In A Small Seaside Town
I've never really been one for routine but when my kids were young there was one I positively looked forward to, picking up my weekly bread from the bakers on a Wednesday.
Maybe that's why Wednesday was always baking day, I'm not sure, but it was always less of a routine and more of a pleasure bordering on luxury.
The doughy warm atmosphere in the baker's, particularly early in the morning, was like an onshore breeze bearing me to a haven of memories, a breath from the past.
1950's memories from Scotland by Katherine Carington Smith is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 UK: Scotland License.
Based on a work at www.squidoo.com.
The 1950's in a small seaside town in Scotland.
The Co-op bakery and the wood panelled tearoom beyond, tiers of scones and cakes, plates of neatly cut triangles of soft white bread, curls of butter and strawberry jam in pots with spoons, neat white tablecloths and Mrs. Taylor ... "coo-ee, over here". The delights on the shelves behind the glass could only be guessed at, being too high for such a small child to look upon.
White card boxes, deftly tied with string making loop handles to carry home, not knowing the contents, the anticipation of a magic casket not to be opened: its treasures not discussed before it was conveyed into the safety of the cottage castle and its string lock carefully undone to be saved inside the kitchen drawer with the paper bags.
To loud applause the cover would be raised on strawberry tarts or French fancies, chocolate éclairs, cream filled pleasures, oh joy! for a pineapple cream sponge ... meringues, oh my.
The walk home
Step out of the Co-op baker's shop, turn left and make your way through one of the narrow passageways off the High Street, with signs set at right-angles above doorways on iron poles, advertising the presence of smaller shops to the main thoroughfare by swinging and squealing in the draught which bore the swell of salt and sand from a mile or so away.
Skipping down the wynd to the lane where my Grandparent's cottage sits, past the wash house at the end of the long garden with its huge tub and the laundry sticks whitened with use in the vat of boiling sheets: sheets whiter than the clouds scudding across the morning, they flap and crack on the washing line, hoist high above the green, and the smells of soap and linen fill the World.
Like the sails of a great ship passing along the garden wall, they catch the wind and my imagination. Close your eyes and listen for the creaking of the old wooden clothes poles and the rope amid the noise of the white sails luffing.
Down to the beach
Down to the sea and the sandy beach we go, early in the day when the tide is out, exposing the nets hung below high water, where we can watch the tractor thread its way along an unmarked track across the far sand (where we dare not walk) collecting huge fish - silver scales gleaming in the morning light, the biggest fish I've ever seen, almost as long as the fisherman gathering this harvest of the sea is tall.Sometimes he has considerable difficulty clambering over the nets carrying the weight of the catch and at other times he winds gracefully and skilfully among the ropes and posts, filling his creel with the smaller catches, bringing them all down to load the trailer.
Wind fresh in our hair, sand running between our toes, we trace the high water mark with its tangle of seaweed, looking for treasure and finding it every time.
A particularly colourful shell, a fragment of rose quartz torn from a cliff face somewhere unknown, a cork float lost by a fisherman, crabs pincers and mother of pearl and who knows what may be found on another tide.
Memories of seaside holidays
Memories of seaside holidays spent by the side of a small soft round grandmother, homely in her floral pinny and pink framed bottle-thick glasses behind which her half-blind eyes looked tiny: surgical stockings wrinkled at the ankles and vast pink flannelette knickers, bloomers ballooning in the breeze like twin windsocks on the line. Visitations from Great Aunt Ruby, her thin silver hair plaited and pinned around her head, framing her porcelain face, fine lined and pale as the china cups whose tea-leaves she read in her thin silver voice, the filigree images instantly visible and sensible under her gaze.Grandad marching down the garden, the sergeant major he never was, great chest puffed out, pausing to pass slowly along the ranks of potatoes and runner beans which stand to attention for their daily inspection. The odd stray straggling weed is hauled out in front of his men, instantly court martialled and executed: the occasional violet or marigold seedling which has wandered into their quarters unnoticed receives quite different treatment, being most delicately transplanted to a far more suitable environment and watered in with tender care.
His own domain, pathways of shells gathered a pocket at a time, edged with worn stones, full of quartz gems and pearly surprises, where he grows flowers for his lady but she appreciates the vegetables more. He so romantic, she so practical with never the time for his attentions, he dotes on her, still so young at heart and so much in love after all those years.
My Grandmother was pretty once and though only a lowly kitchen maid, there was a haughtiness in her eyes in the old studio photographs, the coldness of one who knew her own beauty. She seems not to have noticed how the passing years had left their mark in the mirror, seems to believe in the power of her beauty even now and, I'm certain, in his eyes she is so still.
Coming down the close he'll be whistling 'Danny Boy' and the kettle will go on the gas. Always a kiss for my Grandmother from her big gentle lamb who rang the church bell with such vigour, calling in the faithful to worship and put the power of his lungs to fine use, his strong voice in the body of the congregation adding a dimension of depth to their praise.
Inside the cottage
Come with me into my Grandparents' cottage, through the old twin doors, and wander each low-ceilinged room, touching the fireside chairs, opening the press and smelling the cheese, reading the labels on the assorted jars of home made jam and there, on the shelf, the two brand new blue and white ringed mugs, pint and half-pint, in which Grandad makes me a warming drink with such mystique and ceremony it was bound to taste like nectar, rich dark luxury, cocoa, made properly.
