As I related in an earlier Anecdote, D.B. Stewart was not only a familiar teacher at Morgan, he was also a nearby neighbor on Shamrock Street in Dundee where he occupied – as a lifelong bachelor – a neat bungalow just 50 yards from our own home.
My encounters with Cheesie usually took the form of being trapped into walking back home with him ... something I tried hard to avoid since to be seen walking and chatting to a teacher was like fraternizing with the enemy. But since my father and Cheesie were friendly (and were each keen movie camera buffs) I had to make the best of these occasional homeward walks together.
But my feelings about Cheesie the teacher underwent a sea change one late Spring afternoon when I was again “trapped” into walking back home along Shamrock Street with D.B. When we reached Cheesie’s neat little home, he stopped and said: “Gordon, your father told me you have cousins in South Africa.” I nodded (they lived in Johannesburg and regularly sent us each year a dazzling fold-out photo-postcard showing the sights of South Africa). Cheesie smiled and added: “I want to show you something.” He unlocked his front door and beckoned me in.
I had never been inside his home and had never expected to be, so I was unsure of what Cheesie wanted to show me. But as soon as I had taken two steps inside his home, I was completely and utterly transfixed. It seemed that every wall, every table and every corner was filled with the artifacts of his travels around the world, with the majority of the pieces from various parts of Africa.
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There were spears of every size and colour plus native clubs called knobkerries. Beside them was a display of hunting shields of stretched skin painted in bright reds and yellows. Above one doorway there was a 5-foot long blowpipe complete with a couple of fluffy darts neatly attached to it.
“The natives use these blowpipes for hunting, Gordon,” Cheesie explained. “They dip the point of the dart into a poison. Once they hit a monkey or a bird with a dart it is paralyzed almost at once.” .
Down another wall stretched a collection of native robes and blankets, some with intricate stitching and laced with bright beads. In another corner, neatly arranged on a stand was a collection of native footwear made from animal skins. There were strings of native jewellery, nose rings, pendants and bracelets mostly of bone but some of brass and silver.
One entire wall was covered with African knives in every conceivable shape from short stabbing knives to elaborate ceremonial blades with intricate handles. In pride of place hung an impressive Zulu war axe with a large half-moon blade.
It was a stunning display – a small museum of natural history in the three small rooms of his house. Cheesie led me through it, pausing to touch a favourite object here and there, and giving me a short account of where each came from and the colourful history of the natives who had created it.
I remember he lifted down one beautifully-
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fashioned object from the wall. “This is called an assegai, Gordon,” he mumbled quietly, holding up the sharply-tipped spear. “They used them for hunting animals – or their enemies in time of war.”
Even more impressive, under each object or beside it was a small sign bearing Cheesie’s neat handwriting, describing it briefly, and telling of its origins in Africa. It was obvious that during his holidays Cheesie had travelled extensively throughout Africa and had made a point of adding to what was an impressive collection. In his own quiet way, D.B. Stewart had covered thousands of miles across a continent that obviously fascinated him and had faithfully recorded the local artifacts and weapons he acquired along the way.
I was absolutely gob-smacked with it all, and before I realized it an hour had passed, and Cheesie was patiently explaining the significance of the intricate carvings on the sides of a set of large wooden mixing bowls. He veered off a few times to tell me of some particular tribe’s unusual habits. “Now then, with regard to that tribe, you might be interested to know that ...” and off he’d go with a titbit of knowledge he’d learned on his travels.
Of course when I went home I couldn’t wait to tell my parents and my brothers of what I’d just seen and heard. For me it was all part of the growing-up process – catching a glimpse of the person behind the image they present to the world. In Cheesie’s case, that glimpse helped me see the deeper layers of a quiet and brilliant mind who sought that knowledge in his own special way.
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The Fifies 4
Voith Schneider
Hugh McGrory |
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So what the heck is a Voith Schneider, many of you are wondering (or maybe not, but I'm going to tell you anyway) (and by the way, Voith is pronounced Foyt in German). Here's a question for those of you who have seen the Tay Ferries 'Craig' motor vessels in action. Do you remember how they would come in to the pier bow first, and, after taking on new passengers, reverse out again? Then, before setting out on the crossing, they would turn around, almost in their own length. Did you ever wonder how they could do that? – it certainly never occurred to me at the time, but it really is quite unusual. Well that's where the Voith Schneider propulsion system comes in.
In 1825 a young man named Johann Matthäus Voith took over his father's locksmith business in Heidenheim in Southern Gemany. The firm employed five master locksmiths, skilled in precision metalwork, and they branched out to specialise in the repair of water wheels and paper mills. As early as 1830 the company constructed a wood grinder for paper making. In doing so, the foundation was laid for what was to become the large, international engineering group, Voith.
In 1922, Voith built, for the first time ever, a Kaplan turbine, a huge propeller that was rated at 1,100 HP, and also began to design and build gear drives. In 1927, the engineer Ernst Schneider and Voith at its location in St. Pölten, west of Vienna in Northern Austria, registered a patent for the Voith Schneider Propeller, which was built in the previous year on the basis of plans by the Viennese engineer. Its special feature – the ship propulsion system, which also assumes the steering, and allows a previously unreached degree of maneuverability for ships. This is the propulsion system that was bult into the MVs Abercraig and Scotscraig and that gave them their unusual agility.
| Kaplan Turbine | | Voight Schneider Propellers |
The illustrations below show the difference between the Voith Schneider and the standard marine propellor.
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The traditional approach is a propeller for propulsion and a rudder for steering. The Voith Schneider propeller system combines propulsion and steering in one unit. Also known as a cycloidal drive, it can move the ship in any direction through 360 degrees. It's particularly suitable for work boats such as tugs and ferries.
The functionaliy of the Voith system worked well in providing the Abercraig (1939 ) and the Scotscraig (1951 ) great maneuverability, but the system was relatively new, especially for the Abercraig, and this caused some spare part and reliability problems. With the with- drawal of the Sir William High in 1951
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the remaining steam paddler the B L Nairn, which was very reliable, was called into service quite often right up to the end of the ferry service in 1966.
In the past fifty years, the Voith Schneider Propulsion System has come a long way and is used throughout the world for ferries, tugboats (The Water Tractor), oil rig tenders and fire-fighting boats. See this video if you're interested.
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| Two Voith Schneider-Powered Ferries Doing Synchronised Pirouettes mid-Bosphorus, Turkey. |
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Things Ain't What They Used to Be
Bill Kidd |
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Far be it from me, a Harris FP, to question Gordon Findlay's judgement of what constitutes the truly memorable dishes of our childhood and adolescence! While I can relate to all of his choices there is one
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glaring omission. I still miss, Barrie's American Cream Soda. I can still recall that sweet, subtly perfumed taste, the perfect accompaniment to a white pudding supper or, in times of pecuniary embarrassment, chip shop fritters!
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Even after the sixty years since I left Dundee the memory still stimulates my salivary glands.
I know that one can still buy ersatz American Cream Soda but those currently on the market are merely a fizzy, inadequate copy of the real thing, totally incapable of cutting through the grease of a Dundee white pudding supper. Alas, I suspect my dream of finding a modern equivalent is just a dream and as unlikely as finding one of the four inch diameter Wagon Wheels biscuit of my youth.
Not only did Gordon's article set me thinking about our Dundee food heritage but it stimulated some thoughts about evocative Dundee smells! How many of us can recall the smell of hot chocolate that wafted through the centre of the City from Keiller's factory. How many of you deliberately walked down Castle Street to catch the scent of roasting coffee from Braithwaites and further down, the appetising smell of baking pies and bridies?
