (slightly more) confident about The Big Day.

It's good to talk!

Ever since the first lockdown started I've had a monthly zoom with a couple of friends, Sandie and Jan. (Before that we used to meet for pub lunches.)   They are sisters and I can't remember not knowing them.  We are "Coffee Kids", still kids despite our ages ranging from 69 to 77!

Back in 1954 a group of eight women decided to meet each Tuesday and they continued to meet every week for over fifty years.  At first it was a cup of Nescafe, a real treat in those years of post war austerity.  (Anybody else remember those tiny tins of coffee powder? )  They were The Coffee Girls.  It's hard to think of a similar group today as most women go out to work but I suspect that in those days some sort of a meet-up was an important defence against being driven crazy by the endless round of caring for husband and children alone at home.

As well as the weekly Coffee Morning they had days out together, they had parties, when one couple bought a narrow boat they had day trips on the canals.  Those women and their husbands were all Aunties and Uncles to me.  

The last four Coffee Girls in 2002

As years went by inevitably those Aunties and Uncles died.  Around twenty years ago I had a party for the four remaining ladies at that time and as many Coffee Kids as I could trace.  It was good to catch up with everyone.

So, once a month, Sandie, Jan and I, each in our own homes, make a cup of coffee and settle down for a chat to celebrate a friendship of 67 years.  

It's good to talk.

A joyful heritage

When I was a little girl my grandparents lived in this farmhouse deep in the Lincolnshire Wolds.  It looks very gracious, doesn't it, but looks can deceive!   I wrote about it several years ago starting with this post.

To the left of the view seen here there was a large copper beech tree, and under the tree there grew a rich profusion of snowdrops.  As a little girl I would pick bunch after bunch and you could not see from where I had plucked them.

My Mother dug up a few each year and took them back to the garden at home.  They spread wonderfully and when my parents left that house she again dug some up to plant in the new garden.  Later she moved again and repeated the ritual.  When I went to live at my Vicarage we again dug up a few of the snowdrops and planted them there.  You won't be surprised that when I left the Vicarage I brought some for my garden here.  In each place many were left but the transplanted ones spread in whatever garden they were taken to.  By my reckoning my Mother and I have been responsible for the snowdrop population in at least five gardens and in reality it has been far more than that.  

My present house is a modern(ish) bungalow about five miles from the lovely house in that photograph so my snowdrops have almost gone to their original home.  They flourish in my garden, hiding underground when summer comes but making their welcome appearance each January/February.

And today I fetched this little posy into the house.  Truly a joyful heritage.

Mama Mia

The warden showed me something of the technique.  So my Mother got a very special portrait.

More of my family

Four cousins - Hear no evil, see no evil, but no way do we shut up!

The family picnic last month was actually for my father's family.  When I organise it I invite all descendants of my paternal grandparents.  

Everybody smile!

 But of course I had a Mother as well as a Father and we have family get-together for that family too.  I have been involved in organising picnics for them too but in recent years one of my cousins and his wife (Jack and Sarah) have been the main instigators.  They've got four daughters and the baptisms of their five grandchildren have been great occasions for us all.  Two cousins don't live locally and aren't usually involved but the other four surviving cousins are very fond of get-togethers.

Jack and Sarah's daughter has been home from America and, as she and one of her sisters both had a birthday last Friday, we had a family barbecue.  

The Tree

This tree stands in my front garden and I can see it from my chair.  I planted it in memory of my Father, my Mother and my only sister.  My nephew helped me choose it several years ago and I paid for it using garden vouchers which he had given me for Christmas.  I think of it as my family tree.

Last year was a little disappointing because it flowered during a spell of windy weather and lost its petals in just a couple of days but this year it has flowered better than ever.  

Today I have taken a service at Nettleton, a village less than two miles from home.  It was a very special church for me to go for Mothering Sunday for it is the village where my Mother was brought up during her primary school years.

As is fairly common in churches these days I was given a bunch of flowers for Mothering Sunday and I have brought them home and again I can see them from my chair.  Most years I have provided the flowers myself as an acknowledgement of all the kindness I receive from the congregations where I have the privilege to minister but this year it felt right to be on the receiving end.  Thank you, Nettleton Church.

And thank you to parents everywhere for all the love and self-sacrifice you give to your children  I salute you.  