Smell the familiar mustiness of the seldom used sitting room 'ben the hoose' with its dainty ornaments and china in the glass shelved display cabinet, hear the mellow tick of the old chiming clock which sits on the mantelpiece, above it hangs a large, hand-tinted photographic print of an ancestor's family and in the window there, pot plants on the wide sill.
Behind this room is the spare bedroom, neat and peaceful with the faint scent of mothballs in the slight dampness of the blankets and quilt above the starched linen sheets. On the linoleum floor, too cold for bare feet newly drawn from under the covers, a rag rug, made by my Grandmother, to protect the toes until they boarded the slippers anchored at its side.
My Grandparents' bedroom is off the kitchen, door always shut fast, rarely ventured into by me but its airless sweatiness spills through when the door is opened. In the spare bedroom you can hear them snoring all night long, loud and soft, through the paper-thin walls.
After two or three nights of warming by the stone pig wrapped in a towel in the foot of the bed, the sheets will have softened and the blankets finished airing off, the mothball scent dissipates and the room is mine. My ribbons, hair bands and brush on the dressing table with its amber glass dishes and pretty set, fine crocheted, like lace, when my Grandmother's eyes were still sharp, my clothes in the drawers, my suitcase under the bed alongside the china 'pot' (the flush toilet is at the far end of the garden beside the wash house), my coat on the chair, shells, stones and notebook on the ottoman under the low window where I can sit, watching the street beyond, anonymous legs passing in the street where I was born.
Simple delights, simple pleasures, rich memories.
My Grandmother grew shorter as I grew taller until at the age of about fourteen I passed her in height. I have a faded postcard photograph of my Grandmother as a young girl of about fourteen years with her hair plaited down her back, when I copied the style it could have been me in the yellowing picture, perhaps that was one reason why I was a favourite with my Grandfather. He was a favourite with me always, I only have to close my eyes to see his face, ringed with white curls and the great bald patch on top I used to polish with my palms as he sat in his worn old leathercloth armchair with its velvet cushion and me more or less perched on his broad shoulder.
Photographs may fade but memories stay bright ... we only have to take them out and look at them every once in a while to keep them polished.
The photographs above
The lens picture is a photo taken in 1950 of two of my Great-Grandmothers. I never met either of them, both died in the two years after this pic was taken, the second passing a few months before I was born.
In the first module 'The 1950's in a small seaside town in Scotland' the photo is from 1953 and, yes, that's me.
The Walk home - my grandmother when she was about 16 years 0f age, 1911.
Memories of seaside holidays - my Grandad in 1938 when he worked as a milkman with a horse drawn cart. Her he is at the stables.
Inside the cottage - my Grandmother's brothers, sister and mother, photo taken approx 1910. This was not the photo which hung in the parlour, it was of the men in the family.
Simple delights, simple pleasures, rich memories. The photo here is of my Grandmother aged c 14 years when she first went into service.
In the first module 'The 1950's in a small seaside town in Scotland' the photo is from 1953 and, yes, that's me.
The Walk home - my grandmother when she was about 16 years 0f age, 1911.
Memories of seaside holidays - my Grandad in 1938 when he worked as a milkman with a horse drawn cart. Her he is at the stables.
Inside the cottage - my Grandmother's brothers, sister and mother, photo taken approx 1910. This was not the photo which hung in the parlour, it was of the men in the family.
Simple delights, simple pleasures, rich memories. The photo here is of my Grandmother aged c 14 years when she first went into service.
This lens belongs to ...
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0ctavia's Scotland
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This is 0ctavia's Scotland There will be more lenses added here as time goes on, I already have several more planned and, since there is so much to say about Scotland and the Scots, there is an enormous number of lenses to be made. If you like...
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- stargazer00 stargazer00 Jun 14, 2009 @ 12:15 am
- Really enjoyed reading about Scotland in the 50's.
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- GrowWear GrowWear Mar 10, 2009 @ 9:13 am
- Very proud to welcome this lens to the Memoirs Group.
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- roysumit roysumit Jan 27, 2009 @ 12:41 am
- A nice delightful lens rich with your memories. I loved the black & white photos particularly because black & whites are rare now a days. 5 *
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- rms rms Jan 26, 2009 @ 1:20 pm
- This lovely lens is today's feature at the Giant Squid Community Showcase.
www.giantsquidshowcase.com
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- Family-Legacy-Mom Family-Legacy-Mom Nov 8, 2008 @ 3:01 pm
- Oh my! What a delightful lens! You have a beautiful way of expressing yourself. Yes, these are definitely "rich memories." Your descriptions were wonderful. And the photos really add to the story. I was able to picture your grandparents with each memory. Thanks.
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- booksforsale booksforsale Nov 3, 2008 @ 2:30 pm
- What an excellent lens and images.
booksforsale
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- EverythingMouse EverythingMouse Oct 12, 2008 @ 2:09 pm
- What a lovely personal and original lens.
You have been Blessed by a Squid Angel
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- Joan4 Joan4 Sep 15, 2008 @ 7:33 am
- Beautiful lens! I love all the old pics!
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- funwithtrains funwithtrains Sep 10, 2008 @ 10:23 am
- Nice Lens - 5 stars from me! Please visit my Auto Social Poster lens!
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The picture I've uploaded is about 20 years out of date as the little darling you see there is all grown up now.
I'm a grandmother. I live in the H...
