Memory Lane 04/03/2010
 

An invitation......

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=109894949039900
 
Memory Lane 03/17/2010
 

Continuing with the 'Memory Lane' theme, a recent post on Twitter mentioned slates and I was reminded that one of the schools I attended during WW2 (the one nearest to my grandparents home in north Wales) didn't use exercise books. Instead, all written work - and arithmetic, I guess - was done on slates.

The fact that we lived not too far away from the major slate-mining town of Blaenau Ffestiniog would probably have been a consideration - but, I wouldn't be surprised if the likelihood that slates may well have been a more economical proposition than pencil and paper would also have been a factor towards their popularity.

The slates were about the size of a standard book and each one had a wooden frame upon which, I seem to recall, the pupil's name was inscribed. So far as I can remember, something similar to a two or three inch nail was used as a 'pencil' and it was possible to write on both sides of the slate. A damp cloth was used to clean a 'page' before starting a new subject.

After returning to Liverpool after the war, both the schools I went to used paper exercise books and we were supplied with wooden pens. Only one step up from a quill, some might say, we had to dip the nibs into ink-wells which were built into our desks. I'm fairly sure the ink was 'manufactured' on the spot - by mixing a powdery substance into a jug/bowl/bucket of water. It was only during the last couple of years of my education that I got my own fountain pen. Although ball-point pens were becoming more widely available, I don't recall being allowed to use one at school.

 
 
Memory Lane 02/27/2010
 

For some time lately, I've been toying with the idea of covering this subject and writing the previous blog made my mind up for me. So, for the time being, I'll start it off as a blog and, perhaps, create a new page if/when it warrants it.

There used to be a time when I thought that my father's generation must have been the most privileged since time began because they had witnessed such diversity in their own lifetime. He was born just before WW1 - at a time when a horse and cart was the normal mode of transport. Few of his contemporaries could have imagined that, by the time they passed away, almost every family in the United Kingdom would own a car, air travel would be commonplace, and man would have stood on the moon.

Recently, however, I have begun to form the opinion that my own generation has been even more fortunate - because, impressive though the changes were during my father's lifetime, perhaps the most significant of them occurred after I was born (just before WW2). Furthermore, many of the conditions which were in evidence when he was young, still existed when I was a child. For instance, the horse and cart was still an everyday form of transport. Even in towns and cities, a fair proportion of goods and services were still being delivered by this means and, in some areas (large ports, for example) commercial vehicles powered by steam were still more common than those with diesel or internal combustion engines which operate nowadays.

Since those times, almost all forms of transport have developed beyond anything which might have been imagined when my dad was a lad. The improvements have been so profound that singling one example out wouldn't serve any purpose from the point of view of the argument I'm putting forward. That is to say, the advances made during the second half of the last century were far more significant than the first. So, perhaps, after all, it may be reasonable to assume that my generation have experienced more changes than any other - up to now.

Turning, now, to other examples (apart from transport) - and speaking on a purely personal level - as I was evacuated to a comparatively remote region during the war, my own experiences of change have been rather more extreme than for many. For instance, my grandparents' smallholding in north Wales didn't have access to mains water until the late forties - which was about the same time as they were connected to The National Grid electricy system. As a consequence, night-time illumination for my cousin and I was provided by paraffin lamps or candles and we were required to collect water from a well several times a day.

So far as I can recall, this water was used, primarily, for cooking - whereas rainwater (collected in large barrels underneath almost every available drainpipe) was used for washing purposes. I have vivid memories of the kitchen being stripped bare each Monday morning and the women in the family doing the weekly wash at one end of the room and my grandfather churning milk to make butter at the other end (to this day, although not to everyone's taste, llaeth enwyn remains a particular favourite drink of mine) and my cousin and I, with a bucket in each hand, were constantly (or so it seemed) running down to the well before trudging back up again.

Finally, I realise it's asking the bleeding obvious - but, why on earth are wells always located at the bottom of hills? It would be far easier to carry an empty bucket up a hill than a full one.

More to follow....

 
Memory Lane 02/27/2010
 

A recent series of posts on Twitter developed into a conversation and I'm not sure if that is what it (Twitter) is intended to provide. A Blog, however, is more flexible; so, I'll continue.....

I had been discussing matters relating to Liverpool Football Club with a chap who, since he is a season ticker holder, I had concluded was obviously a man of good taste. Although somewhat younger than me, he was clearly familiar with the history of the club and mentioned two or three players from the past - in particular, a centre-forward called Albert Stubbins - and this reminded me of an incident during my childhood in the city soon after the end of WW2 - and which I've concealed for over sixty years.

Although, my parents arranged for me to join the choir in a local C of E church in Liverpool after the war, I was raised in my mother's chapel-going, Welsh-speaking, community in north Wales and it would be hard to deny the fact that I wasn't the most consciencious Anglican chorister in the world. In fact, I had worked out that Evensong usually took just about the same length of time as it would take to catch a bus into the town centre, stroll down to The Pier Head, catch a ferry across The Mersey and back home again. Furthermore, it cost exactly the same amount of money that I had been given to place in the collection tray (which was sixpence - in old money, by the way).

What has prompted me to make this confession (religious pun unintentional) was the fact that, on one of these occasions, I happened to catch sight of Mr. Stubbins - who, like me, was watching an escape artist - one of many street entertainers who could be seen in those days. When he (the footballer, not the escape artist) left the bomb-site where the 'show' had been taking place, like the star-struck child I must have been, I followed him for several minutes until he 'disappeared' into what I suspect may have been a pub. It would be difficult to imagine a modern footballer being so accessible to the public.