Readers' Poems

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Grondma’s Not Reet
By Margaret Helliwell, Bacup

Wot ivver’s the matter wi’ grondma?
Ah’ve ne’er sin ‘er lukin’ soa queer.
Ah seed ‘er this morn an’ Ah sed “As Ah’m born,
Hoo lakes as hoo isn’t all theer.”

Wot ivver’s the matter wi’ grondma?
Ther’s summat wrang, certin fer sure,
Her face isn’t streight, ‘er speykin’s not reight,
An’ weest ‘ev to tek her fer the cure.

Wot ivver’s the matter then grondma?
Dusta fear ‘at th’as tekken a sthroak?
Dusta feel alreight lass? Dusta think it’ll pass?
It’s fust time at tha cudn’t toak!

“Ther’s nuthin’ the matter wi’ grondma.
Ther’s noa need to goo buy a wreath.
Ah’ve left mi top set in a jar, achin, pet,
An’ Ah’m weerin’ thi father’s owd teeth.”

Lily Mai and Me
By Anne Barson, Burnley

Right there in the midst of it all
Arrived a baby sweet and small
Hello my name is Lily Mai!
Is almost what she came to say

Please don’t cry, for I will make you smile
As I wriggle and giggle at you for a while
Now dry your eyes, don’t be so sad
I will cheer you up and make you glad

Very soon I know you will sing to me
And rock me in your arms, you will see
For I have heard your voice a million times
You are the one who sings the nursery rhymes

My dearest great -granny, you know that it’s true
For singing to babies is just what you do
So you really cannot leave just yet
For you and I have hardly met

And I want to get to know you, so very much
Dear great granny with the gentle touch
So stay a while and watch me grow
At least until I can talk you know

Billy
By Irene Auty, Keighley
(I witnessed this incident in 1931, aged 13 years. It made a lasting impression)

Billy wor nowt mich to lewk at,
He wor little an’ thin wi’ t’hard wark
‘At he’d started on t’day he wor twelve year owd,
An’ gone on an’ on, leavin’ its mark.

He wor quiet an’ patient an’ happy,
Though he nobbut went aht na an’ then.
He’d a heart ‘at wor kind an’ gentle
An’ bigger nor Billy hissen.

His wife liked tawkin’ an’ laughin’,
Her breet een flashin’ abaht.
She warked as a spinner at t’nearby mill,
Her wages helped to eke aht.

Her spirit wor restless, an’ most days
She’d flirt wi’ t’fellars at wark.
It seemed harmless eniff — till one Friday
She run off wi’ one, after dark.

It put t’mill an’ t’neighbours i’ uproar,
Sich a thing they couldn’t consait.
They said, “Billy, Tha’s better off baht sich a wife,
Forget her, an’ leeave her to fate.”

It wor just three weeks after hoo’d left him
‘At Billy heeard noises i’ t’street;
He oppened his door to find t’neighbours all thear,
An’ his wife wi’ a face like a sheet.

Across t’street i’ an entry hoo crouched agean t’wall,
Sobbin’ an’ hidin’ her face,
While t’neighbours all pointed an’ shouted abuse,
Makkin’ sure hoo felt her disgrace.

Ashamed an’ repentant, hoo’d been on her way hoam
To beg Billy’s forgiveness, an’ then
Hoo’d getten to t’entry an’ couldn’t go on,
Though she tried ageean an’ ageean.

Amy Slater hed seean her an’ started all t’row
Till it seeamed ivverybody joined in.
They turned now on Billy as he oppened his door,
An’ hoo blocked her ears fearful o’ t’din.

All hed gooan quiet when hoo listened agean,
For Billy hed lifted his hand;
They’d all hed ther say abaht what he should do
Wi’ a wife ‘at betrayed t’golden band.

Billy’s sad eyes lewked across at his wife
While his hand pushed his door oppen wide.
“I welcome her hoam,” wor all t’words he spoke.
Wi’ a glad cry his wife rushed inside.

T’door slammed shut, there wor nowt more said,
An’ sooin all t’neighbours hed gone —
Wi’ uneasy feelin’s o’ shame an’ guilt,
Just as though they’d been i’ t’wrong.

What wor it i’ t’Bible on castin’ f’first stoan?
Nobbut them wi’aht sin ‘at could do it.
But they all liked Billy, they’d wanted to help,
Yet nah they wor startin’ to rue it.

For Billy could manage alreight on his awn,
He’d a code ‘at wor simple an’ sweet,
He just loved his wife, he wor glad hoo’d come back,
He forgave her — That’s all there wor to it.

Wonderful Childhood Memories
By Sheila Coleman, Chorley

Chrysanths and Michaelmas daisies bring memories flooding back,
Of a wonderful childhood garden, beyond it a railway track.
A lovely rose covered archway, and beneath it a logwood seat,
With an abundance of forget-me-nots, and stately marguerites.
A lovely delphinium took pride of place, dark blue and oh so tall,
Supported by some garden canes to prevent it from a fall.

The back lawn seemed enormous, we could even pitch a tent,
And a faithful dog called Bessie, seemed to be wherever we went.
We’d sleep in the tent some nights, when it was fine and dry,
But we were forever being checked up on, back then we didn’t know why.

