Memory Lane

I have been looking at Lancashire on line records of my dads family it should have been his birthday this week. He was one of nine and they were all very close and were christened and married at the same church. I am one of eight and we were all brought up in the exact same neighbourhood and christened there too.
There seemed such bonds in those days apart of a very large family who all lived very close to each other. The clearance of old inner city houses changed all that. We must be a big family still but we don’t know each other let alone see each other how things change.

When asked I told my GD what my late husband/Grandads favourite song was. She later told she was telling her boyfriend all about him and how they played and danced to the song. Reminded me how we had danced to that song 30 yrs ago.

DH died in 2020 and since then I have had mental blocks about things that happened recently self protection? and now my memories are going back to before we were married!
I guess I'm getting used to being single and that's the time when I last was 54 years ago.
It's not unpleasant until I look in the mirror and realise I'm not 20 any more.

A lovely day with the DGC yesterday felt like the best of days.

They do, Maw. I have lots of violets in my garden which are now flowering. They are just self-seeded. They remind me of the masses of wild violets growing in the lanes of the village where my grandparents lived, where I spent so many happy school holidays in the late 50s/early 60s. I picked big bunches and, later, lots of cowslips which I have planted in my garden. ‘Those happy highways where we went …’. Bittersweet. Like generations before me, I will be buried in the churchyard of that lovely village,

Lilacs for me!
They bring back wonderful memories of my grandparents' garden when I was pretty young.
They had a wonderful lilac tree next to the path where 'my' swing had been put up: a lovely home-made green timber frame with wooden seat and rope hangers.

If you could swing high enough, you could stretch out and clip the blossom with your feet, releasing a magical smell.

(And why was it always high summer?🤷‍♀️)

The post on here about Name tapes reminded me of the day my father died. I remember sitting sewing name tapes in all afternoon and then making supper as we were eating my mother phoned and said my father had died and would I come up and sort things out.
I knew it would take at least a week and there were still loads of name tapes. So I left my supper and sat until I had got them finished. Then I allowed myself to cry.
Name tapes are funny things they always remind me of my father. When I needed them at school my gran found a pack she had never used and my mum used them by tucking in the initial letter of his Christian name and putting my initial on the end.
It saved me money when I had my two DD I always bought them with both their initials on and tucked one pair inside.
When I first met DH his name tags had been spares of his fathers and his mother had done the same.

Both violets and cowslips are important to me too GSM. I replanted, many years ago, violets from my dad’s garden and they’ve spread so well. I don’t think the neighbours mind!! Cowslips were my mum’s favourite flower so I have a few of those too.
It’s certainly not acceptable now but as a child I used to love bringing home bunches of primroses and later bluebells. The woods were the other side of the village railway and the station master’s wife used to provide a glass of orange on my way home in return for a bunch of flowers. Happy country village days….sigh!!

Redhead56

I have been looking at Lancashire on line records of my dads family it should have been his birthday this week. He was one of nine and they were all very close and were christened and married at the same church. I am one of eight and we were all brought up in the exact same neighbourhood and christened there too.
There seemed such bonds in those days apart of a very large family who all lived very close to each other. The clearance of old inner city houses changed all that. We must be a big family still but we don’t know each other let alone see each other how things change.

Yes, this is so true. My father's family were a huge Irish family and now, since his generation are no longer with us, only a handful of descendants survive in the area. My grandmother used to recount all sorts of tales going back to the late 19th century which I have written down for my DD. in rural Ireland in the 1890s she gave her mother's best blouse to the gypsies in exchange for a toffee apple! Needless to say she was in trouble as her mother was a widow and money was very short.

It's turps for me! I spent my pre-school days in my dad's garret studio and the smell of turps takes me right back there, with its small swing tied to the rafters and a huge cardboard box as a playpen. My dad always carried with him the aroma of oil paints!

I got a greenhouse and started growing tomatoes. The first time I handled the plants on a hot sunny day the smell instantly transported me back to my toddler days and being with my grandad in his large greenhouse. I could visualise it in detail, with the coke fired heating system, rocking chair, and wooden barrels for huge, to a small child, water butts. It had been a completely forgotten memory until then.

My ex husband was so excited at being a dad, he saw me in the hospital but forgot to go and see his brand new daughter in the nursery of the maternity unit.

Thinking on name tags . My husband has recently gone into a full time care home and everything needed name tags! So rummaging in my obsolete sew box ( I hate sewing) I came across my kids school name tags . Done just like the other pister …I tucked in their initials and just left surname showing! Works a treat.

‘ poster’ …sorry I’m waiting in my cataract op!!!😎

The smell of engine oil always reminds me of my Dad, as I used to like hanging around watching him work on the family car - and then wiping the oil from his hands off into his handkerchief, to the displeasure of my Mum! He also couldn't spell, and oil was 'oyl' in his dictionary! So, when I go out into our garage, and inhale that lovely 'garage' smell, it always reminds me of Dad.

Tweed perfume. Memories of my Mum and feeling car sick.,

Kathmaggie

Tweed perfume. Memories of my Mum and feeling car sick.,

Snap Kathmaggie and I had to vomit in my uncle's car. We were in the lakes and miles of dry stone walls where he could not pull in . My mother never wore it again.

Ah that’s lovely Maw

I began a patchwork project today after a long delay in hand sewing. Doing such work always reminds me of the many happy sunday afternoons I spent sitting with my grandmother sewing or crocheting. She taught me all my skills in that area.

You were never allowed to sit idle in gran's house. If you failed to bring any "mending" (as she called it) then she would soon find something for you to do. She was a recycler long before it became trendy. She used to unravel old knitted garments, wind up the wool into balls and then crochet blankets for charity. So if you have forgotton to bring your "work" you would find yourself with your arm outstreched with a skein of wool on them which she then wound into a ball.

Knitted small animals and other little knitted toys in shops always remind me of my Mum. She made so many for our children from leftover wool, often reused wool, mostly in random multi colours. No patterns needed. I’ve kept a couple, they mean a lot. I can also hear her saying ‘how much? I could make one of those!’

My grandfather was originally a clock maker and jeweller and they lived above their shop in London. Recently I had to take my late Dad’s old antique clock that he left me in for repair. The smell of clock oil took me right back to when I was about 6 and Granddad’s workshop. They left that business and bought a farm in the mid 1950s so I was very young.