An aversion overcome

As a child, I spent several long periods in hospital. In those days (the late 1940s and early 50s), children's wards were not the bright, friendly places that they are today. There was a rigorous discipline; we were not allowed to get out of bed, even when feeling well, books were allowed but no toys and smacks were administered by the stern ward sister if we dared to untidy our beds. I grew to understand that some of the less pleasant procedures were actually intended for my benefit and not my torment but not all of the scars left by those hospital experiences are physical.

One aftereffect, which will probably sound trivial to many, was an aversion to porridge. I think I would go so far as to say an abhorrance of porridge. In hospitals today, even child  patients are given a menu to choose from but we were given a plate of food and told to eat it and there was no question of leaving a scrap. We were not fussy children; it was, after all, a time of food rationing and we were all used to plain fare. I have no memory of any meals other than breakfast so the rest must have been acceptable. The breakfast trolley, however, brought dread! The nurse took a thick,white cup, the kind that used to be used in railway refreshment rooms

dipped it into a large bowl and drew out a portion of a brown, lumpy, glutinous mess. I can see it now, dripping down the sides of the  cup as she poured it into my bowl. No jam, sugar, honey or fruit, not even a little salt to add flavour. Having to get through this every day was undoubtedly good training for convent school dinners, where the same discipline was applied. But, from the last day of my stay in hospital as a seven year old until yesterday, porridge has never passed my lips. When my children were babies, I had to put a peg on my nose and close my eyes while I was making their far lovelier porridge. The smell and sight of porridge, even the sight of an innocent thick, white cup could set my stomach churning.

I went to the supermarket on Saturday and, as I reached for my usual pack of cereal, I thought how foolish it was to be controlled by a memory. I have avoided eating a nutritious food for sixty years, was I to be a wimp forever? With a very deep breath, I reached for a pack of fruity porridge, plain oats was a step too far. I ate my first bowl of porridge yesterday and I had another this morning. Yes, I have to steel mysef to make it but today was easier than yesterday and, who knows, tomorrow I might even enjoy it!

This picture is from an article that tells how porridge changed mankind. I don't like to think of what I might have missed out on all those years.

What irrational aversions do you have?

In a golden coach

What were you doing on 2 June 1953? I was an over-excited seven year old, crammed with dozens of other children into a neighbour's living room, watching the coronation of Queen Elizabeth on a nine inch television screen. The  country hadn't seen such festivities since VE Day, eight years earlier. Our streets were decorated with red, white and blue bunting, interspersed with gold coloured cardboard crowns. We had street parties and games and the whole world seemed to be a happy, fun-filled place, especially as sweet rationing had ended a few months earlier and we children were given bags of sweets and chocolate.

The young queen brought hope to the nation still suffering the after-effects of war. The ubiquitous song of that time sounds corny now but it really was on the lips of everyone from schoolchildren to bus conductors, shopkeepers and roadsweepers.

  Of  course, the television coverage that we watched was in black and white and the tv screen was tiny but it was still magical. We were to see the splendid colourful spectacle in the cinema later. 


Coronation fever seemed to last for months. Our school year always ended with a "Field Day." We walked in procession with brass bands, banners and morris dancers to a field several miles away where our parents had been busy erecting stalls for the sale of cakes, fizzy drinks and ice cream. There were swing boats and roundabouts, coconut shies and hoopla. We had dancing displays and races; it was one of the highlights of our year. My class was chosen to present a pageant of the coronation. The golden coach was replaced by a flatbed trailer. Bernadette Beasley was chosen to be the Queen and I was one of her six ladies-in-waiting. (That's me standing behind her majesty)

The pictures, like me, show signs of their age but they bring back very happy memories of a lost time of simple, innocent enjoyment. I lost touch with all the other children in these photos when I moved to a different school but I know what the real queen has achieved in the 60 years of her reign; few people can match her devotion to duty - all her promises fulfilled. 

