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Thinking On Thoughts
by Val Atkinson
Article ID: 27, First Published: June 2005A friend once took students for a walk then asked them to write an account of the event. None were the same or even remotely similar.
As a teacher my friend had watched how they walked, their awareness of surroundings, and their interaction with walking companions.
STUDENTS WROTE OF:
The weather and a visual description of the journey
Group camaraderie
Memories evoked while walking down familiar streets
Beauties of park and wild life
Traffic problems
Sky colour/cloud formation
EVERYONE LEARNED THAT:
People see things through their own eyes
Though all experience the same physical journey, individual awareness and thoughts are unique
Many children experienced a childhood in the North East England of the 1950’s, so if you’re looking for something profound, press ‘delete’. If you’re in the mood for nostalgia, dreams, memories and unique thoughts, read on.
In the 1950’s every Dad worked in the shipyards. All Dads had jobs and all Mams stayed at home. Seven days work a week meant £8 and a ‘flat’ week was £3.
7AM: GREAT EXODUS’ when Doors opened and slammed as workers hurried to the yard gates
7.30AM: HOOTERS announced the start of work.
7.40AM: GATES LOCKED: Late arrivals lost half a day’s pay and had to be let in by the gate man. Everyone got up by the hooters. Each shipyard had its own, and the noise was deafening even from a distance. The men wore a ‘uniform’ of leftovers from the war: army beret and greatcoat. All carried haversacks, and billy cans to heat tea.
12 NOON: THE GREAT HOMECOMING: To a man they came home No one had packed lunches in those days. Packed lunches were what we ate on the beach in the Summer.
We always had dessert, which was often custard, so that for years I thought all desserts were called ‘custard’ even when they were rice pudding, semolina, spotted dick or syrup sponge.
We were never asked what we wanted for dinner. It was dished up and eaten (no nonsense) even if we didn’t like it. Likes and dislikes didn’t influence menus.
Mam mashed turnip in with potatoes, which I hated, but that was the weekly cross I had to bear, and bear it I did (every Tuesday if I remember rightly!).
After dinner we positioned ourselves strategically on the doorstep to get a penny when Dad climbed over us to be away before the 1pm hooter.
We went to see ships launched at Readhead’s where Dad had worked since his 1946 demob. I thought he was in charge of the whole thing the same as at home. The launches were great celebrations with crowds there to cheer the ship away, and we waved at tiny figures high up on the deck, not knowing which one was Dad, but pretending we did.
One launch I remember well was the ‘Apollon’ in 1957. She was huge and could be seen way above houses and buildings as we walked down Reed Street to the yard.
A ‘half shift’ overtime meant one of us would go to the shop for a loaf from the noon baking. We waited as the bread came out, and brought it home wrapped in tissue paper.
Mam cut thick slices and put boiled egg in straight away so the hot egg mingled with the bread, and melted the butter the way Dad liked it. He always had the same sandwiches for his half shift, and came home after our bedtime.
Sometimes he brought off cuts of wood for the fire (very illegal, but most men did it, and found ways to get past the gate men who watched the departing workers).
There was quite a contraband traffic of all sorts of this and that, but Dad only brought wood. The time I leaned on the fireguard (which wasn’t there) is a ‘burning’ memory of splintering wood, sparks, and scorched backside.
He used leather patches to repair our shoes, and when he finished we wriggled our feet to check no nails were sticking up. Sometimes they came through later: agonising!
1950’s parents never had baths because they were never dirty!
We bathed once a week (Whether we needed it or not!) in a tin contraption that hung on the back door. Water was heated on the gas stove in a huge iron bucket, and all of us got in together with our knees to our chins. We were washed and dried one at a time, so every once in a while we had a turn at stretching out for a precious five minutes.
Mam washed on Monday using water heated in the ‘bath’ bucket. She soaked the clothes then rubbed them up and down on the ridged porcelain sink, squeezed them out by hand, and took them to the cellar where there was a huge ‘mangle’.
She ‘mangled’ them (put them through the wringer) then hung them in the back yard to dry. The occasion I jammed my finger in the mangle while feeding the sheets through is a separate (bloody/ squashy) painful episode.
We were lucky to have a large back yard. Some families had to hang washing in the back lane and take it down every time the bin men, coal men, or rag men shouted.
I HAVE A THOUSAND THINGS TO SAY.
WHY DO I WANT TO SAY THEM?
BECAUSE:
Quiet ordinary tales become extraordinary when viewed from the distance of years.
No moment is ordinary, they’re all special
I want you to remember your uncomplicated past, glory in it, and write it down as your ‘never ending story’, your eternal record.
No one in this world is quite like you, and your nostalgia is unique.
AND PERHAPS MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL:
Family history is anecdotes and nostalgia that generate facts and eventually crystallise in a desire to discover the past.