Connecting with my Family History

Out into the Lincolnshire countryside today, this time to lead worship at St Mary's Church, Thoresway. 

The 2011 census reckoned that 198 people live at Thoresway but that figure also includes Kirmond-le-Mire which has St Martin's Church, and Stanton-le-Vale which is served by St Andrew's Church so that's three Anglican churches serving less than two hundred people!  

So I went to Thoresway and joined ten people for the morning service.  Everyone sat in the choir and it was lovely.

Uncle Palmer.  The dates refer to his incumbency at Walesby

Actually I had a smile at even the thought of going to Thoresway because I remember my Mother talking about going with my Father on their bicycles to visit his Uncle Palmer (who was Rector of Thoresway) for marriage preparation.  My Mother's family lived about five miles from Thoresway and Uncle Palmer came to their village to conduct their wedding.

So I feel that Thoresway is part of my story too.

I hope Uncle Palmer would have approved of the service this morning.

Christmas memories 5. Making presents

No child was ever allowed to think that the Christmas present thing was just about getting: it was about giving too.  

I had a lovely Grandad.  He was quite authoritarian and his word was law but he loved his grandchildren and he was dearly loved by us.  In early December Grandad always gave each of us half a crown (2/6) worth 12.5 pence in today's money so that, with a few pence saved from pocket money, we could buy our parents a small gift.  I can't remember anything I bought but I do remember the excitement of that special visit to Woolworth's.  

My suspicion is that the presents we made at school were much more appreciated.  One amazing construction I remember was a vase made out of a jam jar.  The jar was covered with many layers of small pieces of newspaper then painted and varnished.  I made four bumps on mine and those bumps became four children dancing around the pot.  

My first ever school make for my Mother was a simple green felt purse. She used to keep it in her evening bag and whenever she went out she would put a few coins for the cloakroom in that purse and I was always so proud that I had made it.  It was only after she died that I discovered that not just coins had gone out in that purse.  For over fifty years she had kept in it the note that a five year old me had written,  "I love you Mummy."

Yesterday was the anniversary of her death, today is the anniversary of my Father's death.  I'll extend that note just a little.  I love you Mummy and Daddy.

Mothering Sunday

I don't like to mention it but it is exactly nine months to Christmas.  Today is therefore Lady Day or more formally The Feast of the Annunciation of our Lord to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Until 1751 it was the first day of the year in England.  

So, this is the day when we remember that day when Mary first learned she was to be mum to a very special baby.  Tomorrow is the day when we remember all mothers everywhere and when each one of us gives thanks for our own mum.

For some of us it could be a bit of a  non event.  In my own case my Mother died many years ago and I have no children of my own.  However, it is a day that I celebrate with great joy.

After my Father died my Mother planted a weeping cherry tree in his memory and when I came to live in Caistor I planted this one in memory of both my parents and my sister.  This is the first year that I can remember that it has flowered for Mothering Sunday and it is giving me deep joy.

Tomorrow I shall take these flowers and distribute them to everyone in church because every one is some mother's son or daughter whether or not they will see their mums tomorrow.  Each has been taught to love because they have been loved, usually by their mothers and most give loving care to others, just as their mothers cared for them.

And I shall pray for all those families bereaved this week by the terrible attack in London, all those families still worrying about seriously injured relatives, and all who have been traumatised.  

One hundred years and one week ago

My Mum was born on the 25th January 1917 so last week she would have been a hundred years old.

My parents on their Golden Wedding Anniversary in 1990

She was the second child and elder daughter of a Lincolnshire farmer and she lived all her life in this county.  She married a friend of her brother and together my Mother and Father had my sister and me.  They were married over fifty five years but the last eleven years of her life she was a widow,

She lived with me for the last two years of her life as she became wheelchair bound and she died in my arms in 2006.

That's just the bare bones of a life well lived.  Thank you, Mummy

The Changing Face of Luxury

Way, way back, a couple of centuries ago, oysters were food for the poor.  I remember reading that years ago and marvelling at it - as I still do when I see the exorbitant price of those delicious shellfish.  However my forefathers and foremothers would look in astonishment at how our expectations have changed.

Take fish.  When I was a little girl we had cod and chips (home cooked!) every week but fresh salmon was a very rare luxury and indeed few of my friends had ever tasted it.  These days salmon is considerably cheaper than cod.  