Less salubrious was the rather greasy odour of frying fat and vinegar that prevailed across the Mid Kirk
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Style market located behind the City Churches. There, for a few pence, you could buy a buster consisting of hot peas and vinegar with chips that had been cooked over a brazier. I never could bring myself to try this delicacy having already observed an elderly lady serve
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the chips by hand after first making sure that her hands were clean by licking them! Whar wus yer Health and Safety in the 1940s?
The more perceptive among you will realise that I have failed to mention the real smell of Dundee. I don't mean the gasworks at Peep o' Day Lane or the foundry smells that emanated from the Blackness Foundry but the all pervading smell of jute. You could smell it at the docks where bales of the stuff were unloaded on an
almost daily basis. You could smell it within half a mile of a jute mill, which effectively meant anywhere
along the main roads of the City. You could smell it on the trams and buses that carried the mill workers home, at times you could even smell it in the cinema!
Anyone who cannot clearly remember the real smell of Dundee can easily rectify this by picking up a new jute Bag for Life from the nearest Tesco. Just put your head in it, then take a deep breath to be instantly transported back to the Dundee of your childhood.
But remember, I attended Harris Academy.......!
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D.B. Stewart
Gordon Findlay |
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D.B. Stewart – “Cheesie” to all of us – was a long-time fixture on the teaching staff at Morgan. In my day I
believe he was Head of the English Department, but I think he also taught History.
Cheesie was a soft-spoken, gentle man and a lifelong bachelor. He taught English with the air of a charming old uncle so obviously in love with his subject he would lead the class cheerfully down through the thickets of language to expound on some rich and fruitful passage which had caught his fancy.
And always – always – these charming voyages through the language of Chaucer, Swift or Bacon would be prefaced by his favourite catchphrase, “With regard to . . .” and he’d be off, leading a class
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through lines of English prose to the sheer beauty of a polished phrase which Cheesie would then recite with the half-dreamy smile of a true believer.
His use of “With regard to” became Cheesie’s personal hallmark, and the catchphrase was sprinkled liberally through each and every one of his classes. So much so that one enterprising group of Fifth Formers set out to chart his use of the phrase throughout one full term, to see just how many times Cheesie would use it during a single class.
As I recall, those dedicated students’ heads would bob up the instant “with regard to” rolled out, and a quick mark would be made in a special notebook. They then compared notes at the end of class to see if their numbers matched. If my memory serves me correctly, Cheesie set his all-time record for the phrase one warm day in May when he managed to mumble it out 27 times in 45 minutes.
For me personally, Cheesie was more than just a teacher: he was also a neighbor, living in a neat bungalow just four houses away from our own home on Shamrock Street in Maryfield. Although I tried hard to avoid it, I would occasionally be on my way home when I would hear a soft voice behind me: “Hello, Gordon. Shall we walk home together?” and we would walk slowly together back along Shamrock Street. He would ask after my mother and father, and brothers, then inquire gently as to how I was doing at school.
I should have realized what a privilege it was, to have an exclusive conversation with Cheesie, one of Morgan’s senior teachers. But at that time in your young life your mind and your personality are still forming, and you give far too much attention to the views of your peer group. So, to be seen walking home, chatting with a teacher was – in schoolboy eyes – seen as sucking up, of toadying with the enemy . . . it was virtually an act of treason. So I tried to avoid these meetings at all costs.
My father was a keen amateur movie-maker, and he shared tips and hints on home movie-making with Cheesie. I can remember my father telling us that Cheesie had just bought himself the latest Kodak “Brownie” 9 mm movie camera.
Cheesie was to make full use of his Kodak “Brownie”. He filmed events at the annual Sports Day. He took it to Morgan’s forestry camp, getting all the activity and the high jinks recorded on film. Cheesie shot bits of rugby games, field hockey games and cricket. He occasionally roamed the school playground, quietly recording groups of students strolling around or draped over the stone balustrade that separated the upper grounds from the front lawn. (I know that, because I appear in just such a scene on the video disc made from Cheesie’s large collection of footage).
| Yours truly (4th from the left) at 'The Balustrade' c. 1947. |
Here was a man who loved the teacher role, who loved the subjects he taught, and who also loved the institution of which he was a part – so much so that he made it his business to record as much of it as he could on film. Which is why former pupils such as I – thanks to the “Cheesie Tapes” (available on DVD from the Morgan FP Association) – are able today to go back in time and see ourselves at that special age.
| Me again c. 1952/53 at Forfar Road after the annual PP v FP rugby game. |
All thanks to the one and only: Cheesie.
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The Fifies 3
The Motor Vessels
Hugh McGrory |
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There's no doubt that, when considering the lives of the 'Four Ferries' after they left the Tay estuary, the most interesting story, by far, is:
The Scotscraig
The MV Scotscraig was built in the Caledon Yard in Dundee, launched 1951. In Malta, like the Abercraig, it was used for various tasks around the island from collecting the onion harvest to having its car deck outfitted with strung lanterns, tables, chairs and umbrellas to take friends of the owners on a cruise to the adjoining island of Comino.
It would probably have met its demise in the same manner as the Abercraig if fate hadn't intervened in the form of Robert Altman who, in 1980, decided to make the movie 'Popeye' on location in Malta. It starred Robin Williams (in his first major movie role) as Popeye and Shelley Duval as Olive Oyl. Altman had a whole, wacky village created at Anchor Bay on Malta. (This was retained as a tourist attraction and still operates today.)
Many of you probably saw this movie, and may remember the opening scene when Popeye arrives in Sweethaven for the first time, rowing through the harbour to the jetty. The photo shows a clip from this scene – recognise the superstructure in the background? The Scotscraig itself was used as a filming platform for many of the water scenes, and also provided showers and toilet facilities for the movie crew.
When it came to shoot the opening sequence (it must have been towards the end of filming of the movie), the Scotscraig was sunk until the water level was
roughly halfway between the car deck and the upper level. This enables Popeye to row right over the car deck. See the scene here.
You can just see the vague outline of the boat under the water, and note the Scotscraig flagpole sticking up to the right of the rowboat and the in-character buoy warning the workboats to stay clear of the lifeboat davits on the Scotscraig's prow.
Some of you may remember another scene in the movie, where Popeye sings "I Yam what I Yam" in the casino/brothel (what Popeye refers to as “a house of ill re-pukes”). The photo shows a clip from this scene – recognise the poles, the bench seat, the row of windows? This is, of course, the passenger saloon on the Scotscraig's upper deck – seen in the photo above. See the scene here.
Any possibility that our ferry might have a big career in the movies was dashed, unfortunately, by subsequent events. The Maltese authorities decided to construct a protective breakwater across the mouth of the bay, and the Scotscraig was refloated and drafted into service – it finally had its superstructure removed, was up sunk up to deck level, and used as a construction platform.
On completion of the work, the boat was taken under tow to be moved to another location (presumably to a breaker's yard), a tow rope snapped, the ferry tilted and sank. The good news is that the one remaining of our four beloved ferries may still be visited – about two miles south west of Anchor Bay – the bad news is that you have to be able to scuba dive to a depth of 21 metres to do so.
The wreck is a popular diving site, and below are some underwater photos:
As can be seen the Scotscraig is relatively intact, and scuba divers who make the dive often see moray and conger eels, groupers, octopi, and the occasional stingray. The video here shows a dive (the commentary begins in Maltese but switches to English at about the 2 minute mark) and the divemaster shows a reasonably good knowledge of the history of the ferry.