We also had some chickens in the garden at the back,
And sometimes they would wander onto the railway track,
but we never ever lost one, well not on the railway line.
Some always seemed to disappear round about Christmas time.
Of course we knew where they ended up, they hadn’t gone astray,
They were served to us and neighbours, with stuffing on Christmas Day.

The chickens-had these “secret nests”, and used to “lay away”
And we’d have the job of finding them, sometimes it took all day.
We’d search the rail embankment, we thought it was quite fun,
And we got really excited, when we finally discovered one.

There was also a small fruit garden where lots of bushes grew,
Raspberries, blackcurrants and prickly gooseberries too.
We used to help pick the fruit, which was used for pies and jam,
It really smelled delicious, when bubbling in the pan.

Between the railway and the garden were fields and lots of land,
With blackberries and wild flowers and a very small pit with sand.
We played in the sand for hours, days seemed long and the sun would shine,
Lost in our adventurous world, we never noticed time.

The land has all but disappeared, no fields are left to roam,
It’s been built up with properties, and some of them are homes.
I hope they enjoy their gardens as much as I did mine
Then in years to come, they can recall their memories and good times.
Many decades have now gone by, and my memory has declined,
But the garden of my childhood is still vivid in my mind.

Poems from Northern Life issue 42 February/March 2012.
To order this issue go to the Northern Life online store.

School Days - Reader's Memory

Dear Northern Life, I read with inerest the article submitted by Ann Prinsloo in the October/November edition of Northern Life, as I recognised some of the names she remembered from her days in the preparatory school of West Leeds High School. I went to the Girls’ High School in September 1953 and have in my possession a copy of the school magazine published in summer 1956 – a first edition after some years when it had lapsed. In this issue some of the girls mentioned by Mrs Prinsloo are reported as having gained their GCE O-levels in summer 1955. These were Sylvia Maude and Mary Morrell from form 5X, Christine Beecroft, Jennifer Grimshaw and Janet Moore from Form 5Y and Jill Stocks from Form 5Z. In my copy of the school magazine of January 1958 it is noted that Mary Morrell gained her A-levels in summer 1957 and was awarded a Higher Technical Scholarship, so presumably she went on to further education. Summer 1957 was a memorable one as this was when the school celebrated its Golden Jubilee. The head girl that year was Suzanne Beauchamp who had started her career in the preparatory School (the KG building - the Kindergarten) in 1942. Looking carefully at the photograph I think that Suzanne Beauchamp is the girl seated immediately to Miss Padman’s right. She went on to university on a Senior City Exhibition but I do not remember which university or the subject she studied. I have a copy of the booklet issued in 1957 to mark the Golden Jubilee, which gives an interesting account of the school’s history. It records that fees for under-10s in 1907 were three guineas a year. I wonder how much the fees were when Mrs Prinsloo’s parents had to pay them. The school was absorbed into the state system after the 1944 Education Act and fees were abolished. Miss Jackson, who had been head of the Preparatory department since 1913, retired in 1947. Miss FC Guest became headmistress in 1944 and was still there when I left to go to college in 1960. The original school building in Whingate, Armley, was shared by both the girls’ and boys’ high schools but run quite separately. The girls left for a completely new building in Congress Mount in 1959, leaving the boys to occupy the whole of the old building which in 1987 was given Grade II listing. The boys remained there until 1992 when they joined the girls again as a large mixed comprehensive which moved once again into new buildings in 2009. In 1980, 20 years after leaving school, I re-established contact with my former classmates. We now try to meet for lunch in Leeds once a year. This year we were meeting on Saturday October 8th so I can assure you that I would be taking this latest copy of Northern Life with me. I am sure it will have prompted memories for all of us. It would be good to hear if anyone else responds to Ann Prinsloo’s article. Yours sincerely Patricia Pack, Darwen