A car was a rare possession for families sixty years ago and most of my friends would travel by train when they went on holiday.  These days rail travel is very rare and few families have no access to a car (although I suspect that might be different in areas where there is still a proper public transport system). 

One of my most frequent errands as a child was to post letters for my Mother.  Although my Father's job meant that we had a telephone at home, few of our relations had such a convenience, so Mother would write regularly to her brothers and sister and to my grandparents.  Every day letters popped on to the mat and so news was shared.  

But today when my own letterbox rattled I found I had received one of those great twenty first century luxuries, a handwritten letter, this time all the way from the USA.  And so I prepared another luxury, real coffee (more or less unheard of in my youth) which I will drink from my beautiful china (Grandma very rarely used the best stuff), and read a handwritten letter from a land which seemed as far away as the moon when my Father went there on business when I was just five.

  

Sheer luxury!

Ninety nine years ago

In January 1917 the armies on continental Europe were still recovering from the Battle of the Somme which had been fought from 1st July to 18th November 2016.  More men were preparing to go to France to make up for the huge numbers of men who had been lost in that terrible battle.  One of those men was waiting on a farm in a small Lincolnshire village.  Ted carried on working on the farm and being with his wife Emma who was expecting their second child.  He had been given special permission to delay his departure to join his regiment until that second child was born.

Their elder child, a son, was just two years old and all three of them were eagerly anticipating the birth of a brother or sister for him.  On 25th January Emma was safely delivered of a daughter.

The little girl's baptism was arranged very quickly.  In those days children were always baptised when they were just a few weeks old but Ted and Emma's child was even younger than most as Ted wanted to see this important ceremony for his beloved daughter.

A couple of days later he left for France, not knowing if he would ever see Emma and their children again.  He was a fine musician and so he became a bandsman (needed to keep morale up) and as was usual for bandsmen  he was also a medical orderly/stretcher bearer.  Over the next few years he doubtless saw some dreadful sights as he carried men to the casualty stations but he told Emma nothing of such terrible things.  Instead his letters were of love and enquiries about their son and daughter, the thought of whom sustained him for the next couple of years.  His son was four and his daughter was nearly two when next he saw them.

And how do I know?  That little girl, born ninety nine years ago today, was my mother.  I still miss her.

75 years ago today

I know that many people will be remembering the start of the Blitz today and I too will be thinking about that.

But I shall also be thinking about another event which happened seventy five years ago.  On 7th September 1940 my parents were married.  

They were married just a few miles from where I live now, and the wedding breakfast was at my grandparents farm. My great uncle officiated (he was rector of a nearby parish) and it was by all accounts, a wonderful celebration.  He was obviously a modern sort of vicar as he wouldn't allow my mum to promise to obey her husband which was just as well!

My parents met when my mother gave my father a boiled sweet at the end of a football match in which her brother was on the same team.  He always had a bag of boiled sweets with him when I was a child but I didn't know the reason until after he died.  

Their marriage was truly "till death do us part" which sadly came just over 55 years later when my father died in 1995.  

The Tree

In the centre of my front garden is a cherry blossom tree, Prunus X Yedoensis Shaidare Yoshino, which is now in full blossom.

Almost twenty years ago my father died and my mother planted a cherry tree like this is memory of him.  Several years later she had to come and live with me and she left that one behind but she bought another one which Jack planted in the garden which I had then.  When she died I could look at her tree and remember both my parents and I took comfort in its beauty.

Move on another three years and I had to leave that house and come here, leaving my tree but a couple of years ago my nephew and his wife bought me another cherry tree which Jack again panted for me in memory of both my parents and my nephew's mother (my sister) who died four years ago.

The tree is in my garden.  It weeps for it is sad to lose those whom we love.  But even more it is truly beautiful, for I have been left with beautiful memories.

Mother

My mum was a great reciter of poems.  On Sunday mornings while she was preparing lunch I never tired of hearing “The Owl and the Pussycat” and it’s still one of my favourite poems.  Auntie Hettie remembers going to bed as a child in the house I described as my Grandparents’ house and Mother (who was eight years older than her) sitting at her bedside and reciting "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes.  Journeys in the car were often enlivened by “Abou ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)” by Leigh Hunt.