It's rather pleasant to think that one of the four ferries that many of us grew up with is still known and providing a service to people – but I think most of us will prefer to remember the MV Scotscraig the way she looked on the last day of service, 18 August, 1966...
| Scotscraig Dressed for Last Day of Service |
Last Crossing – Recognise Anyone? |
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Gi'in' the Belt
Marion Mackay Clubb |
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My twin Isobel and I were in the playground at lunchtime when Joan Kilpatrick came along to join us. She had a balloon with her. It was turquoise and had cost seven pence. She had only blown it up once, so it was smooth and unwrinkled.
We crowded round. It was something new to us in 1947 when luxuries were scarce. She blew it up quite tight, then made to blow it up again! “Don't Joan, you'll burst it” we said – and burst it she did!
'Not to worry” she said ”look”, and she took the ruined balloon and tore it into bits. One portion she stuck over her middle finger, sucked it off, twisted it and ‘voila’, a tiny cherry. She handed out the four remaining bits and we all had a go.
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Then the bell went, we lined up, climbed the steps into the school building along the corridor and into the classroom, second on the left.
It was a dull day not made any brighter as Miss Chalmers announced we would be having an extra Arithmetic lesson. She spoke as if this was a treat, but no one cheered. She was a good teacher in that she managed to get most of the class through the ”qualifying exam” that gave entrance to the senior secondary education.
Forty-six pupils in our class of girls. With Miss on the far side of the room explaining a problem to a classmate, I took out my scrap of balloon and, following earlier
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instructions ”sooked” it off my finger, twisting it into a tidy little cherry. I gave it a tiny turn more and that was not a good idea as it exploded!
Not only did I get the fright of my life so did everyone else! All eyes were on my guilty red face. Miss Chalmers , commanded me out to the front, The tirade began and went on, eventually ending with the directive “Go straight to the Rector”.
I was shocked. If you went to the Rector he belted you and he was an expert. “Please don't send me to Mr Robertson” I whimpered.
“Go”, she said, and snivelling, I reluctantly went along the corridor to the Rector's
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room. I stood trembling – a be-gowned Peter Robertson opened the door to my knock. He looked down and said, “And what has a Mackay been doing that brings you here?”
“Miss Chalmers sent me.”
“What were you doing?”
In between sobs, I told him of my misadventure with a cherry balloon during an arithmetic lesson. I had the remnants of the ill-fated balloon in my hand, as a visual aid.
He then asked “Are you sorry for what you have done?”
“Yes, oh yes”.
"Will you ever do it again?”
“No, no, never', I said, wondering was I to be belted outside or inside his room.
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“Then go back to Miss Chalmers, tell her you are very sorry to have disturbed her class and tell her you will never ever do it again.”
I looked up in amazement. I was being dismissed!
“Off you go” he said. Was it my imagination, or was he smiling? I sped along to the classroom.
“Well?” Said Miss Chalmers.
“I am very sorry I disturbed your Arithmetic lesson, I will never do that again”, I rattled off.
Miss Chalmers turned to the class, ”She didn't go to the headmaster but I'll go and tell him!” With that she marched out off the room and along to the Rector's study.
As soon as she was out I was asked, ”Did you go?”
“Yes” I said ”I went all right.”
Back came Miss Chalmers with a face like thunder, “Go to your seat Marion – Isobel, you are to tell your parents about your sister's outrageous behaviour”. How Miss Chalmers expected one twin to clype on another I don't know!
We went on with our arithmetic problems, but the dull afternoon had definitely brightened ...
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The Fifies 2
The Motor Vessels
Hugh McGrory |
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Last time I spoke of the fate of the Tay Ferry paddle steamers – today it's the MV Abercraig (Aber refers to the mouth of a river, craig refers to sea-rocks, cliffs – c.f. crag.)
| Tell them apart? Abercraig's upper deck windshield has 2 large windows either side, the Scotscraig 5. |
Both boats sat in Victoria dock for more than a year, then in 1968, along with a huge stock of spares, they were sold to a Portsmouth company for £15,000, then sold on to Salvatore Bezzina of Malta .
As you know, Malta is a tiny island in the Mediterranean (see the map) south of Sicily, East of Tunisia and north of Libya. The Maltese are a seafaring nation
and Malta is one of the larger 'flag-of-convenience'
nations. There are many boats around the coast of the Maltese Islands, amongst these local freighters of various shapes and sizes. The photograph below is an example, a boat called the DePoala – ugly, but a practical vehicle carrier – basically just a rectangular box ...
The Abercraig
A steel motor vessel with fore and aft screws the Abercraig was built by Fleming & Ferguson, Paisley, and launched in 1939. After retirement from the Tay, and arrival in Malta in 1969, she was used for general local services for many years going through a conversion in 1986.
Take another look at the DePoala above, does it remind you of anything? Perhaps the paired photos below will prove to be a better aide memoire... Look at the Abercraig. Imagine chopping off the bow, removing the funnel and wheelhouse, chopping off the superstructure to just abaft the rear ramp, then replacing the wheelhouse.
The Maltese De Poala is our Abercraig after conversion in Malta. Sic transit gloria mundi...
The vessel was finally taken out of service, and was often seen by Dundonian tourists lying in Marsa Harbour. Indeed, in 1994 a public meeting was held in Dundee to try to raise funds to bring the Abercraig home, but nothing came of this. and the boat was scrapped in 1995, because the owner was under pressure to clean up his part of the harbour.
The Scotscraig story is the most involved of the four – next time I'll tell you how she fared after leaving Dundee for Malta.
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The Golden Eagle
Gordon Findlay |
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Growing up in Dundee, I was familiar with the city’s claim to industrial fame: the three “Js” – jute, jam and journalism. The Eagle Jute Mill (and several others like Caldrum Works, Halley’s and Camperdown) were a familiar part of the city. Janet Keiller had reportedly invented marmalade in 1797 and Keiller’s jams and marmalade were produced at one site near our home in Maryfield.
And then, of course, there was D.C. Thomson, the largest independent publisher in the U.K. and a longtime fixture in the city with a large downtown plant and offices at Meadowside.
Working as a journalist had always been in my sights, and after saying goodbye to Morgan in ’49 with my treasured “Highers” I applied to and was accepted as a junior sub-editor at D.C.’s.
The company was fiercely independent. In union-strong Scotland that might have seemed a difficult path for a publisher, many of whose employees were hourly-rated pressroom workers. But D.C.’s owners were very canny. They matched the union rate for these workers to the very penny, installed modern equipment and offered them good working conditions, free of the petty rules and regulations which afflicted their unionized brethren. D.C. Thomson’s was a sought-after place to work ...
As a junior reporter I, of course, worked in the offices stacked above the ground floor printing presses. By today’s standards, the offices we worked in were laughably cramped and ancient. The desks and the chairs were all wooden, and most of them had seen better days. The old-fashioned incandescent lighting made things murky on winter’s days. You needed a senior reporter’s OK to make a long-distance phone call. You sharpened pencils down to the nub. Plus, of course, you wrote on BOTH sides of sheets of paper. And I loved every second of it ...
The highlight of the week was, of course, Friday. Pay day. Golden Eagle Day. My own kids have collapsed in fits of giggles when I have told them how we were paid. Here’s what happened ...
Some time around four o’clock on a Friday afternoon a low whisper would flit around the newsroom. “The Golden Eagle’s on his way!” Most people would quietly take a fast look through the glass wall to see if they could catch a sighting. Then, magically, he would appear, the Golden Eagle in person. And back then, at D.C. Thomson, we had a paymaster who was really golden in his own way ...