Sixpenny Piece - Reader's Memory

What do I remember about Christmas as a child? Firstly, the days leading up to Christmas (which started in December and not September) were exciting, magical and full of expectation. Shops, cafes and market stalls were a spectacle of attractive displays of everything the tradesmen had to offer for the festive season. I remember cotton wool was stuck in blobs on the shop windows and used as a ‘carpet’ to lay out the Christmas wares (children pressed their noses up against the glass to get a closer look, me included) and wonderful smells drifted out of the doors of bakery shops and mingled with the crisp December air as music drifted from the Salvation Army carol singers who stood on the street corners. There always seemed to be snow at Christmas but perhaps I’m just fantasising?
Holly was hung in bunches outside the grocers, shoppers looking for the ones with the most red berries, together with mistletoe under which most people hoped they’d receive a Christmas kiss. Inside the grocer’s you could find baskets full of nuts, including almonds so hard to crack with the nutcracker that they were often left uneaten way in to New Year. Mums would purchase nuts along with juicy tangerines, for their children’s Christmas stockings. Chestnuts too were delicious when roasted on the open coal fire although care had to be taken if the skins burst, as they were liable to fly out at you (health & safety!). Let’s not forget juicy dates (eaten with a plastic fork secreted inside the box) that came from a place with some far away name.
As night drew near the windows of the houses in the town were lit up by the fairy lights adorning imitation Christmas trees (real trees if you were ‘posh’) hung with baubles, tinsel and decorations handed down through generations. If you were really lucky you might even have chocolates, wrapped in coloured foil, hanging from the branches. The trees had sometimes seen better days, branches stuck out at all angles stripped of most of the greenery but that didn’t matter. Decorations, or ‘trimmings’ around the living room weren’t lavish; either bought cheaply from Woolworth’s or homemade sometimes by the youngsters who stuck coloured paper together to make paper chains or with crepe paper which the grown ups made into garlands. My grandma made ‘droppers’ from coloured crepe paper, which hung in strands over the electric light bulb hanging from the ceiling. A kind of Christmas light shade! (‘Dust collectors’ as my Mum used to call them) Christmas cards hung from strings strewn around the walls, tabletops, almost anywhere with space including the fireplace with a roaring coal fire (health and safety!)
The Christmas post came at any time of the day and it was exciting to hear the ‘clang’ of the letterbox and the ‘plop’ of the envelopes on the mat at the back of the door. Cards from relatives or friends from all over the country who you didn’t see from one year to the next but always remembered you at Christmas. It wasn’t just the postman who delivered these missives but students home from University for the holidays hoping to earn a ’bob’ or two to help pay their way. If the carol singers were on your street you might go out and join in their carolling or if they knocked at your door give them a little something, if you could afford it, for their efforts.
Christmas Eve for us was time for the Church Dance. Each and everyone dressed in their best, Dad in his best suit, Mum in her ‘Sunday best’ and me, with my silver dance shoes on (including new short white socks), which I hoped would glide along the floor on the white ‘stuff’ that the man sprinkled on the wooden boards to help you do just that. Waltzes, the quick step, barn dance, the Gay Gordon’s and the Dashing White Sergeant (Phew!!!) to name just a few managed to get even the most reticent person to their feet. Half way through the proceedings came refreshment time when you joined the queue for a supper of small meat pies, sandwiches and delicious cakes hoping your favourite would be left when it was your turn to choose; nicely rounded off with a bottle of ‘pop’ – ice cream soda was my favourite. The night concluded as the net of balloons hung above the dance floor was released and you chased around madly to catch hold of one. Children took priority of course! Midnight service followed on from this and we gathered outside Church, sang carols and then after wishing everyone ‘A Very Happy Christmas’ set off for home. All the way to our house I held onto that balloon. It was quite a distance, from one end of the town to the other, but enjoyable as we made the journey on foot with our close friends in tow. There were many late night revellers on the streets but not a sign of trouble. We’d call out ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘to you too’ would come back the reply.
Although I wanted to stay awake to see Father Christmas tiredness always got the better of me and next news it was Christmas morning. Mum and Dad always seemed to know when I was awake and would come into my room whereupon I would look into my Christmas stocking (one of Dad’s old socks) and pull out nuts and tangerines. Then I’d look for my pillowcase which one year I remember contained a chocolate selection box, two Christmas annuals, a compendium of games, Bible from Grandma and Granddad and a box of coloured pencils.
After a late breakfast I’d usually have read my annuals from cover to cover and would be looking forward to going to our neighbours (there was a gate between the two gardens/houses at the back allowing easy access) for Christmas dinner/tea and best of all party games! There would be our friends and their family, plus the cousins, aunts’ and uncles and the three of us, 14 in total. We’d squeeze around the table and pull the crackers first, put the paper hats on and check what trinkets had been found and by whom. The meal was always wonderful with turkey and all the trimmings plus home made Christmas pudding containing sixpenny pieces (wrapped in greaseproof paper). I think it was more management than luck that a sixpence always appeared in my portion of pudding! (Health & Safety again)
We all helped in clearing the table, washing up and putting away the pots, pans and dishes and then it was party time. We played tiddlywinks, whereby participants attempted to flick different coloured plastic discs into eggcups; the one with the most discs in his or her cup was the winner. Another game involved being in pairs; one of the pairs had to pick up a table tennis ball by sucking through a straw and pass it on to their partner who had to suck through their straw in order to get hold of it and drop it into a bowl. The winners were the ones with the most ‘ping-pong’ balls, which is what we used to call the little plastic balls. These festivities would not have been complete without a game of ‘Charades’ which caused the most fun and laughter; the quandary some of the players got themselves into and the faces they made resulted in them collapsing into a heap on the floor. Any of the youngsters who won a game were allowed to choose a chocolate from the Christmas tree and when all the ‘parlour games’ were over supper would be served (how could anyone have room for more food!) and then it was time for goodbyes and home.
On Boxing Day my Grandma and Granddad came to us for tea (they went to my Auntie’s on Christmas Day) and we played dominoes and card games for pennies. Counting all the spots on the dominoes helped me with my mathematical skills!
What wonderful Christmases I had. Come to think of it my Granddad was the only one who could crack those blooming almonds!

Article from Northern Life issue 41 December/January 2012.
To order this issue go to the Northern Life online store.

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We Want Your Cover Photograph For a chance to get your photograph on the cover of Northern Life, send your work to Readers’ Gallery, The Northern Life Centre, 2 Sun Street, Colne, BB8 0JJ, or email karen@looppublishing.co.uk. Please ensure the picture is portrait orientation and at least 300dpi.