A scary story

Granddaughter Amelia, known as Millie, is now three and a very important three-quarters years old. Like all members of our family, she loves books and she is beginning to read and write independently but her skills can't yet keep pace with her imagination and desperate need to communicate. Mummy is frequently called on, therefore, to act as her amanuensis when Millie wants to dictate a story.

This morning, the postman brought her latest masterpiece, addressed to Grumpy, the grandchildren's name for my husband. First, the accompanying card:

 And now for the story. Be warned that Millie is no sugar and spice child. She likes her stories to have a touch of drama and sometimes quite shocking endings!

 We are building a collection of her work as an investment for our future. When Millie is an established novelist, we will cash in on her "early work."

Washing lines#3

I've just been reading about Victorian wash days. I was surprised to find that these were not weekly events but probably only took place about once a month. When I read the instructions for landering in the Girls' Own Paper of 1899, I understood why ordinary housewives, who had no servants to do the work,  would need time to recover in between what were wash weeks rather than days:

Monday - Steeping (soaking)
Tuesday - Washing
Wednesday - Folding and Starching
Thursday - Ironing
Friday - Airing

 Have you noticed that there is no mention of drying? Surely that should follow the starching?  I could easily become distracted at this point and explore the culture of washing or ironing the laundry but I am supposed to be writing about washing lines, so I will not digress.

I like a neat and orderly washing line. The sheets, pillow cases and duvet covers go out first thing in the morning so that they are usually dry when the towels, tea cloths, table cloths and napkins are ready to hang out. Nowadays, thank goodness, I don't have rows of shirts on the line but when I did, they were pegged at the tail. Dark coloured items next and, if it is a really warm and windy day and I can get everything dried outdoors, the socks are pegged by the toe, in pairs. Oh, and in case you are wondering, trousers and skirts are pegged at the waistband. I am afraid that the Random Distractions washing line has nothing random about it!

Now for that rather special line that I mentioned in my last post:

 I bought this Picture Puffin book in 1967 to use with my first primary school class. It has delighted many children, especially my deaf pupils who always loved stories with a strong visual element. My own children loved it and now Millie and Charlotte have been introduced to it.

Farmer's wife, Mrs Mopple hangs her washing out to dry, using good old-fashioned dolly pegs, but the wind blows each item off the line and onto one of the farm animals so that when she comes to collect her laundry she finds:

A pig in a petticoat

A turkey in a nightcap

A chicken in a muffler

A jersey cow with ten horns

A rabbit with the measles

That would never happen if she used a tumble dryer now would it?

Washing lines#2

The next essential item after the washing line is the peg, or pin as our American friends would say. My mother had wooden pegs that doubled up as toys.

We would slot one peg inside another to make guns when we played at being cowboys in the garden. On rainy days, we would draw faces on the peg tops and drape them in bits of fabric to make characters in our little theatre, made from a shoe box.

Sometimes gypsies would knock on the door, trying to sell pegs they had made from two bits of wood bound with twine or, as in this picture, metal bands.

They were not very good pegs but people would buy a few because they felt sorry for the women who were trying to scrape a living.

When I had my first job and flat (apartment), I wanted the latest style in pegs; first some very flimsy plastic ones that used to break, leaving the laundry on the ground.

Then a different style but still plastic

These stayed on the line but were no good at pinning anything thicker than a handkerchief or a pair of tights. If I did manage to squeeze them on over a thicker item, I wouldn't be able to get it off again. And, of course, it took much longer to peg out the washing with coloured pegs because they had to be colour matched to each other and the clothes!

For years I used this type,

These are fine until the spring breaks and then the washing ends up on the ground again. So I now use some superior cushioned pegs that don't leave pressure marks on sweaters.

Unfortunately, the problem with colour-matching has resurfaced. (I hope no-one believes that!)