He was a youngish man, in his late 30s, and I’ve long forgotten his name, but he was graced with a full head of curly red hair. He was officially D.C. Thomson’s Assistant Cashier at Meadowside, but his mop of unruly red locks was unmistakable – and on a sunny day with the light behind him, he became positively incandescent...
He would appear every Friday afternoon like some golden Greek god, on one floor after the other in our building, balancing a large wooden tray in his hands. On this tray were racks and racks of small paper envelopes. On each envelope, written in careful longhand, appeared your name and most important of all – the pounds shillings and pence to which you were entitled. .
The “Golden Eagle” would stop at your desk and would demonstrate his perfect memory for every face – new and old – in the building by sounding your first name. As you nodded, he would then hand over your envelope with a quick smile, before he looped away to his next happy client.
Like most everyone else, I tore open my envelope and slipped the notes and coins into my hand to fully relish the look and feel of them, and the power they gave me. I could take my girlfriend to the pictures. Buy a pint with the lads. Put petrol in my bike. I was rich again, at least for a wee while.
I know D.C.’s payroll system was slow, labour-intensive and old-fashioned. But at the time it seemed completely sensible in that steady, reliable and common sense Scottish way. And the joyful flight of Meadowside’s “Golden Eagle” was a ritual I’ve never forgotten.
PS from Editor
Gordon's description of the Eagle with the sunlight behind him, reminded me of something – I tracked it down to a painting of Gordon Lightfoot by Ken Danby, the well-known Canadian painter renowned for creating highly realistic paintings – see it here.
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The Fifies 1
The Paddle Steamers
Hugh McGrory |
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If you grew up in the Dundee area in the 1940s/50s/60s you’ll remember the four ferries – two, the MVs (Motor Vessels) Abercraig and Scotscraig in regular use, and the two older PSs (Paddle Steamers) Sir William High and BL Nairn, which saw only occasional use, when either the Abercraig or Scotscraig were pulled from daily service for maintenance or repairs.
I had only a vague idea of the life history of these four well-loved ferries, which came to an end in 1966 when the new road bridge made the ferry service obsolete. At that time the craft were moored in Victoria Dock and advertised for sale.
I decided to a bit of research to see what actually happened to each of the four:
The Paddle Steamers
The BL Nairn
Built in the Caledon shipyard in Dundee, the very last paddle steamer to be built there, the BL Nairn was launched in 1929, and, like its older sister the William High, was a side-paddle steamer with independent paddle wheels (making it easier to steer than coupled wheels). The engines were made by the Lilybank Foundry Works, Dundee. After trial runs in the Tay, it was certified for 780 passengers in winter and 1107 in summer.
It had a reputation as being “The most hard-worked and most reliable vessel ever built for passage on the Tay ferry route” – but it didn't have a perfect record...
One evening in 1934 it got stuck in the mud for nearly three hours at Craig Pier. The steamer arrived from Newport at 7:45 pm, landed and embarked passengers, and lay at the pier until she was due to sail again. However, the Captain misjudged the tide, and when the engines were started the boat couldn't move, the bow being stuck fast.
The passengers had to come ashore again by the gangway. Some crossed the Tay by train, others waited – being the later part of the evening there was only one boat on the run. Fortunately, the Sir William High, was lying in deeper water at the west side of the pier with steam up. The boat was quickly manned and resumed the service about nine o'clock.
Only one run – the 8.15 was missed, the Sir William High making two crossings to and from the Fife side. The B. L. Nairn was refloated on the rising tide at 11.15, just as the Sir William High arrived at the pier to tie up for the night.
The BL Nairn was named after Boswell Nairn who was a local ship-owner, in a small way, between 1886 and 1908 when his company became shipping agents. Later it amalgamated with The Den Line, which had been established by Captain David Barrie when he left the sea. The new company was named Barrie and Nairn – it still provides freight forwarding services in Dundee.
While the two MVs were the work horses through the ‘50s and ‘60s, the Nairn was quite often called into service.
The BL Nairn was acquired by Hughes Bolckow Shipbreaking Company and broken up in their yard at Blyth, Northumberland in 1967/68.
Sir William High
The William High (named after a Lord Provost of Dundee) was launched from the Caledon yard in 1924, with a certificate to carry up to 1,100 persons.
It was re-named the 'Sir William High' in 1929. In 1948 it managed to become stranded on Fowler Rock off Dundee harbor, on a falling tide and in fog. It was refloated in damaged condition, repaired for £8,000 and fitted with Radar for a further £3,500.
It was laid up in 1951 (replaced by MV Scotscraig) and the following year it was sold to the Ojukwo Transport Co., Ltd, Nigeria for £15,000. It left Dundee under tow by the Panamanian-flagged Steamer "Santelena" – rather ignominiously towed stern first, unmanned, with a deck cargo of two small tugs.
After stops in Dakar and Abidjan to discharge tugs, it arrived in Lagos late December 1952. The Dundee Registry was cancelled and it was renamed the "Ojukwo" with a Lagos registration.
It was fitted for river service on the Niger, and proceeded under its own power some 400 miles up-river to Onitsha to provide a general cargo service. Regretfully this didn’t work out since the side-loading feature proved unsuitable.
I got to thinking about why the boat, apparently, wasn't fit for purpose. The photo to the right may provide a clue. This shows a stretch of waterfont in Onitsha in 1950. If the Sir William had been a bow or stern loader, it would have taken up the width of perhaps three of the boats shown – as a side-loader, it would probably have displaced five times as many local boats. I wonder if that was the issue...
Our old Tay ferry was returned to Lagos and laid up. Presumably it was eventually sold for scrap.
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Ironically, the towship, the Santelena (originally The Allara), returned to Scotland after delivering the Sir William High and was itself scrapped in 1954 at Charlestown, Fife.
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Next time I'll tell you how our two 'Craig' ferries fared after they left the Tay.
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Hugh's flying tales gave me an instant nostalgia hit.
In 1951 a few Morgan pals joined the Air Training Corps instead of school cadets, and we were taught to get haircuts, press trousers, and say yes sir! All useful in later life...lots of flights were on offer in those days, from Tiger Moths to Ansons and even the famous Lancaster.
Ronnie Duncan and I did a gliding course at Grangemouth. Heady stuff for 15 year olds – we were flung into the air on the end of a long cable with a whacking great engine at the other end, and eventually flew solo. We were given a certificate and a badge, which I have to this day.
One memorable trip I had was in a Hastings from Lyneham to Gibraltar (6 very noisy hours). Just before I went deaf I found that the Station Commander's Vauxhall Velox on board was unlocked, so I spent most of the time in peace and quiet. So I suppose I can claim to have flown to Gib. in a car!
As a Sergeant cadet In 1953 I won a Flying Scholarship at Scone, using Tiger Moths (this is the actual one I soloed in, G-AHUV). It's 80 years old and still flying in Scotland. At the end I found myself in the unusual position of being a 17 year old schoolboy with a Private Pilot's Licence but no driving licence! Naturally I couldn't afford £2.50 an hour, so no flying for a while...
By this time I was determined to be an RAF pilot, but first an engineering degree seemed a good idea, so I signed up with St. Andrews University Air Squadron which flew Chipmunks from Crail. Heaven! A flying club but with pay (a little)! We were taught aerobatics, formation and navigation. We thought we were the bee's knees – uniform with the White Officer Cadet shoulder flash, and full RAF gear – flying suit, boots, parachute, Mae West, helmet goggles, oxygen mask and the ultimate poser's white cape leather gloves! Having flown before I was able to solo quickly. No airways, few regulations and we flew pretty well where we liked. Not today, many more rules and less fun.
