Writing out my memories

I'm not really afflicted by writer's block, but right now my stories seem to be avoiding me - perhaps they're giving me a break so I can recuperate.

Anyway, the days are filled with other stuff, mainly crochet and television (I've never watched so much!)

I need to get back to my structured day, I think.

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Every Saturday, my mother and I walked to her mother’s in the next village. She brought my younger brother and sister along with us, but they were both riding in the pram – my brother sat on the pram while my sister, still a babe in arms, slept most of the way.

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I seem to recall this was similar to the pram we all rode in as babies.

Whereas this is the seat my brother used. I must have used it too, before my sister came along.

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I remember the walk, for my five-year-old legs, it was arduous, and I remember complaining about not being able to ride like my brother. Uphill all the way, with varying degrees of steep slope to negotiate, the only saving grace was getting to stroke the ponies in fields along the walk.

Almost at the top of the hill, there was a derelict building and my mother told me it used to be a windmill. That in itself fascinated me. When I grew older, stories of ‘loot’ hidden inside the windmill fascinated me too – for different reasons. Treasure and old soldier’s uniforms were rumoured to be stashed there and we often made plans to go and find out for ourselves – but never did manage that particular adventure.

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On the way to my grandparents’ house, we would stop at a few shops on ‘The Street’ (High Street) and I remember the first one we visited on occasion. The Chemist’s shop with floor to ceiling drawers, tiny little drawers to house drugs, potions and ingredients. The drawers were a honey colour, with a small dark button on the front of each. The smell of that shop has stayed with me, a dusty, heady scent which could change with the opening of a drawer.

The Chemist moved further along the street and what had been the Chemist’s shop changed. The drawers remained, as did the scents, and I’m not even sure that it was still used as a Chemist when we used to visit.

Eventually we arrived at my grandparents’ house and there are a few things I remember. The feeling of familiarity upon walking into the kitchen, it was always warm and there was always the distinct smell of bread proving on the hearth. Grandad sat in the chair next to the fireplace and two aunts were usually bustling around the large table. Grandma was usually in the kitchen, arms up to the elbows, washing pots.

I have no idea how everyone fitted in that one room, but they did, along with chairs, another small table under the window and a fridge-freezer in the corner, next to Grandad’s chair.

Saturday was baking day, but it was also the day my grandmother washed the oven cloths for her brother-in-law.

She heated the water in the outhouse – a small, dark, brick-building with a toilet plumbed in right at the end. Before the toilet was a large sink and a ‘copper’ – a contraption for boiling water. I suppose it was a precursor to the modern washing machine. The copper had a mangle attached and we were forbidden to touch it.

She washed the oven cloths outside on the garden, using this. She called it a ‘Dolly tub’ and a ‘ponch’, but I’ve heard it called other things too.

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Sorry, I'm tired and my head is starting to ache so I'll leave you with this snippet of my childhood and come back to it again later.

Thanks for reading.