Where do you keep your pegs/pins? I have always favoured a bag

 but some people prefer a bucket

My mother-in-law always left her pegs on the line, ready for the next wash day. I could never do that. Some habits are so deeply ingrained that to change them would be to betray my Lancashire and Irish forebears. The washing should never be left on the line after sunset and the pegs should be put in the bag and brought indoors. I may never have whitened my doorstep but I have always brought in my pegs!

Next time - hanging methods and a very special line.

Washing lines#1

Fine Lines a celebration of clothesline culture  by Cindy Etter-Turnbull doesn't appear to be available in UK but Canadian and US readers can get it here. I was lucky enough to win my copy at Letters from a Hill Farm.  It is a highly entertaining as well as informative book and well worth the effort of tracking down a copy. Each section had me reminiscing, remarking on the changes in our domestic habits over the last 60 years or so and frequently laughing aloud.

I was surprised  to learn that in some parts of Canada and US clotheslines are banned! I haven't heard of that happening here yet but we all know that where America leads England tends to follow. I'm getting my "Hands off my washing line!"  placard ready, just in case. My first thought on a warm, breezy day is how much laundry can I get washed and out to dry? It would be a brave official who would try to stop me!

You might wonder, as I did, at the idea of a clothesline culture. Don't people just put their washing out to dry in the sun? Believe me, after reading just a few pages of Fine Lines, I realised that the how and where of laundry drying is embedded in our cultural identity. I don't intend to spoil the book for would-be readers but I am going to pick out a few aspects of clothesline culture to explore here over the next few days. Do join me with your own memories and observations.

Nappy drying service at Butlin's holiday camp 1955

My mother always had two long washing lines made of rope and supported by wooden props. She would have approved of the rows of nappies blowing in the breeze in this picture from BBC archives. However, she would not have had that tattered nappy on display for the neighbours to see! Less than perfect items were dried on an indoor rack in the kitchen.

 There were more wet Mondays than dry ones in Lancashire, so this ceiling clothes rack was in constant use along with the 'clothes maiden'

I think this was a northern name because when I moved to the south of England I could only buy this type and it was called a clothes horse:

I didn't see any props in the southern gardens, all my neighbours had pulley lines. My Lancashire soul needed a prop so a friend made one for me, a little more sophisticated than this one, but not much!

My cottage garden is too small for a proper washing line so I now have a rotary line that can be packed away in the garage when not in use and I have a tumble dryer and the Aga for those wet days.

 

Modern appliances are useful but not nearly as satisfying as the old ways of doing things. As a young mother, I loved to look out on my rows of terry nappies blowing in the wind. I loved the fresh outdoor smell of the dried laundry and was really surprised when one of my neighbours told me that she never dried her washing outdoors because she hated her clothes to smell of the sea.

My mother had very precise ways of hanging out the washing. It was sorted and folded and put in the basket in the order it was to pegged on the line. The basket was carried out into the garden with the bag of pegs and a damp cloth for wiping the line - skipping that would lead to trouble if she found a dirty mark on a shirt or sheet. Next time I'll look at pegs and how the clothes were hung out to dry.

Angel Gabriel

We had our Advent service of readings and carols this evening and I am pleased to report that my voice held out for my part in it. I am often asked to read in church and at other public functions; I can't sing, dance, play an instrument or act but I do speak quite clearly, probably because of my years of teaching deaf children.

My acting career began and ended around my seventh birthday, when I was chosen to be the Angel Gabriel in the school Nativity play.

Children in the last class of the infant school performed the Nativity every year, with a younger brother or sister playing the baby Jesus. The costumes and staging were carefully packed away and brought out every December; here is my brother wearing the same Joseph costume five years later:

I don't know how they managed it but it seems to me that they used the same baby!

I came across this version of the Angel Gabriel carol on YouTube. It is Aled Jones singing in Welsh, something I'm sure few of us have ever heard. I think it is rather lovely.