Reader's Poems

The Power of Nature

By ‘Aemot’, Keighley

Planet Earth groans as the plates shift and slide,
An earthquake the first indication.
Buildings are shaken, structures collapse
Wounds the heart of the Japanese nation.

With dreadful foreboding Tsunami is formed
The sea raising up like a hand.
It moves with the weight of the world in its wake,
And inexorably makes for the land.

Aware of its frightful formation,
Soon all will recoil at its might.
The seashore recedes, giving note of intent,
Whilst the water-wall hoves into sight.

Houses are brushed from the landscape,
Trees are torn up by the root,
People are caught in the vortex,
Enveloped in deadly pursuit.

The pictures relayed to all nations,
Show the power of Nature’s domain.
Townships removed from the face of the Earth,
Lives torn apart with disdain.

The wave pounds inland with its cargo,
Till its energy slowly abates.
As the water recedes and disperses,
See the hell that this carnage creates.

That phenomenon we call Tsunami,
Laid waste to all in its wake.
We can only take pity and wonder,
As we cry out at others heartache.

Ode to a Non Smoker

By Lucy Gilbert, Burnley.

When people told me to stop smoking,
I told them that they must be joking.
I never will quit
And try to get fit
I’ll carry on coughing and choking.

But then, in a true contradiction,
I decided to kill this addiction.
I made up my mind
To my body, be kind
And get rid of this nasty affliction.

So I threw out the lighters and matches,
Went out and bought nicotine patches,
I thought “Bloody hell
They do the job well”
(though they itch, and I’m covered in scratches).

Well I’ve managed quite well, I’ll admit it
The habit, I’ve managed to kick it.
Though my waistline is growing,
And the wine has been flowing,
I still can’t believe that I did it..

Bread & Dripping

By Sue Pettit via e-mail.

“What’s for tea, Mum?” the laddie said.
“If you’re lucky you’ll get dripping
Spread thickly on your bread.
But best be good, else otherwise
Nought will come your way.”
“OK, Mum,” said the laddie,
And he wandered off to play.

It was always bread and dripping
Spread thickly on his bread.
Or milk sop, with bread for dipping.
“It’s good for you,” she’d said.
“I’m tired of bread,” the laddie moaned.
“I’d like some cake or crumpet.
But all I get is bread,” he groaned.

He gazed into the baker’s shop,
Saw fancies, tarts and cake.
“Come on, my lad. No time to stop.
”We have to see the butcher’s shop.”
“But look at that. It’s chocolate, Mum.
Can’t we take some home?”
“You won’t like that. Now, come.”

All day long the laddie thought
Of chocolate buns and fancy cake
And tarts they could have bought
To make a special teatime break.
But, once again, upon his plate
Lay the boring bread and dripping,
A meal he had begun to hate.

That night, he dreamed about a feast,
A table spread with wondrous goodies.
He prowled around it, like a beast.
What should he choose, to give his buddies?
When, suddenly, as he stood sipping,
The feast just disappeared,
Leaving the dreaded bread and dripping.

“Tomorrow is special. I’m giving you a treat
To celebrate your birthday. I’ll make a lovely spread.
You can choose. You can say what you want to eat.
I won’t make bread and dripping, so something else instead.”
The laddie sat and thought so hard.
The choices now were many.
“I know,” he said. “Make bread and lard.”

My Mate Nipper

By Bill Hobson, Foulridge.

Ten weeks old he was,
We got him from a friend,
The fun and laughter that he brought
We thought would never end
He soon became family and loved by all,
And he would play for hours,
With his little ball.
For eighteen years he gave us pleasure,
Past memories now that we will always treasure.
That little bundle of fun that came to live at number one,
Brought something special that will be remembered by everyone
Now all the kids have grown and flown the nest
And the little dog is old and way past his best.
I look into his eyes to see if there is pain,
For he is getting near to the end,he is also getting lame
I carried him in and out to do his business for a while,
But he would look at me as if to say this is not my style
He looked into my eyes one day and the message was dead certain
And tears came into my eyes for I knew that it was time to close the curtain.
As I carried him from the house his eyes was on the door,
And I knew darn well that he was thinking,
He would not see it anymore.
Going to the vets that day for the very last time,
For once he never made a murmer or a single whine,
At the bottom of our garden there is a little grave,
Where a little dog lies who was ever so brave
I have had carved on the headstone, just underneath the date
Here lies Nipper my very best mate....

A Lancashire Lass

By Jilly Bowling.

As I sit upon the moor,
The sweet smell of heather is the lure,
The grasses I played in as a child,
They no longer seem high, they no longer seem wild.

I as a child would spend my days,
Just watching and sitting in sun soaked rays,
The town below me, the houses, the mills
A Lancashire town that had no frills.

For then the smoke from the chimneys would rise,
Like a dragon’s breath would fill the skies
The old cotton mills dark and grey
Stood like great ships in an empty bay.

The times I walked within the mill,
No sounds of machines, all was still,
The light that streamed from the high window,
Gave a feeling of sadness that now does show,
Of the long hard days that were once had there,
By women,and children that gave much despair.