This is one of the St. AUAS Chipmunks (beautiful aircraft) at Leuchars.
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Maybe I spent too much time flying, but Meg Leitch's forecast came true, I failed maths in a big way and was asked to leave! Plan A was put into action and off I went to RAF selection tests. I had done it all before, so it should be easy. Well it wasn't. "No thank you, your eyesight is not good enough."
At this point I realised there was no plan B, and H M govt. invited me to do National Service, or else! After a year training I was posted to Malta as an Airborne Radar Technician for the second year. Sounded ok but it was the radar that was airborne, not me! I had a few test flights to check intermittent faults in Meteors and Shackletons, but not many. Despite everything, I enjoyed my stint before returning to real life.
In 1970 I was hit with the bug again and joined the Angus Gliding Club, and became an instructor for some years. The Company I worked for had a club for Rallye aircraft enthusiasts so I renewed my licence in 1973 after being required to do 10 hours, cross country and all the written exams.
Also for a few years I was in a syndicate which owned a Scheibe Falke (semi aerobatic) motor glider, and had a lot of fun with that. To this day I detest flying in airliners, but like small planes which can be turned upside down!
I managed to fly on and off until 2005, when I failed the annual medical, and now design, build and fly only radio controlled model aircraft (which is much more difficult)!
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Ferry, cross the ...
No. Not the Mersey!
Hugh McGrory |
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Ian Gordon who has written several entertaining stories for our collection suggested that ‘The Fifies’ would be a good topic – which got me reminiscing … I hope this little story will bring back happy memories for many of you.
My Dad’s brother, my Uncle Barney, died too young, just 42, in 1945. His widow, my mother’s sister, my Auntie Ev, continued to live in Lower Methil, Fife, for a few years (before they moved to Dundee) with her children, my cousins Mike and Frank.
The sister’s were quite close, and so in summer, in the late ‘40s, the two families would take a holiday together for a week or two, either at their house or ours.
Methil was a foreign country to me. The Methil folk spoke quickly, in an accent that I sometimes had trouble understanding, and used words, from time to time, that I didn’t know. But I loved being there – and our trip was exciting, an adventure.
A wee bit of geography first, for those of you 'wha're no from aroond here'... we're talking about the East of Scotland. If you refer to the map, Dundee is on the north shore of the River Tay, Edinburgh is further south, on the south shore of the River Forth. Fife County is the land mass between the Tay and the Forth, as shown in the map, and Methil is on the north shore of the Forth, just east of Buckhaven. (The red line is not significant – it shows the Fife Coastal Path.)
We would take a bus 'doon the toon' then walk along Dock Street and down South Union street past the lineup of vehicles waiting to board one of the vehicular ferries (known locally as the 'Fifies') that crossed the River Tay to Newport-on-Tay, Fife, then take another bus to complete our journey. I loved the ferries – hated the buses. My problem was that I was very prone to travel sickness when on a bus or a car (tramcars and trains were fine...).
One of our parents would buy tickets at the old Booking Office (at some point, this old building was demolished and rebuilt, and the entrance moved to the other side of the building). We'd then walk through the gates onto the pier itself. It had a sloping boat ramp surfaced in what we referred to as cassies, actually granite setts – like dressed cobblestones (the word cassie comes from causeway...).
The river is tidal at Dundee, so depending on whether the tide was in or out, the waterline might be quite close or further down the slope. We kids would edge closer to the water (until our parents spotted us), and sometimes, when the boat arrived the bow wave would sweep up the ramp – anyone not paying attention could end up with wet feet.
We'd have to wait until the vehicles and passengers had disembarked, then we could traipse on and our parents would try to get a good seat (with a view, but sheltered from the wind).
We kids would have lots to see of interest – how the deckhands handled the hawsers, how they lowered and raised the access ramp, how they organised the vehicles as they boarded, squeezing them together to get the maximum load – and, if you stood by the door to the engine room, which was often left open, the smell of hot oil and the sight of massive crankshafts going back and forward was mesmerising.
The crossing took approximately 20 minutes, with 10 minutes allowed for boarding/disembarking. This regular service on the hour and the half-hour required two ferries to be on duty and a feature of the crossing was seeing the ‘other’ ferry passing in mid-river. Since the Tay is tidal at Dundee, the route varied somewhat depending on the tide level. At high tide, the ferry could plow straight across in about ten minutes, but at low tides, the many sandbanks in the river required a more varied path. (The ferry service ended in 1966 with the completion of a road bridge – during the last two years of the service, the road bridge construction lay across the ferry route, so for the last two years the sailings were tidal).
When we reached Newport Pier, the passengers would all rush off onto Boat Road before the vehicles disembarked, some to walk home, or to their parked cars, some to seek refreshments at the Brig O'Tay Restaurant (F. McGrory, proprietor – no relation) others to traipse up the hill to Windmill Park,
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for a picnic and to let the kids run around and play on the slides and roundabouts, (the old photo shows the view from Windmill Park, which some of you will remember, high above Newport, to the Tay Rail Bridge).
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Many, like us, would head for the bus stops to catch a bus to somewhere in Fife. The buses were usually double-deckers, local, not express, and seemed to stop at every little village and every second farm-road end. I
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would usually last until the village of Kennoway – on a good day I might make it another couple of miles to Windygates – then I’d have to get off the bus, throw up in the gutter, then stagger back on and sit, comatose, until we arrived in Methil.
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I know that some of you good people reading this are feeling sorry for the wee lad who had to endure this epic cross-country journey to this foreign land – and it’s appreciated – but I probably should state, for those of you that don’t know, the distance door-to-door as the crow flies is about 20 miles, by road, 30...
The River Tay is a mighty waterway – 180 miles long, 7th longest in the UK, longest in Scotland, and 1st in the UK in terms of volume of water discharged. There have been regular ferry crossings from the Dundee area to Fife for centuries. From the early 1800s a passenger and vehicle ferry service operated across the River Tay between Craig Pier, Dundee and Newport-on-Tay.
I used to love the ferry ride, the views up and down-river, of Dundee and the Fife coastline, the distinctive sound and rhythmic vibration of the engines in the background – and the refreshing sea-air – just what I needed on the return trip to get rid of my travel sickness…
PS
Writing this got me wondering what happened to the four ferries that were so well loved by Dundonians. I had heard vague stories about Africa and the Mediterranean, and decided to do some research to see if I could come up with the real stories. I'll share the fruits of my labour with you next time.
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The idea was floated by the smallest member of my group of pals, Colin Barclay. Colin was definitely on the short side, even at 10 years old. The rest of our “gang” were all at least a head taller than wee Colin who made up for his vertical shortage by having just about the reddest hair in Dundee.
No doubt about it: Colin was our Mafia don despite his shortness – or maybe because of it. His fiery nature matched his hair: he was a terrier on the fitba’ pitch, he would take on anyone of any size, and always had a fast answer ready in his mouth. We didn’t call him a wee nyaff – but many others did ...
But on this October day, Colin had apples on his mind. In particular, the apple tree that belonged to Mr. Mathieson on Shamrock Street, where we all lived.
It seemed that Colin’s mother had been talking to Mrs. Mathieson and in the conversation, the good lady had mentioned that their apple tree was about to produce a bumper crop. “The tree is just full of them this year. Donald (her husband) is fair excited about it.”
And now Colin gathered our wee gang together to hear his latest plan – a raid on Mr. Mathieson’s apple tree while the fruit was ready and ripe.
We were all expected home about half-an-hour after the street lights came on at night. That would be lots of time, Colin said, for us to get to the prize tree. We’d gather in Brucie Davidson’s back garden (he was one of our gang) and from there we’d squeeze through one privet hedge, then up on to the wooden fence that ran down one side of Mr. Mathieson’s garden.
