Various Anecdotes
I wonder if one of you can help me. I am trying to remember the reason why my mother would have got the local council road repair-man to grab me by the ankles when I was about two or three and dangle me over a boiling tar-pot. It's my earliest memory I think and I seem to remember seeing or hearing many years ago that it was quite common for children to go through this trauma because it had some benefit to the lungs!.
Hi Stan
The others are quite right about the tar fumes.
I still have a slight chest problem even now from a particularly bad case of measles during the war at age seven. No vaccine for measles way back then. It soon became a ritual at home, as soon as my cough started up it was head under towel over jug of very hot water with some special 'coal tar' liquid in it from the chemists. On bad days I remember actually asking for it, it did open up the airways and make breathing much less difficult and definitely less painful. I understand it is still used by some today to ease chest problems.
A lot of those old remedies are coming back.
But being held up by your ankles and dangled over a Tar Pot, by a road repairman (a total stranger) at such a tender age, is hopefully a thing of the past.
Still we have to remember life was a lot more difficult then. Then our parents must have had to take advantage of anything that presented itself, however traumatic we saw it to be, if they were convinced it would be good for us.
Margaret (Perth-Western Australia)
TTFN
I remember our lecture on sex, VD and contraception during basic training with the Royal Warwicks was given by an Education Officer, a second lieutenant aged about 19. Among the audience were two old soldiers , one about 40 with 5 kids and the other somewhat younger with 3. Their comments, which were expressed loudly so that all might hear, had to be heard to be believed. I don't believe I've ever seen anyone more red-faced and embarrassed than that officer. He was never allowed to address us on anything again.
The only drink I remember wose than army tea was the cocoa that we received at supper, often accompanied by beetroot sandwiches. The beets were grown somewhere in the barracks, and had to be used up.
What about Skipper, Boy's Own Paper, Triumph, Mickey Mouse Weekly, Tiger Tim's weekly and The Children's Newspaper for magazines.
Some of my favorite books were the Swallows and Amazons series. Several of these were serialized on the BBC Children's Hour. As well as Biggles I loved all the Just William books. How much more apart of our lives books were before TV. Do any of you remember Radio Luxemburg on long wave radio.
It was the only way British advertisers could be heard on the radio. Auntie BBC didn't allow commercials and they were the only people licensed to broadcast in Britain. I especially remember The Ovaltinies Show, with its weekly secret message from the Chief Ovaltinie. I can remember still the jingles from this, the Beetox Hour and the Littlewoods football pool shows. Do you remember the little lead (or probably zinc alloy) toys given away in Bournvita tins.?
You must all remember Rupert the Bear, who is making a comeback in Britain and the US at this very moment.
Ralph.
Speaking of pranks and mischief... There was a very brief period of time when our mother had an evening job at Pascal's, the famous sweet factory, that was within an easy walk of our house. We were used to having a full-time mother, 24 hours a day, so this venture of hers was made over strong protests from her children. We threatened to report her to the Society for The Prevention of Cruelty to Children. We were joking, of course, but that's about how strongly we felt that Mum belonged at home with her family during the evening, not out earning herself a little pin money. We hated having her not there with us, and could hardly wait for 9:30, when she returned to the fold. I usually walked to meet her as she came home.
One evening, for a lark, I dressed in some of Dad's theatrical "scruffy old man" outfit, blacked my face well with soot, to make it look like a day-old beard, pulled the cap low over my face, the scarf high around my chin, and went out into the darkness to meet her. Dad was not aware of all this.
When I saw Mum and another woman in the distance I started shuffling along in what I thought was a convincing manner, though exaggerated enough for them to know that something was up. As they approached, I saw them exchange nudges, so I thought they had recognized me. Then, when they walked by, staring straight ahead, I figured that they had decided to play along and pretend not to know me. So, playing it to the hilt, I turned around and followed at a short distance. At the end of our road, Mum's friend went on, and Mum turned into our road.
When I saw her glance quickly over her shoulder, I still thought she was going along with the silly joke, and I hurried to follow her more closely. When she walked faster, so did I, thumping my walking stick down heavily at every step, following almost close enough to breathe down her neck. Mum's short legs were now moving as fast as they could possibly go.
And so we went, all the way up to our house, where Mum pushed open the gate and rushed to the front door, ringing the bell and knocking, both at the same time. She wasn't aware that I had followed her through the gate. Dad opened the door, and Mum stumbled, almost fell, into his arms.
"Oh Fred" she said breathlessly, "There's a funny old man following...." and then she looked around and saw me right behind her. "Oooer!" she gasped in horror, and almost fell into a dead faint. I shall never forget the look of shock and terror on her face. It was only then that I realized that Mum hadn't a clue that the weird old chap was her daughter, and I was filled with remorse. All I could think was, what if she had dropped from a heart attack right there? It could so easily have happened.
Dad made Mum a good old cup of sweet tea, and I went sheepishly off to remove my dress-up togs for ever. Both she and Dad were sweet, though, as they never tried to make me feel more foolish or guilty than I felt already.
Frances, in California
"Copyright Frances R. Pullen"Hi Gerry, thanks for the message, no I was not evacuated to Northern Ireland, my parents sent me to live with my Grandfather and Aunt on the family farm. It was great, no electricity, running water or telephone, but 171 acres, an old horse called Sammy that I could ride and five miles from the seaside resort Bangor! Life has gone downhill ever since!
Regards, BrianThe street where I grew up, during and after the war, had a varied collection of residents. We had all sorts; the local shoe repair man, school teachers, a greengrocer, bank manager, piano teacher, and so on.