For these are the cotton mills of my Lancashire home
They once stood proudly but now stand alone,
In a maze of houses and newly built shops,
No longer we see the chimney tops.

The Doc Knows Best

By Jeff Fellows.

It all started when I lost my voice
And I went to my GP
He sent me to a specialist
To see what it could be

He said I think you have a tumour
Oh dear I said, will that be my lot
Come and see me in two weeks time
Then I’ll confirm that’s what you’ve got

I went to see him two weeks later
It was true what he had said
I am afraid I’ll have to operate
We already have a bed

My operation it is over
And I’m back in my bed
But I have a lot of pain
Going through my head

I told the nurse, she said to me
Too much morphine I would say
So I gave myself some more
And the pain it went away

My stay at B.R.I wasn’t such a treat
When I think about the TV table
That crashed down on my feet

I could not lie upon my bed
The pain I could not bear
I had to spend three long nights
Dozing in my chair

I asked a nurse for a walking stick
She said “I’ll look around”
I had to wait three full days
A stick could not be found

Fifteen days on ward 18
I thought its time to go
But when I asked the sister
Her answer it was no

Now I was mad would not give in
I knew what I had to do
A battle of wills was started
And I was going to see it through

So I decided not to wash or bathe
I would not eat
Until the matron on ward 18
My demand did meet

I was sitting on my bed
And was in a lousy mood
When who do you think came in my room
It was my surgeon Mr Sood
He had heard about my problem
Listened to what I had to say

You are fighting fit good as new
No longer must you stay
So pack your gear get checked out
And then be on your way

But my problems were not over
What a sight to see
My legs they started to swell
From my toes up to my knees

So I had to call my doctor
He said, it’s very clear to me
They’ve left your surgical stockings on
How careless can they be

Now the swelling is subsiding
And I’ll tell you about this as well
I won’t go back to ward 18
I’d rather go to ****

Are You Seeing

By John Williams, Colne What do you see nurse, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you look at me?
A crabbed old woman not very wise
Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes

Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice: “I do wish you’d try”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And is forever losing a stocking or shoe

Who willing or not lets you do as you will
With bathing and feeding the long day fills
Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes nurse, you’re not looking at me!

I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still
As I move at your bidding and eat at your will
I’m a small girl of ten with a mother and father
Brothers and sisters who love one another

A girl of sixteen with wings on her feet
Dreaming that soon now the lover she’ll meet
A bride soon at twenty my heart gives a leap
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep

At twenty five I have young of my own
Who need me to build a secure home
A woman of thirty, my young growing fast
Bound to each other with ties that should last

At forty my young will now be soon gone
But my man stays beside me to help carry on
At fifty once more children play at my feet
But to play with our grandkids is more than a treat

Dark days are upon me my husband is dead
I look at the future I shudder with dread
For my young are all busy rearing young of their own
And I think of years of love I have known

I’m an old woman now and nature is cruel

The body it crumbles and vigour departs
And now there’s a stone where I once had a heart
But in this old carcass a young girl still dwells
And now and again my battered heart swells

I remember the joy, I remember the pain
And I’m loving and living life over again
I think of the years, all too few gone so fast
And have to accept that nothing can last

So open your eyes nurse, open and see
Not a crabbed old woman
Look closer , you will see me

A Large Farming Family

By Peter Wolfenden, Colne Our family of ten was large when we all sat down to dine
The villagers used to ask my dad what he did in his spare time
Every day we walked to school, it was two miles from door to door
On sunny days it wasn’t far, when it was raining it seemed a lot more

When it was raining hard, many times we got wet through,
When we got to school, change our wet clothes we had to do.
We then got a towel, or a pair of the teachers pink knickers long,
This was embarrassing when brown stains they had on.

Our clothes were mainly cast-offs bought at jumble sales in town
My auntie altered them to make them fit; they cost less than half a crown
There were jackets, frocks and coats coloured red, blue brown and green
Our schoolteacher used to remark so many colours seldom had she seen.

Upstairs the rooms were small, large enough for the drawers and bed,
This left us short of space, so we slept three kids to one bed.
Our mattress was made of flock, the pillows feather and goose down,
On top two grey army blankets, a quilt and large pink eiderdown.

Every Friday night we had a bath to remove all the muck and grime,
With so many kids to bath it took my mother a long time
The bathroom was in the kitchen in front of a roaring fire,
Then we went to bed wi now’t on, because we had no bed attire.

We seldom had any fancy grub like our neighbours used to eat
Ours was most days the same, porridge and tatties with some meat
We had many birthday parties when kids came to the farm to play
For tea, egg butties, jellies and a special sponge cake for the birthday.

We didn’t have a modem loo, when nature gave us the call to go,
Underneath the old iron bedstead was a large hand painted poe.
The outside loo was a shed at the end of the backyard
This was a long drop type, which to empty was always hard.

We never got new best shoes, they were handed down from Jack to Joe,
If they were a size too big, father stuffed sheep’s wool in the toe.
For school we had lace-up clogs with irons nailed on,
These were heavy and very robust, so they lasted long.

When the lads left school, they worked on the farm every day,
For work we got our clothes bought, bed, fed and no pay.
This was why family farms were self supporting better them most,
Because there was no wages, and few bills came through the post.

