Remembering Street Markets !!
One of the things that I miss about London is going to the many street markets. Market going was a regular weekend ritual of mine. Saturday mornings I'd go to the kingsland Rd. "waste" in Dalston and browse all the stalls. I seldom bought anything but loved to shmooze around.
Sunday morning would usually find me either at Petticoat Lane, or at Club Row, near Brick Lane.
At Petticoat Lane, I loved the colorful vendors selling their wares such as Spanish Damiana (I never found out what it was for), the wonderful kitchen gadgets that would never work right once you got them home, the combination knife/scissors sharpener/ glasss cutter that was useless too, etc. etc. Dad would sometimes by these labour saving devices for Mum, but of course, she would never use them.
Of course, who could forget the escape artist who, enclosed in a straight jacket and wrapped in chains would make his escape, after the crowd had contributed enough change to the hat being proffered by one of his assistants.
I also enjoyed the sounds & smells of the markets, and always try to visit at least one market every time I'm back in London.
When I was a youngster, there was one particular guy who used to fascinate me. He didn't have a stall, but would sell out of a suitcase. He used to sell conjuring tricks, and although I knew how all the tricks were done since I'd watched him many times, I still regularly stood there in the crowd around him. He would get an audience member to put his initials (it was almost always an entirely male crowd around him) on a half crown. After a lot of mumbojumbo that coin would be found in the innermost of three small, square, nested tins all of them tightly secured with rubber bands. He would make handkerchiefs disappear. He was very good. Then he would show the croud how the trick was done and sell it.
I once bought the disappearing hanky trick. It consisted of a short, small wooden tube that was plugged at one end, and had a piece of elastic attached at that end. You would secure one end of the elastic to the braces button on the back of your trousers, stretch it around to your front and palm the tube in your hand. You would then ask for a hanky, stuff it into your hand and the tube, wave your hand, the elastic would snap the cup & hanky behind you, and you would show the audience that it had disappeared. It was fun.
I could go on and on with more market stories, but will save them for another time.
What do you miss about the old country? Let's talk about it!
Gerry Wiseman
Hi everyone!
Reading Gerry's latest message reminded me of two things: The first was my love of London markets, including one of my favourites, Shepherd's Bush market, as well as a new market that I only recently discovered on my visits back to London, ie Wembley market, which is held in the carpark opposite the stadium (you would know about that, William); and the second is my first encounter with a conjurer when I was about five or six years of age.
There was something special about street markets. I always felt as if I had purchased a real bargain, when in actual fact I was probably diddled out of my money. We have good markets in Canberra and Sydney, some of which are quite large, but there is always something missing from them, I think it is because the people behind the stalls do not have cockney accents, and they don't seem to be quite as lively as the people in London.
My experience with a conjurer occurred when I was at a Christmas party organised for the children in my first school. The school was in the grounds of the new Wardour Castle in Wiltshire, which was owned by the Arundel family, and the party may have been organised by them. The party was held in the ballroom of Wardour Castle (a very plush venue!) and included a conjurer. He was doing all sorts of simple tricks, much to the delight of the kids, when suddenly he came up to me, placed his hand behind my ear, and produced half-a-crown. I remember being absolutely fascinated and amazed at this, but couldn't understand why I wasn't able to keep the money. After all, if it had come from my ear, so I should have been able to claim ownership.
Eileen Roberts
Hi Y'all As I mentioned recently, I have more stories to tell of the London street markets.
When I was about 11 or 12, I dearly wanted to have a pet mouse, and I decided that I would go to Club row the next Sunday & buy one. I knew better than to ask my Mum if it would be OK, her answer would have been an unequivocal NO!
I acquired a cigar box to house it, and got a length of that white hairy string that we used to tie up packages with. I punched some air holes in the cigar box, and unraveled the string for my pet's bedding. I even divided the box in half so that it would have a bedroom.
Bright & early that Sunday I boarded the 557 trolleybus which took me to Shoreditch, then I walked the few blocks to the market. For those of you who've never had the pleasure of a Sunday morning excursion to Club Row, I must explain that in those days (& perhaps still for all I know) it was mainly a place to buy pets. People would stand in the street with litters of kittens, puppies, rabbits, goldfish, day old chicks, and so on.
Besides the pet section, the whole area was one huge flea mkt. Much of the neighborhood had been severely bombed, and as you probably recall, the bombed sites were usually surrounded by a 4 ft.? brick wall. Vendors of bits & pieces & odds & ends would get there fairly early, climb over the low wall and stand on the far side. They would stand next to each other shoulder to shoulder and one had to get there by about 8AM to find a spot. They'd usually peddle their wares out of a suitcase, or the regulars would bring some kind of a small platform which they balanced on top of the wall. There was no fee for using the wall.