Don't you just love those socks!

I received my love of words from my Mother.  She was quite a clever woman.  She went to Grammar School when she was only ten, having passed the Scholarship exam as it was then called, a whole year early.  She loved her time at Grammar School but once that was over she had to go out to work (no money for the further education of girls) and she became a clerk in the Civil Service.  In those days women had to resign from the Civil Service on marriage but a year later she was back at work as women were needed to release men to join the forces.  She finally gave up paid employment in 1943 when expecting my sister.

The rest of her life was spent being a homemaker and I think that at times she may have found that frustrating.  She wanted to train as a teacher but decided against it as my father had a very demanding job and needed her whole hearted support.

But she inspired me.  I think she would have made a pretty fair teacher and I want to finish with a poem she taught me to help me remember our Kings and Queens.  I’ve found five different versions of it on the web!

Willy Willy Harry Stee, 

Harry Dick John Harry three;

One two three Neds Richard two, 

Harry's Four Five Six then who? 

Edward's four five, Dick the bad, 

Harries (twain) Ned six (the lad); 

Mary Bessie James you ken, 

Then Charlie Charlie James again 

Will and Mary Anna Gloria 

Georges four Will four Victoria 

Edward seven next and then 

Came George the fifth in nineteen ten 

Ned the eigth soon abdicated 

Then George six was coronated 

After which Elizabeth 

And thats all folks until her death

Mothering Sunday

Many years ago I went to church on Mothering Sunday.  (Note for non UK readers - we celebrate Mothering Sunday or Mothers' Day on the fourth Sunday in Lent.) I was at the time in my early thirties.  It was a lively church with a lot of families and the Mothers' Union used to make small posies for the children to give to their mothers.  At the end of the service the children would go to the front of the church and fetch a posy then go give said posy to their mum.  All very lovely.

Anyway, as always the Mothers' Union had made way too many posies so during the last hymn the vicar brought the remainder down from the altar and started to hand them out to the women, a joyful thing to do.  I took mine with a smile and a thank you and carried on singing All Things Bright and Beautiful with my customary enthusiasm.

But then the vicar came back to me, took the posy and said, "You're not a mother" and handed "my" posy to a more worthy recipient.  There was a gasp from others around me but the vicar, poor man, was deaf and he just carried on unaware of his gaffe.  I think it was probably forcibly pointed out to him afterwards by others!

Being childless has never been more than a passing sadness to me.  I've never known the great grief it is to women who have longed for children and been unable to conceive or to give birth to a healthy, living child.  I have never known the anguish of attending my own child's funeral.  I have never spent long, sleepless weeping nights worrying about a runaway offspring.

Yes, I know that I have never known worry and sleepless nights when my child is ill or frightened.  I have never had to sacrifice my own desires for the well-being of a son or daughter.  I was well mothered myself and I had a secure childhood and for that I am eternally grateful.

But in any church where I am officiating there will always be flowers for everyone,  women and if there are enough flowers, men as well (dads do a lot more hands-on parenting these days!) and there will always be prayers for women who, for whatever reason, find Mothering Sunday painful.

Memories and Calmness and Security

We had a lovely family lunch on Sunday and it may be that sometime I shall write up a bit more about my Grandma but for the moment, no.  I need to sit and think a little bit more.  Instead I shall write a little about my life in my own home

One thing distinguished my home from many others.  I know no Brit older than me who was born into a household where there was already a television.  My Father used to have to go away from home on business trips and a couple of months before I made my arrival in October 1951 he bought Mother a TV to keep her company when he was away.  It was not until the coronation in 1953 that TVs started to become more usual.

Picture Book

Every afternoon before I started schoolMother and I would settle down to “Watch with Mother”.  Mondays meant “Picture Book” and the other weekdays were “Andy Pandy”, “Bill and Ben”, “Rag, Tag and Bobtail” and “The Woodentops”.  

Looby Loo, Andy Pandy and Teddy

Bill and Ben

Rag, Tag and Bobtail

The Woodentops

Friday was my favourite day for the Woodentop family included The Biggest Spotty Dog You Ever Did See!  Mother would sit in the front of her armchair leaving a space behind where I would snuggle while she did her endless knitting. 

My memories of childhood are of safety and calm.  Looking back I was indeed privileged.