One of the most interesting neighbors was a marvelous character named Mr. Bowery, known and tolerated as the local mental case. He wore a scruffy beard, a battered trilby hat, and a wild-eyed expression. Rumor had it that he had been a university professor at one time, until too much learning had made him go funny in the head. Now that gave us school children something to ponder!
He was harmless enough, and liked to stand by his gate to engage passersby in lengthy one-sided philosophical conversations, enlivened by his energetic gesticulations, which all made perfect sense to Mr. Bowery but left his hearers more confused than ever. I have no idea what he talked about, but I guess he considered these sessions his intellectual contribution to the neighborhood. When he was holding court at the gate, most people tried to avoid these entanglements by crossing to the other side of the road and politely waving from a distance.
Mr. Bowery also left his mark on the pavements, by circling dog droppings with chalk. As it wasn't against the law then to allow dogs to run loose, dog droppings were a common sight, so it behooved us all to tread with caution. Unfortunately, there were no "pooper-scooper" bylaws either, so in indignation and with a flourish Mr. B. would draw a circle around each pile, adding arrows and exclamation marks. While this did nothing to shame the local canines or their owners, it certainly helped the rest of us arrive home with unsullied shoes.
Mr. Bowery proved himself to be an accomplished pianist when we had a street party to celebrate the end of the war. Dad and Uncle Fred rolled our piano out onto the pavement and dear batty Mr. B. surprised everyone by settling himself at the keyboard, where he proceeded to belt out tunes with foot-stomping gusto, binding us all together with music and song: "It's a Long Way to Tipperary," "Pack up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile." "Roll Out the Barrel," "Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line," "Tah Rah Rah Boomdeay," and so on.
Bless his heart. I've often wondered what became of him in later years.
Hi Ralph,
Yes, Ralph, I remember the Festival of Britain. Our headmistress stressed that as the Festival is put on every 100 years, we weren't likely to be around for the next one, so we'd better make the most of this one. My high school class went together, and I have a little Brownie box camera photo of the three teachers who went with us. There is the Dome of Discovery in the background, as well as the Skylon. The photo is double-exposed, but it's dear to me. The only other photo I have from that day is an equally small one of a row of girls from my school, balancing their bottoms along a narrow ledge under some railings. They are all clad in white ankle socks, and "civvies" (no uniform required that day), and all intent on unwrapping the sandwiches on their laps, so it's hard to tell who's who. If I'd known that about 45 years later I'd be thousands of miles way, wishing that I could remember better, I'd have undoubtedly posed everyone nicely before taking pictures!
(Speaking of remembering better, in the movie Avalon, 1990, Sam Krichinsky [Armin Mueller Stahl], now in an old folks home, reminisces about his life. He talks about visiting the neighborhood of his younger days and finding that many streets and buildings have changed, and some are no longer there at all. Sam says wistfully "If I knew that things would no longer be, I would have tried to remember better." How true! That line moved me to the core.)
Did you eat the wonderful sausages grilled on a barbecue, sold as "American Hot Dogs"? They were not at all the hot dogs that I discovered later in USA, as they were fat and spicy -- more like a German sausage. But they were delicious. That was the first time I'd heard the expression "hot dogs," or eaten anything cooked over charcoal.
Frances
"Copyright Frances R. Pullen"Hello Frances, I don't remember hot dogs at the Festival but I do rememberEnglish hamburgers at Wimpey"s. What a difference when I tasyted my first American burger at ,what was then, Idlewilde airport in New Youkin June 1963. I was over on my fellowship when Kennedy was assassinated. In fact I was the first person in TVA at Muscle Shoals to hear about it. I'd gone home for lunch and heard it on the car radio on my way back to work. The first remark anyone made was "thank got it didn't happen here in Alabama!"
Hi Guys, The only thing that I remember about the Festival of Britain, was that my friends and I were doing our National Service then (1952). We (dressed in our best uniforms, battledresses and trousers well pressed, boots gleaming) went to the Festival along with my late brother Norman. The queue to get in was very long, but that didn't bother Norman (or us for that matter). We went right to the front of the queue, Norman made some lame excuse and we walked in. A lot of people gave us dirty looks, but no one said anything or made any protestations about our pushing in.
Could you imagine a crowd of New Yorkers putting up with that nonsense? We would have been lynched.
Cheers,Greetings one & all, Were any of you guys or gals members of the "Brussels Sprouts." I was for about 4 years. My reason for bringing this up is because I'm writing a speech about Cockney Rhyming slang that I shall deliver to my Toastmaster Club in a couple of months. I've thought of the following terms: Brussels sprouts Apple & pears Bull & cow Taters Trouble & strife Take the micky Round the Johnny orner Whistle & flute Daisy roots
Can you think of any others? I know there are hundreds more.
Ta ever so,
Gerry (off to the big apple in the morning) Wiseman
Gerry Wiseman
Gerry - the CD sounds perfect for nostalgics! I'll keep an eye open for it, though not very hopeful that I'll see one.
Here's a thought, though, about something you said: Don't you think that we ex-pats feel glad to live where we live, mainly because we've put down roots in our adopted lands? I tend to think that. I'm sure that if I'd never left England, and had found a delightful place to live (as my brothers have, in Cornwall) I'd be just as contented to live there as I am to live in California.
If I hadn't emigrated when I did (when young) I might enjoy a visit to USA without feeling that life in USA is to be envied in any way. In fact, I hear of many UK visitors to USA who wouldn't change places for anything. I guess we all learn to bloom where we are planted (or transplanted), which is a good thing, really. What do you think?
Have a good week!
"Copyright Frances R. Pullen"