Thanks, Smokey! What a gem to find on a grey November afternoon. It rings bells for me. The upside of being short of food was the hedgerow foraging for wild fruits for jam, and the fields for mushrooms (yes, some of us do still do this), and in those days it was a race to get to there first. Our best blackberries were in the middle of a golf course, and entailed dashing across a dangerous fairway. We went walks with rich milk (from a kind local farmer) in a screw top jar, to be shaken until a tiny knob of butter was formed, to be eaten as a Sunday treat. Our mother's corned beef hash recipe was missed when finally rations were more generous after the war. Not missed were the nettle tops. All this, and the gardening for veggies so well described here, meant lots of exercise - and our school photos show a minimum of overweight children, and none seriously so. We really were healthier in body, on the whole, at least where we lived. TB and diptheria and other contagious diseases were gradually succumbing to new treatments and preventatives, and the horrors of BSE and Aids as yet undreamed of. The folk in the cut flower market had to turn all but a small percentage of land or glasshouses over to food production during the war. Two Polish soldiers came to work, replacing young Tommy who joined the Navy. My father was allowed just to keep a small breeding stock of the carnations he had grown and bred over years, and in their place were rows of lettuces and tomatoes. After the war, it was impossible to re-establish as a carnation grower, and like many others, we moved on. If I could pass on to my children just one smell from my childhood, it would be that of entering a huge greenhouse full of carnations in bloom. That scent cannot be experienced now, because nearly all growers go for size - and dare I say so, for some pretty horrible colours as well - and the perfume which enveloped us has been bred out. Just one or two growers specialize in trying to produce the older type. Oh dear, Smokey, you've started me off........... Thanks again, Jill <<<From: "Born Cynic" <born.cynic@virgin.net> Subject: [BAN] Re: Memories of the 40s -- A welcome to Angela & Rosemary > > Grandad and I were a team. He dug his garden every day, despite having > only one arm. 'I left it in Weepers, Joey, but they've promised to send > it on'. Kindly meant, but this gave me dreams of an arm arriving in the > post. Braces, big belt, and string around the trouser legs: ‘Keeps out > the wermints, Joey’. The soil in Masser Road was black and loamy, having > been well fed with soot and welcome gifts from Winnie. > > My duties were minimal but crucial to success. They included the > inspection of worms to determine the longest of the day (only Mr Hood, our > personal robin, was allowed to eat any); acknowledging salutes from > passing steam engines; and the organisation of regular tea breaks. Each > time the colliery train passed, he would take out a large fob watch from a > waistcoat pocket, examine it carefully, look at me and shake his head > sadly. Never any comment. > > He never used a mug, but always poured his tea into the saucer and blew on > it, before sipping, with obvious and noisy enjoyment. My subsequent > attempts to copy this procedure at home met with a disappointing response. > One rare social skill was his ability to take a pinch of snuff, > single-handedly, during tea breaks. He never smoked: 'They seed the > light, Joey, they seed the light'. > > I longed to play a more active role in our team. One contribution, meant > as a surprise, the pruning of roses in the front garden, was not > considered a total success, and never repeated. The replacement bush was > always known as ‘Joey’s Gift’. Another occasional duty, in wet weather, > was cutting copies of the Daily Graphic into suitable sized pieces, which > were then nailed to the wall in what was known as 'the lavvy'. > > Each evening Grandad relaxed before the fire in 'his' chair (which no-one > else ever used it) and listened to the wireless with a bottle of stout. > Once a week, empty bottles were collected from both grandad and > neighbours, and trundled in my trolley round to the outdoor, for recovery > of the deposits. These were solemnly given to mother as my wages for the > week. > > Memories can play false, but life seemed more graceful and dignified, with > time passing slowly. As a Country we were fighting to survive, times were > hard; food was short; yet everyone had time for one another. > > Smokey