The apple tree grew close to this fence. We’d be able to reach out and help ourselves to the fruit, fill our pockets, and go back the same way. “We’ll be eating apples
for a week!” Colin said rubbing his hands. Excited by the prospect of excitement, danger and free apples, we were all for it.
The night came and at first all went well. We eased through Mr. Davidson’s hedge, scooted across the next garden, then one by one, got ourselves up on to Mr. Mathieson’s big solid wooden fence.
This was going to be a cakewalk ... There was an air of bravado as we pulled ourselves along the top of the fence towards the laden apple tree, seeing the lights on in the house behind their curtains, knowing we were about to pinch a pile of their juicy apples.
We reached the tree and it was easy. The fruit was hanging thick. We reached over and filled our pockets , two in each. (Why didn’t we bring a wee bag? Good question.) Then Norrie Anderson (another one of our wee gang) got greedy.
He swung out from the fence to try to get one last, huge apple. And lost his balance. The next thing we saw and heard was Norrie falling on to a little metal chair sitting under the tree. It broke his fall but he hit its edge, yelled in pain, and the chair went crashing onto the metal table beside it. And on the table were a selection of flowers in metal pots.
The crash and clatter and Norrie’s scream would have wakened the whole street. The side door burst open, spilling light on to the garden, the fence, Norrie – and us, cowering on the fence. Mr. Mathieson himself came walking out. The jig was up.
And here was where I learned a great lesson in compassion and good humour. Mr. Mathieson surveyed Norrie, nursing a bleeding knee and a sore arm. And the
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rest of us, now down off the fence, cowed and nervous, our pockets bulging with his apples. He carried it off beautifully.
“Well, lads,” he said, “I see you’ve been pickin’ meh apples for me.”
His wife quickly cleaned off Norrie’s knee and Mr. Mathieson told us to put all the apples on the table.
“Now,” he said, leaning in toward us. “I’ve seen you all on the street. I know who you are, and I know your folks. I’ll be round to have a wee talk to them.”
With that ominous threat hanging over our heads, we gloomed away back home without a word spoken. Our parents were going to kill us. The horror! The shame! Our lives were over.
But you know what? Mr. Mathieson never did. Bless his heart: that decent man never said a word to any of our parents. And we never went near his place again.
The Great Shamrock Street Apple Robbery passed quietly into history.
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It’s the early ‘60s. The stage is in darkness. A spotlight comes on focused on the side curtain, stage right. A lantern appears attached to a staff – then a foot followed by a head, looking around.
There’s a pause then part of a human torso and a second leg – then a third leg – and, amid gales of laughter, Peter Cook hippity-hops onto the stage to perform a hilarious three-legged man act. (Rolf Harris made this famous some years later with his Jake the Peg act.)
If you haven’t seen the three-legged man shtick before here’s an example from a street magician.
There’s an American magician named Rudy Coby who does a variation – The Four-Legged Man.
However, all of the above is background to introduce the fact that I have actually done... a five-legged shtick.
This happened in the early ‘70s. At the time I was managing the computer department for a firm of Canadian Consulting Engineers. I tried to cultivate an informal atmosphere in the department – we were, after all, oddbodies, trying to bring the world of computing into a conservative engineering company.
We worked weird hours – sometimes into the wee sma’ oors on things that no one else in the firm really understood (sometimes we didn’t either – hence the long hours), and I was reading ‘the book’ one day ahead of the rest…
On this particular occasion I had something I wanted to say to them all – some type of group behaviour, high-jinks, that they had fallen into and that I wanted to nip in the bud; so I wanted to project a friendly, but firm, mien – a certain gravitas to get the message over...
I asked them – there were about 6 or 7 in the department at that time – to gather in the programmers’ area. I walked into the room and noticed a chair just inside the door which surprised me – not the chair itself, but the fact that it was empty – usually it held a pile of computer paper – from a few inches to a couple of feet deep – the continuous, fan-fold, 15”’x 11” paper from computer print-outs.
To digress for a moment. When I joined the firm, in 1966, there was no computer (the story is too long to go into here, but I was tasked with bringing in a computer and creating a department). I scrounged around
the firm to pick up some furniture, desks, chairs etc., and discovered a store room with some pieces gathering dust from way back in the firm’s history (founded in the 1910s).
The chair was one of those, probably 60 years old, perhaps a lot more, with cane webbing in a round seat – rather like the one in the photograph.
The staff were standing around in the room in a rough semi circle, and when I saw
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the chair, it seemed like a good idea, for some reason that escapes me, to grab it, turn the back away from me, put my right foot on the seat and lean my weight on my knee. So far so good…
As I began to speak, though, the long-serving cane reached the end of its life – my foot went through the seat (I was wearing my usual oxfords) but stuck against the rim halfway through with my heel jammed and my toes pointing, rather painfully, up into the air.
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Not a major problem – yet – but since I was leaning forward at the time, the sudden downward movement of my foot threw me off balance and my weight, moving forward, began to tip the chair. To counter this, I very quickly swung my left leg forward and to the right.
While this was a good idea, I was a little too enthusiastic about it, and caused a rotational movement which forced my right leg, chair attached, into the air. For one adrenalin-filled moment, I was a five-legged man gyrating in some kind of wild polka…
My back was now to the assembled crew, and I felt myself falling back towards them, about to land on my ass. Fortunately, two of my guys grabbed me, an arm each. At first I thought I was going to take them down with me, but they held on and steadied me enough that I was finally able to stand on my own five feet.
While they held onto me, I tried to pull my foot out – no go. They tried to pull it out – no go. I tried to push it through, almost breaking my toes – no go.
Finally, one of them said “OK, sit on the floor”. I did. He then sat facing me, his two legs facing my five. He grasped the legs of the chair, put the sole of his foot against my sole and pushed – and my foot popped out, shoe attached.
The chair looked rather like the photo (but it continued to hold printouts for us for many years); the toe of my right shoe stuck up at about a 25 degree angle (took a bit of work later to get it back into reasonable shape).
In any event, I managed to achieve the initial purpose of my meeting, and get my message across – they weren't likely to forget that meeting in a hurry! But gravitas?… not so much!
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PS
I believe that Peter Cook performance I saw in the early ‘60s was on TV, not in a theatre, though I’ve never been able to find confirmation anywhere (including Google searches).
If any reader remembers seeing it, please let me know to confirm for me that I'm not making it up – it’s bugging me…
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What's in a Name?
Anne FitzWalter Golden |
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I have always, as long as I remember, been fascinated by words and their meaning, such as how a town or street or house got its name, what a particular name meant and so on. From an early age if we did not know the meaning of a word father made us look it up in the dictionary, complete with its origin.
As a teenager, although I was a duffer at Latin....with Miss Eadie and Ma Ramsay...and did not enjoy all those Roman wars etc, it is such a brilliant language for our understanding that I wish I had paid more attention. It was such a help too for French and that I did enjoy, especially with Ma MacDonald.
I should point out at this stage that I am an enthusiastic family historian. Thus another of my wishes is that I had paid more attention to Miss Stewart, alias Kipper Feet, as I had to attend adult education class for many years in my retirement in order to put my family history in to context...not that she taught any English history!
So what about us FitzWalters! It is little wonder that I investigated this name and then became hooked on family history. Identical twins Anne and Christine FitzWalter joined Morgan Academy in 1948 from Downfield Primary. We had moved to Dundee in 1946, at the end of the war from the Scottish Borders. Now I can tell you, if you did not already know, that we are....descended from...bastards!