For entertainment, country dances were held in villages miles away,
Then we arrived home, just in time for morning milking the next day.
Transport to the dance was by cattle wagon, so noisy you could not talk,
We decided a third-class ride was better than a first-class walk.

When at one of these dances, a partner you would hope to find,
Then one day you would get married, leaving the farm behind.
First you had to earn money, spreading muck and making hay,
Or leave the farm to work in the nearest town, earning decent pay.

Bethany and Mojo

By Anne Barson, Burnley My granddaughter’s photograph with her face aglow
Was taken whilst playing with her cat Mojo in the snow
Snowflakes in her hair and a sparkle in her eyes
The happiness he brings her, you just cannot disguise
He sleeps upon her bedroom windowsill late at night
Sometimes he climbs into her doll’s house, such a funny sight
He follows her simply everywhere, except of course to school
But he patiently waits at the window for her return as he really is no fool
For when she comes home, he sits by the fridge and gives her “a meow”
He knows then, she will find him an extra treat somehow
She loves him so very much and he definitely loves her
When they are together, you should hear him “purr”
The very best friends there could ever be
That’s Mojo the cat and his friend Bethany.

Lovely Lady

By Graham Twist, Colne.

There’s a lovely lady who I know
Whose heart goes out with the warmest glow
With her comical ways she made us giggle
Whatever she said turns into a riddle
Whether young or old she’d stop for a while
Offer a kind word and a tender smile
She’s dried our tears and shared our laughter
I know she’ll be there with us in the hereafter
Some family and friends are up on high
Waiting for her in that heavenly sky
We all love you like no other
That lovely lady is my mother

Spring

By John Walker and Emily Williamson, Silsden.

Spring has arrived; the flowers are in bloom,
Time to see the sun since the winter’s gloom.
Snowdrops and crocuses - what a lovely show,
To think that only recently there was ice and snow.

Poems taken from issue 37 April/May 2011. To order this issue go to the Northern Life online store.

Short Stories

The Trouble with Granddad
By Ingrid Price

Every year since Daisy could remember, Granddad came to stay with them for two weeks in August. Dad said, it was to give Auntie Carol a rest from the arduous task of looking after him, and Mum said he always brought Trouble with him. The strange thing was, Daisy never got to meet Trouble and no one would ever explain why.
It was the same again this year. Sitting on the front step waiting for Uncle Bob to drop Granddad off, Daisy decided it was time someone told her who this mysterious friend of her grandfather's was. Boldly she put the idea to her brother Ben. "I do hope Granddad lets me see Trouble this year."
At fourteen, Ben had double Daisy’s experience in everything and adopting his superior look he said patiently. “Trouble isn’t a person Daisy, it’s something that happens and in Granddad’s case, Mum thinks he does things to cause trouble on purpose.” Hugging her knees, Daisy considered this and seeing her puzzled expression Ben laughed. “Like last year,” he said. “When Granddad forgot to bring his teeth with him.”
So that was Trouble, Daisy thought, recalling vaguely the desperate phone call to Uncle Bob, to catch him before he and Auntie Carol set off for the airport. “Put them in the post,” Dad had said and hearing of Granddad’s plight, Susie next door found a spare set of her mother’s dentures to see him through the weekend. The borrowed teeth had a life of their own, opening and closing unbidden and no one except Daisy could understand a word Granddad said for four days.
The year before that Trouble had popped up on their trip to the garden centre, when despite Mum’s misgivings, Granddad’s dog Winston went along with them. Proudly Daisy had control of Winston’s lead, Granddad was in charge of Daisy and if there was a sign that said ‘No dogs allowed’, the grownups missed it.
By the time Winston was spotted, the pansies had suffered a doggy call of nature, a rack of potted geraniums had been upended over the garden gnomes and Daisy was ankle deep in the debris. As usual, when Trouble was about, Granddad was nowhere to be seen and, grumbling an apology to the Centre Manager, Dad’s credit card compensated for the decapitated gnome family and two bags of broken geraniums.
This year if Trouble showed, Daisy would be ready for it. Then, suddenly, Uncle Bob’s car was rounding the corner at the top of the street and Ben was shouting, “Mum, Granddad’s here!” Squealing in delight, Daisy raced Ben to the gate and as the car pulled up, Auntie Carol waved from the passenger seat, looking like a film star in her designer sunglasses. Behind her, the rear door opened and the bundle of joy that was Winston preceded Granddad out of the car. Uncle Bob carried Granddad’s suitcase up the path and Mum came to say hello.
Giving her a peck on the cheek, Uncle Bob said. “Can’t stop Abby, don’t want to miss the flight.”
As Uncle Bob’s car accelerated away, Granddad presented Mum with a bunch of pink carnations, receiving a hug in return. Mum loved having Granddad really and tugging on his arm Daisy beamed up at him. “I hope you’ve not brought Trouble with you this year Granddad!”
Granddad smiled. “You’ll have to speak up pet, I can’t hear you.”
At this, Mum exchanged a grown up look with Ben, who pointed to his ear. “You’ve forgotten to put your hearing aid in Granddad.”
“Ah,” said Granddad sheepishly. “There’s a good reason for that. I lent it to our Mabel for the bingo last week and she never brought it back.”