For me, The fun part of going to this market was that I never knew what interesting stuff I would happen across.
I quickly found the man who sold mice, hamsters, white rats and various & sundry other rodents and picked out a small, white, female mouse which I immediately named Brenda. Paid my 9d and carefully slipped her into the cigar box, her new home.
I smuggled Brenda into the flat and put her cigar box apartment on the window ledge of my bedroom with several books on top to weigh down the lid.
Next day I took my new friend to school and went around the classroom showing her off. I went up to one of the girls who had her back to me & tapped her on the shoulder, look at this I said. She turned around & as it happened, she wasn't one of my classmates, but a new young student teacher. "Get that thing out of here" she ordered, "we have enough of them running loose in the school as it is." Chagrinned, I put the mouse in my desk drawer.
When I got home from school the following afternoon, my Mother gave me hell. "What do you mean by bringing that thing home?" she demanded, "you have to get rid of it right away". "But Mum" I protested, "I paid 9d for it, at least let me keep it till next Sunday, I'll take it back to Club Row & ask the man to buy it back." To this she agreed, but insisted that I keep it in the bathroom underneath the bathtub.
My Dad and brothers & sister were really quite amused by my exploit, and every time some visitor came to our flat; the first thing that they were shown was Gerald's new pet.
I should tell you that in those days I refused to answer to the name Gerry, since I was sometimes called Gerry-under-the-bed by my enemies.
A few days later, with a heavy heart I took Brenda back to the rodent merchant who, after listening to my tale of woe, agreed to buy the mouse back for 6d, so I only lost 3d on the deal. Not too bad for a week's worth of fun.
Does this mouse tail (sorry about that) bring back any old memories for you?
Gerry Wiseman
Enjoyed your mouse story, Gerald! Could picture it all.
The memory it jogged for me was the white mouse my brother brought home, complete with small cage. I have no idea where he acquired these -- probably swapped something else for them (he being the King of Swaps).
Anyway, the pretty little creature was relegated to the outdoors -- on top on the covered water butt. This had a few neighborhood cats sitting on the fence licking their chops, as they watched its antics in the cage.
Well, the mouse grew. And grew. And grew. And grew. Becoming less pretty and more sinister-looking, the larger it got. Finally, Dad came in, folded his arms, cleared his throat, and announced "That mouse is a rat, Geoff." I think Geoff was already beginning to suspect something like that.
By next day, rat and cage were gone, though we three youngsters were not quite sure where. Eventually, truth came out; Uncle Fred from next door had drowned the poor critter in the water butt.
Frances
"Copyright Frances R. Pullen"I' ve been away from home so am catching up on my mail, hence the delay. My story is not of a mouse but a hamster, which was given to me . It lived happliy in the cage I made and finally after a couple of years died in the November. It was buried in the garden with much ceremony and was almost forgotten. One day next spring the family were astounded to find a hamster running in the house. Where had it come from? I was closely interrogated. Close inspection found it to be the one we had buried. Was this a case of resurrection? No, nothing so dramatic. That's how I found that hamsters hibernate. At the time it was pretty scary.-----
Ralph Worthington
Hello all,
It's interesting that so many other people have childhood rodents stories, isn't it?
You will probably recall that I recently talked about smells that brought back memories, & also wrote about the markets. Well this is a combo, 2 for the price of one - story.
When we lived near "The Lane," my mother used to go there most Fridays and buy a freshly slaughtered, kosher chicken. For those of you not into the ins & outs of kosher laws, I'll give you an abbreviated lesson.
In order for a bird or animal to be considered kosher, a number of ritual laws must be observed, some of which are: it must have had split hooves i.e cattle, sheep, goats, no pork; of course. The animal must have been healthy, not having had any diseases, and must have been dispatched in the most humane way that is by having its throat cut by a ritual slaughterer, called a shoichet, and all its blood must be drained out. Also the meat to be salted to draw out all remaining blood, plus it had to be sold within (I think but could be wrong on this point) no longer than about 24 hours after being killed.
I was really grossed out by the chicken sellers. They would have several dozen bloodstained dead birds hanging upside down like obscene bouquets from hooks in their stalls, and the smell was incredibly bad.
Mum would buy one for Friday night's dinner, take it home in her little folding 2 wheeled shopping cart, pluck it, and then singe its pin feathers with our gas poker (remember them?) That smell of burned feathers was enough to make one throw up. Then she would cut the chicken open and calmly remove its insides. I could not stay in the kitchen while she was dong this, it was more than my tender stomach could stomach. But boy, the things she could do with those chicken parts was magical.
She always made soup, of course. She also made the noodles and the matzo balls from scratch . I've never had chicken soup that was as scrumptious as my dear mother could make, and those matzo balls (called canadeluch in Yiddish) would melt in your mouth. But, I suppose we all loved mum's cooking, didn't we?