In a few words

I read about a story competition on 60goingon16: writers were invited to write a story about parks, in no more than 50 words. I was too late to enter (not that I have written even such a short story since college days) but I liked the idea of condensing ones thoughts about a topic into a few words. Here are my 42 words on parks:

Three parks define my childhood. Sutton Park for everyday:swings, see-saw, roundabouts, bread and jam and play. Sherdley Park on Sundays: walking sedately round gardens in white dress and ribbons. Taylor Park on high holidays: boating lake, tennis courts, picnics and cousins.

If you would like to play with 50 words about any aspect of your childhood, not just parks, then please leave a comment and I'll put all the pieces in a future post. I won't make it a competition but there could be a few bookish rewards.

The road that leads home

I have been in Lancashire for a few days, attending my niece's wedding and catching up with family and friends. It was really good to be there for such a joyous occasion since my visits in the last few years have been more solemn, visiting sick relations or attending funerals.

We set out after lunch on Thursday on what should have been a four to five hour journey. The first two hours went well, with very little traffic on the motorway but then the traffic announcements started: a lorry had shed its load, a pothole had opened in the road, a caravan had overturned and so on. The predicted long delay became a tailback of 7 miles, then 27 miles then between three,four then five, motorway junctions and growing longer. We had to choose between sitting in a queue of traffic for many hours or leaving the motorway and driving in the real world. This was one of the occasions when I was very glad that I had married a professional navigator!

We drove through parts of Shropshire and Cheshire on the wonderfully straight and wide Roman roads. We could see for miles across fields, rivers and canals, such a different experience from driving through narrow Devon lanes with their high banks and hedgerows.

Here are just a few of the sights we would have missed if we had stayed on the motorway:Stapeley Water Gardens
Churche's Mansion House, Nantwich

River Weaver, Nantwich

Aqueduct, Nantwich

Sankey Canal

Driving through the beautiful northern countryside, I was reminded of the pre-motorway and seatbelt days of my youth, when we would squeeze six or eight people into a car and head for the country pubs or picnic spots. I suddenly had an almost physical longing to be back there and thought of Mole, in The Wind in the Willows, being overwhelmed by the sense of his Dulce Domum:
He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that had so strongly moved him.......... Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way!........ his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again... he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him in the darkness.

Mole goes back to his old home and enjoys all the "familiar and friendly things" again but he realises that he doesn't really want to give up his new life above ground, "But it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome." Like Mole, I thoroughly enjoyed my brief time in my old haunts, but I suppose one can never really go back. I do recommend leaving the motorway and driving through your childhood memories, though.

Epiphany

Yesterday, Margaretha wrote about the Swedish customs of Twelfth Night and Knut. I told her that I would try to find some photographs of our family celebration of Twelfth Night and I have copied a few from the album. Most people see Twelfth Night as the end of the Christmas holiday season, the day to take down the decorations and dispose of the tree. But for church-goers it is a feast day - the Epiphany - and in some countries it is a greater festival than Christmas Day.

Epiphany was too difficult a word for our little ones, who established "Piphany" as the new name of the feast. A very special friend used to come to stay with us after Christmas and she would help us to make decorations, party food and whatever the special activity of the day was to be. It might be a drama, a treasure hunt or making cakes to give away.

Here is the Piphany Party of 1982. Paper crowns were worn by all, including the toys. The children had cut out figures of the kings and there were small gifts and lots of candles.
A few years later, our special friend was again helping the children to decorate the dining room.
We moved to another house in another county but our traditional celebration came with us. Our special friend came to lead the celebrations whenever she could.

We haven't had a real Piphany celebration since the youngsters left home. I have put the kings into the crib but there are no gifts hiding around the house and there won't be any party fare tomorrow. I hope we will be able to start again in future years, when we have grandchildren coming to stay. It is a lovely way to bring the Christmas holidays to an end.
Epiphany : a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.

A magic story

I have been away from home all day and so have only now heard the news of Oliver Postgate's death. 60goingon16, Musings from a Muddy Island and Bread and Roses all carry tributes to this creator of childhood favourites. I loved the Clangers and Noggin the Nog but my favourite was always Bagpuss.