Short Stories

Dora’s Dismay
by Carol E. Grant, Preston.

Dora finished off her vol au vents placed them in the fridge, and had another sip of sherry. This evening’s dinner party would be a triumph she told herself, but then wasn’t it always! She had been so engrossed today with the preparations whilst listening to Classic fm. Volume, as loud as she thought suitable. To capture the atmosphere. As she pummelled the steak and kneaded the dough. It was only when she went through to the dining room at the front of the house that she noticed the removal men taking furniture into next door. She could spare a few minutes just to discreetly survey the contents being carried in. One sofa, looking a bit the worse for wear and a standard lamp which certainly didn’t match! And goodness, what was that a jukebox? Oh dear, she hoped it wasn’t a working model. It really wasn’t what one would expect to find in a house on Laburnum Gardens. It would have to be investigated. Best way to do that was to take a tray of tea round; under the pretence of welcoming but to see what sort of people would be living on the other side of her wall! She placed Royal Albert cups and saucers along with the teapot onto the tray with some of her homemade scones and pausing only to practise her ‘pleased to make your acquaintance’, smile in the hall mirror, removed her pinny and set forth.
She was invited in by the lady of the house although Dora quietly thought, maybe the term was somewhat exaggerated in this instance as she had a cigarette in one corner of her mouth and was wearing man. Utd slippers garishly coloured!
The woman told Dora, her name was Paula, hubby Stan was upstairs checking the bed was properly placed. Hearing voices it wasn’t very long before Stan came down into the kitchen; it was then that he and Dora looked aghast at each other! Stan realised at once that right there, invading his territory was the woman, who was his worst customer ever (he was the owner of the local butchers) and furthermore, she and her parents had been his neighbours many years ago. He had never liked her snobby attitude then and he certainly hadn’t changed his opinion. Meanwhile Dora’s heart sunk, it was that awful man from the butcher’s! His meat was next to none, but his manner left a lot to be desired, in fact she had always found him, crude and obnoxious, but had tolerated it in order to buy the best. After a few false niceties she managed to extricate herself from the Formica table and leave as fast as etiquette allowed. Her dismay in finding out who the man of the house was had made her forget to even refer to the jukebox! She remembered only when Elvis Presley sang out from the other side of her dining room wall, full volume as she served her guests the melon boats!

Northen Life Readers' Poems

Would you like your work published?
Then send your poems to poetry@looppublishing.co.uk, or send to Poetry Platform, Northern Life Centre, 43 Scotland Road, Nelson. BB9 7UT. We aim to print all submissions, please be patient if yours does not appear on these pages, all will be kept on file and in the next edition it could be you.

The Phantom
By Derek Gregson, Accrington

She slid along the pavement like a phantom,
Her flowing hair the colour of the night,
Her piercing eyes reflected in the street lamps,
Awash with tears that scattered in her flight.

She bowed her head to hide her face from others,
Sweeping back her hair with trembling hand,
A sob escaped her lips and plucked at heartstrings,
Too dolorous for any soul to stand.

She lurched against the wall inhaling deeply,
Her maiden’s bosom rising with each breath
A sense of tragic circumstance prevailing,
An omen tainted with the scent of death.

She staggered on, her firmness sorely tested,
Each halting step an effort to enact,
Until at last she tumbled to the pavement,
A groan of pain emitted on impact.

She scrambled to her knees, fighting exhaustion,
Sheer terror in her eyes, her breathing pained,
Her gaze locked on the entrance to the graveyard,
Whose rusting gates were stoutly locked and chained.

She crawled up to the gates and struggled upright,
A keening laugh exploding from her lips,
And all at once the chains about her shattered,
Obeisant to her pallid finger tips.

She turned to face the crowd in fluid movement,
The terror in her eyes replaced by fire,
No more the timid creature born of nature,
But more the very crux of man’s desire.

She hastened through the gateway as the moon rose,
Her haunting presence given to the night,
A marble tombstone soon her destination,
With epitaph displayed in ghostly light:

She Strode God’s earth until the age of twenty,
An orphan raised in service to the rich,
A happy child until her master used her,
And woke in her the powers of a witch!

Me and You
By Mrs Elsie Whittaker, Burnley.

I may not be able to read or write,
Drive a car, a two wheeled bike.
Go shopping at will, or catch a bus,
Just look around there are many of us.
I may need help, for that simple task,
A shoe lace tied, not to proud to ask.
But one thing's the same between me and you,
Hey, guess what, I have a heart too.
My feelings hurt just the same,
But as I am, I don’t complain.
I have aspirations in life too,
We’re just the same, me and you.
But when yours happen, materialise,
Mine never will, and a part of me dies.
But I accept my lot, I have no guile,
I’m happy you see, with my childlike smile.
And if we should meet, please remember it’s true,
There is no difference between me and you.