Fitz is of Norman origin and was the designation for bastards of the royal Dukes (Kings) of Normandy. One of our ancestors is described as Walter FitzWalter, dapifer regis (Steward of the King's Household).
Walter meant leader of a great army. I have traced the FitzWalters back through Norman Kings to the Vikings, to Rollo who conquered Normandy, then back through the Vikings and Norse legends to the Kings of Knevland 165AD. Then forward to us.
Our FitzWalter ancestry originates from the bastard Uncle and guardian of William the Conqueror, whose son fought in 1066 at the Battle of Hastings, alongside his cousin William, also a bastard (not much hope for us!). The FitzWalters have been fighting ever since .. Christine and I argue all the time!
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They were always royal supporters and close to the Court at least up to the end of the Tudors. They have changed sides from time to time! Once they were supporters and battle commander for Maud, daughter of Henry 1st to whom they had pledged allegiance when she fought her cousin Stephen for the crown. She secured it for her son Henry 2nd.
Henry 1st's favourite bastard, of about 20 plus, and only surviving son after his son William was drowned in the White Ship disaster when returning from France, was Richard of Gloucester who he fathered with Nesta, the Princess daughter of Llewelyn of Wales who just happened to be married to Gerald FitzWalter, the Keeper of Windsor Castle.
The most famous or infamous FitzWalter was Robert, 1st Baron FitzWalter who led the Barons' revolt against King John, forcing the signing of Magna Carta in 1216. I got two articles published on that! and of course I lived quite
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close to Runnymede in 2016 at the 800th anniversary.
Another FitzWalter changed sides and was beheaded by Henry 7th for supporting the usurper Perkin Warbeck's claim to the crown. However his son showed such prowess at jousting that Henry 8th brought him back to court and blessed his marriage to his cousin Elizabeth Stafford. Henry then sent FitzWalter to fight in the wars with France and promptly took Elizabeth as his mistress. To keep FitzWalter on side he allowed him to carry the salt (above the salt and all that!) at the baptism of Henry's only son Edward, the poorly child-King who succeeded him to the crown. He also created him Viscount in 1527 so FitzWalters were both Lords of Essex and Earls of Sussex, titles they held until the titles went into abeyance in 1756 with the death of Earl Benjamin FitzWalter, who died without heir.
I could tell you many interesting stories throughout the centuries.. e.g. if you are ever in Canterbury cathedral you will find the tomb of Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury 1198-1204. He dropped the Fitz...not good to be an archbishop and a bastard!!!
The title was in abeyance until 1924 as it was thought than another possible claimant had not come forward. My grandfather got interested but did not pursue a claim. The earldom was discontinued but the barony was then awarded to a descendant through marriage to a sister of the 1756 Earl FitzWalter.
The current Lord FitzWalter is Julian of Goodestone Park near Canterbury. I had been in correspondence
with his late father and Christine and I went to Goodestone Park to meet him, but unfortunately he had been called away that day to London. My daughter and family did manage to meet him and his wife, Margaret nee Deedes, sister of the late Bill Deedes. You may remember that he accompanied Princess Diana to minefields. I also heard that Princess Diana had stood up Julian's brother George when she got engaged to Prince Charles, as she was supposed to be going to the ballet with him that evening....a decoy perhaps.
Lord Julian FitzWalter, a direct descendant to Baron Robert De FitzWalter, generously contributed to the conservation fund to enable the Magna Carta Baron’s display at the The Beaney House of Art and Knowledge, Canterbury’s cultural hub. Post conservation, The Beaney welcomed him to visit his namesakes sculpture in the exhibition room.
Few can claim such prolific lineage, tracing their family history back from the time of the signing of the Magna Carta in 1215. This continued throughout the Tudor period where the Fitzwalters were leading courtiers and politicians, later becoming the Earls of Sussex.
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That's a little look into our ancestry and our very rare FitzWalter name. I should tell you that we, our parents and grandfather were the only FitzWalters in the Scottish records 1535 until the 1960 s when a father and son turn up in Glasgow. They were from a branch of FitzWalters who settled in Devon – I am in contact with them and I believe they have now returned south. ( I now live in Devon, Christine in Inverness...keeping easyJet in business!!!). No FitzWalter has ever died in Scotland.....question is, should I now return?
I conclude by telling you that we are mostly English! We were born in Scotland because our grandfather Wilfred FitzWalter MBE, of the Army Service Corps, who was decorated both in the Boer War and Great War was posted to the Scottish Borders in 1903 to open up Stobs Army Training Camp, known as the Aldershot of the North. He married there in 1907... Stobs Castle, where the officers were billeted, given as his place of residence.... our father was born in 1908 in Hawick.
After various army postings and the Great War they were in Ash Vale near Aldershot when his mother died. Our father was sent back to Scotland to be brought up by his Scottish Granny......and the rest is history.
I hope you have enjoyed reading this little dip into our family history and that it may make you think of the meaning of your family name and your history.
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Miss Appledaisy
Hugh McGrory |
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I’m pretty sure that, if asked, most of you could still name the teacher(s) who had the most impact on your life.
I suspect that many of these would be primary school teachers. For me, despite having many excellent secondary school teachers at Morgan Academy, and a few at university, the two I remember most are Miss Laing and Miss Macpherson, my early primary teachers at Dens Road School.
In the late 70’s I tracked down Miss Laing's whereabouts – she was retired and living in a small house in Victoria Street, Broughty Ferry. I sent her a summary article about a teacher, Miss Appledaisy, and thanked her for efforts to educate the wee me.
A little background – I spent 10 years managing college teachers (or as the saying goes, herding cats …) as a Department Chair and Associate Dean. It was an ‘interesting’ time, with much management/faculty interaction (think strike) regarding workload, class size, salary levels …
One argument put forward by the faculty union regarding remuneration was that teachers' salary scales should increase from early education through secondary, college, and university.
I argued the exact opposite – that kindergarten/early-primary teachers should receive the highest salaries – they have the most difficult job (herding kittens?) and have the most impact on pupils’ futures. This was a perception on my part, not based on objective fact. (I believe that, sadly, post-primary teachers are often asked to manage the stable after the horse has gone – too late to have a major effect on their students.)
Then I read about Miss Appledaisy … I’ve told her story often since then, describing her as a Primary 1 teacher in the Catholic School System in Montreal, Quebec. In doing some further research for this story I realised that she actually spent her working life teaching in a Protestant school, the Royal Arthur School, in one of the poorest districts of Montréal.
Her name was Iole Appugliese, (pronounced Yolly Appul Yazy). The Grade 1 kids couldn’t handle this, hence ‘Miss Appledaisy’. She taught the youngest children at Royal Arthur for 34 years.
She was just five feet one inch tall, but she didn’t have discipline problems – her pupils responded positively to her obvious affection and interest in them as individuals. She had a major objective for her Grade 1s – that they leave her class knowing how to read – and she spent after-class hours with those who needed extra help. Many of the children at Royal Arthur lived in poverty, and she was known to share her lunch with students, from time to time, when she saw the need.
Miss Appledaisy retired in 1971 at the age of 58 when she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She could still address former students by name after 30 or 40 years. She died in 1973.
Eigil Pedersen was a pupil at Royal Arthur – he was not one of Miss Appledaisy’s students. He later taught at the school for five years and eventually became a Professor of Education, and VP Academic, at McGill University in Montreal.
One of the early areas of research that Dr. Pedersen undertook with two colleagues was the exploration of the impact of early teaching on the achievement of pupils in later classes and in life after school. The methodology was to use records of Grade 1 students at Royal Arthur together with interviews of some of these students as adults.