Gerry Wiseman
Fun to read the market memories! I have to confess that as a child I hated markets, and was glad we didn't shop in one often. I'm not sure why, except that the general atmosphere made me feel uncomfortable. Sounds as though I was a little snob of sorts, doesn't it?
If so, I've now reformed, for I enjoy visiting Farmers Markets, the general American equivalent.
Tooting market, where we sometimes shopped, offered live shiny black eels tying themselves into loose knots in a shallow tank of water, and dead gray rabbits hung upside down from black hooks to be skinned in one or two deft motions by a bored man with fearfully sharp little knife. After they were rendered stark naked, the man used the same knife to pop the eyes out of their sockets, and then sent them flying them with a backwards flick of his wrist. The bench behind him was covered with little unseeing black eyes. Enough to give an animal-loving child nightmares.
I loved rabbit stew with its chunks of tender chicken-like meat that seemed mercifully quite unrelated to those hideous carcasses in the market, or the cute little animals we sometimes saw hopping about in the country. Mum bought our meat from the local butcher, who sold only cutup rabbit meat, and I was glad she never brought home one of those little naked upside down bodies from the market, for I'm sure I could never have enjoyed it.
Your description of the chickens being cleaned by your mother, Gerry, reminded me of the first postwar Christmas when we actually had a turkey, bought from a turkey-raising pal of Uncle Fred next door. Only one thing had been removed from the bird; its head. So it was up to us to pull the feathers from the outside and the guts and gizzards from the inside. Plucking was simple and quite fun, but Mum wasn'tat all sure about turkey insides. She took a little peek, shuddered "ooer," then called in Uncle Fred to do the disemboweling, which we kids found morbidly interesting -- though disgusting enough for me to consider for a moment the idea of a vegetarian lifestyle.
Although whoever got the poultry wishbone always acted triumphant and made a big to-do of pulling it apart with someone to see who got a wish, I was never the one. Because the finders always seemed amazed at their luck of discovery, I assumed for years that the wishbone site was a random thing, unpredictably located and quite unrelated to bird anatomy.
Frances
"Copyright Frances R. Pullen"Hi all, I always enjoyed going to the Coventry market as a kid. It was part covered and part outdoor, behind the main shopping street with the entrance through an arcade beside Woolworths. I'll bet Jim remembers it. I always enjoyed the food stalls best. they exuded such gorgeous smells. At the time we could rarely afford such delights , but ahh, the aromas. Ayear or two before the war, Dad got a job and we were able to partake of such delights as pork pies ( why, oh why, can't you get one in the US? Even if we go to Canada and buy one in Marks and Sparks, the customs, or rather the Dept of Ag., won't let you bring it onto the sacred soil.) and roast pork buns with sage and onion stuffing. Even better, on the way through the arcade you had to pass Elizabeth's bakery and Mum would get me my very favourite cream puff bun, made of choux pastry and FILLED with real whipped cream. My mouth waters now at the thought. They were so much bigger than any I've seen since, or it just my aging memory playing tricks?
Not a market as such was the annual Crock Fair, held on either Stoke Green or Hearsall common. I loved to go with my parents and sister after dark with all the oil and acetylene lamps lit. So much more exciting than electric lights! I especially loved the patter of the stallholders, once they had gathered a large crowd. The would offer a huge selection of crockery starting at say, five pounds and gradually keep adding more and dropping the price till they would offer the lot for say, seven and six.
Thena feeding frenzie would start in the crowd, so that even the numerous assistants were overwhelmed with buyers. I've often wondered since how much the crocks were really worth. Still the fair returned every year and travelled all over the Midlands and North, so folks must have been satisfied. as the same faces showed up every time. I don't believe that this was a Southern, or London, phenomenon , I guess you had all those markets.
By the way I'm trying to leave a record for my kids, so far 30+ pages and I'm only at age eight or nine. As I only type with one finger, it's a real time consuming labour of love.
Keep the tales flowing.
Ralph Worthington
"...........I'll bet Jim remembers it." I certainly do. It was always a favourite spot even after the war. I particularly remember, before the war, my father taking me every saturday night to the market hall, a large covered building with a clock tower.
My special treat were the American comics, the funnies from the US papers which he bought for me. Next to the market was a pub entered through an entry in the wall of the market .It was known as "the Hole in the Wall".
After going through the market and having a "batch" dipped in pork fat (sorry Gerry) we would go to the pub and my dad would buy me a lemonade. My dad was a great sportsman but he hurt his knee so he confined himself to darts, crib, snooker and lawn bowls. I followed in his footsteps except for bowls. I remember at age nine he started me on boxing lessons at a working men's club. There were some pretty tough guys around and I was terrified.
-- Cheers...Jim Elks...