Remembered
By Gail Perkins

Remembering the wars and hand me down clothes,
There’s tears and laughs in black and white photographs,
Underground shelters, to nursing aids
Before or after bombing raids,
Vera, George or even Bob Hope,
Gave laughter. And will to cope,
Springfield nursing home
Many a child was born
Seven days of rest
Is always best.
New lives to carry us through,
They bring a sparkle of joy,
HOPE and the NEW.
Remembering the wars and me down clothes

I Wish
By Mollie Brown

The bible says your sell by date is three score years and ten.
Although I’ve got well past that date, I’m not ready to say ‘when’.
There are loads of things I haven’t done and places I’ve not seen.
For instance, I have not been asked to appear before the queen.

I haven’t climbed Mount Everest or sailed the Spanish Maine,
I haven’t abseiled down big Ben, done a free fall from a plane,
Nobody’s ever asked me to duet with P. Domingo
(Though perhaps I’d find that difficult- I haven’t learned the lingo!)

I would have liked to have a go at dancing with Gene Kelly
But, due to my arthritis, my old knees have turned to jelly,
I could have made it into films, romanced by Errol Flynn
But that was oh so long ago when I was young and thin.

I could have played the female lead in good old ‘south pacific
’ Eat your heart out Mitzi Gaynor; I’d have been terrific,
I might have led the suffragettes, been tied up to a railing,
Or done the world in eighty days with Mr Michael Palin.

I really wouldn’t change my life but a daydream can be fun
I’ve just one more ambition that would benefit everyone.
As Chancellor of the Exchequer I’d have sorted the reserve
And made sure senior citizens got the pension they deserve.

Life's Balance
By Graham Twist, Colne

If only we could keep life’s balance right,
Perhaps our goals wouldn’t seem out of sight.
We pay for our goods when we get the bill,
Balanced with cash when we get to the till.
For the food we eat we use weights and measures
Enhancing our health, those delicious pleasures.
But if we break the law we are brought to book,
When the scales of justice take a look.
If we tip the balance we could go to jail,
On the other hand the law may fail.
So in loving appreciation of our fellow man,
We should show our feelings as best as we can.
So to all God’s creatures great and small,
If we keep life’s balance, we will not fail.

Janet's Corner
by Francis Forrest

Janet’s corner started so small
Just a tiny box against the wall
So as she grew and grew and grew
That box it multiplied by two
Then boxes torn, oh such eye sore
We graduated to a drawer
This resting place of tumble out toys
Bursts at the seams with faded joys
It over spills, encroaches more
Her corner now becomes the floor.
A doll’s house here, a small pram there
Some tattered books on an easy chair
Our tidy thoughts, just useless dreams
Could never quell our young ones schemes
A prim straight home! Twas not to be
But we’ll not change it, no siree
For the happiness glowing in our bundle of vim
Is worth more to us than a home neat and trim.

Sculptures in the Sand
By Dorothy Mapley, Preston

I saw them in the morning,
The tide was out
And there they were -
Magnificently carved in sand,

Horses that would never run,
But every sinew, every muscle
Poised as if
To spring to life.

And through the sunlit day they rested,
How their perfect beauty
Drew the crowds!
The sea returned

Bringing horses of a different kind,
White foam to bear away
Those silent friends,
And as the tide receded,

They were gone.

Walking Day
Mrs. D. Clitheroe(nee Alker)Preston

When I was a child, growing up in Wigan,
The walking day was always a big ‘un.
Aunties, uncles, cousins and grannies too,
All in their Sunday best for a bit of a do.
The sun always shone I remember it well,
The man standing shouting, flags to sell.
The banners blowing, glinting in the sun,
The brass band playing, see the big drum.
Children cheering, crowds waving their flags,
Ladies with perms, matching shoes and handbags.
And after the walking, it’s party time,
Trestle tables full of food sublime.
Sandwiches, trifles, jelly and ice cream,
All these goodies, a little kiddie’s dream.
Everybody had fun, those were the days,
Yesterday’s memories of those wonderful walking days

This Girl
by Karen Stewart, Cleveleys

This girl
Hiding deep inside
Always felt denied.

But this girl
Hiding deep inside –
Knows that it wouldn’t be the same,
If she could live her life again.

For this girl
Who feels so much inside;
Who wants to be alive -
Would be recognised.

A Baker's Tale
By Pauline Gaffney

Old Ma Clegg from Malthouse Way
Did little else but bake all day,
But no-one flocked to eat her pies,
Her sponges always failed to rise,

Her bread was leaden to the core,
A biscuit, dropped, would crack the floor
. Her relatives, though kind and good,
Refused to eat such rock-like food.

So poor Ma Clegg, who couldn’t stop,
Whose baking was a total flop,
Was by confectionery surrounded,
In fact she was completely grounded.

The pies and cakes took all the space,
Yet still she baked at growing pace.
Meals were handed through the skylight,
But only in the misty twilight.

By loyal daughters, quite embarrassed,
And fast becoming very harassed.
Still on she baked, to their amazement,
From stores she’d hidden in the basement.

It seemed that there was no solution,
In spite of daughters’ resolution.
Till one day through the letter-box,
Ma flung a pie at barking dogs.

By chance a gent, just passing by,
The pie forlorn he did espy,
Ran to the Council, straight and true,
To show off his discovery new.

Now old Ma Clegg’s abode is free,
From all kinds of confectionery.
The Council took the lot away,
To build a modern motorway.