At the school, Primary 1 students were allocated to one of three teachers with no attempt to stream into ability groups. It was found that students of Miss Appledaisy performed better in later primary school years than those in the other two classes – they showed greater effort, leadership and initiative.
It was concluded that a major reason for this was that Miss Appledaisy gave them a greater sense of self-worth and self-confidence because they could read better than the students of the other two teachers.
In each of the following six Grades their average general standing as a group was higher than for the other two Primary 1 classes, and these findings were statistically significant.
To assess whether this effect carried through into later life, the researchers conducted interviews with former students who had been in those classes. They measured adult status by assessing information such as length of schooling, occupational status, annual income, type and condition of housing, personal appearance, and interactions with the legal system...
They grouped the former students into three status levels, high, medium, low. The statistically significant results showed that Miss Appledaisy’s pupils performed better – 2/3rds of her pupils were in the top group and the rest were in the middle group – not one was in the lowest group, which was populated by adults who had been taught by the other two teachers.
Miss Appledaisy’s pupils were much more successful and prosperous than the others. Another interesting insight emerged from the interviews – all of Miss A’s pupils remembered correctly that she had taught them – some of those who had not been in her class remembered, incorrectly, that they too had beeen in her class …
Dr. Pedersen was able to share these findings with Miss Appugliese before her death, telling her that the positive contributions she had made to her pupils so long before could still be measured objectively, thirty years later.
“This,” he said, “was a teacher!”
Miss Laing responded warmly to my letter. She said that she had shared it with her friend Miss Macpherson and “in discussing it we even used the sentimental expression ‘a glow in the heart’”.
She said, ”The article was very interesting. I tried to be a good teacher, and have always thought that the influence might be very great but doubted that it could be measured or appreciated.”
I was surprised that she still remembered me after some 35 years and more than a thousand students. She said “I remember a wee Hugh McGrory, “slim, tidy (a compliment to my mother), pleasant-mannered, dark-eyed, one hand in pocket, a roguish smile, scoring high marks in exams. It’s so nice to remember.”
About a year later I was in Dundee. Miss Laing, was now living in a pleasant little caretaker's cottage at the Taychreggan Hotel (I believe she was related in some way to the owner at that time), and I arranged to visit her.
When I arrived, she had a pleasant surprise for me – her friend Miss Macpherson was there too., and we had a very pleasant couple of hours together over tea and cake.
Miss Laing said that she remembered asking our class on one occasion to tell her what we wanted to be when we grew up. She still remembered my response – “I want to be an Architect”. Apparently, though, I didn’t say “(Noah’s) Ark-itect, I said (The Golden) Arch-itect. Ironic that I ended up as an engineer – in many ways the opposite of an architect – influenced, no doubt, by those two fine teachers who set me on the right path …
PS
Many of you, I know, were teachers – if you want to read more about Miss Appledaisy here is a place to start. This 'Letter to The Editor' by Eigil Pedersen will also be of interest.
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It Began in Caird Park
Jim Campbell |
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Dundee's Caird Park figured large in my very early memories. On one occasion walking in the vicinity with
my mum and sister and some friends (next door neighbours?) we were challenged by some soldiers who seemed to be guarding the approaches to Den o’ Mains!
Luckily one of our party had a bag of sweeties (I seem to remember she worked at Keiller’s) which, shared out, seemed to act as some sort of pass! Looking back I think that the said soldiers were evacuees from Dunkirk…
One of my uncles, not old enough at that stage to be conscripted, was an aeromodeller. I remember going with my Dad to watch him and his mates fly their creations at Caird Park. They used elastic to power the propellors.
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The wings were tissue covered & attached by elastic bands.
I was impressed by the use of hand drills to wind up the multiple strands – some seemed too thick to fit within the flimsy tissue-paper covered body.
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(To see a modern rubber-band model being powered up and flown under radio-control click here.)
On one momentous occasion my Dad and I were walking through Caird Park when we were “attacked” by a group of Spitfire aircraft. They were so low and close to us that my Dad had to grab his hat to avoid it being blown off his head! (Many years later I read a war memoir by a Sergeant Pilot Smith who had trained at RAF Tealing. He and his colleagues were being trained there to become part of the Second Tactical Air Force for operations following the D-Day landings….)
I think that those Spitfires my ambition to become a pilot. As soon as I was old enough I joined the 1232 squadron of the Air Training Corps at Craigiebarns. I don’t remember being a particularly good cadet or whether I got reasonable marks for studying Meteorology, Aircraft Recognition etc. But I did qualify for Gliding Training at RAF Grangemouth.
We would travel to Grangemouth in a RAF vehicle driven by Flight Lieutenant Silk who was the local RAF
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Recruiting Officer. He drove us on a Friday evening in a 'Standard Vanguard' truck (half-tonner?).
On one particular occasion I was detailed to occupy the rear tray under the canvas canopy.
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The gliders – tandem 'Slingsbys' and side-by-side 'Sedberghs' were launched by means of a truck-
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mounted winch via a 1,000ft or so cable. I was pretty sure I would be allowed to fly ‘solo’ that weekend.
On Saturday morning I awoke with a splitting headache. It was so bad I could hardly bear to put one foot in front of another. I certainly was not ‘fit to fly’….
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That put an end to my hopes and ambitions of becoming a pilot. I submitted to all sorts of tests and physical examinations but no reason could be found. I was formally declared unfit to fly. Still had to do my National Service, of course, but not even allowed to go abroad and therefore ineligible for officer status…
Many, many, years later, in another country, I self-diagnosed the cause. Carbon-monoxide poisoning from sitting in the back of that wretched truck!
Even more years later in that other country – this is my aeroplane!
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My Friend Joe - 3
Hugh McGrory |
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In 1986, one of Joe’s daughters was graduating from a university in California, and he flew out for the occasion. After the ceremony, on Saturday, December 20th 1986, they set off to fly back to the east coast. The first leg of their journey was from Long Beach Airport, California, to Garden City Airport, Kansas.
At 17,500 feet, they ran into cloud and freezing temperatures and the engine failed. Joe was unable to restart it and had to make a forced landing descent. The plane hit the ground at an elevation of 6100 ft.
Presumably through a combination of skill and luck, the plane, though suffering substanial damage, was not completely destroyed on landing. It came down quite close to a highway near Flagstaff, Arizona – they could, apparently, see the headlights on a nearby road as they came down (possibly the old, fabled Route 66).
Joe’s daughter was not badly injured, and she survived – because of the location, help arrived relatively quickly. Despite this, my friend Joe died at the site.
The National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) is an independent U.S. Government investigative agency responsible for civil transportation accident investigation. The NTSB report stated that the air induction system was totally blocked by ice, and that Joe had not followed proper procedure in that he failed to switch to the secondary induction port.
From a mutual friend I heard that the cause of death was a throat injury from impact with the yoke. Apparently, Joe’s seat belt was found to be open – it’s not clear why – perhaps he was trying to reach for something?
I really want to believe that Joe was conscious immediately after the crash – long enough to know that his daughter was not badly hurt...
| He was 59 when he died... |
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Favourite Foods
Gordon Findlay |
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Have you ever caught a scent of something in the air, a whiff of some delightful aroma which, for a second, transports you back to the time when you sat with brothers or sisters or parents – or all of them – and ate that irresistible dish?
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For me, it’s stovies. It may have had another name in different parts of Scotland but in Dundee they were stovies. A pot of chopped potatoes with lots of onion and some beef or sausages thrown in, all simmering gently on the stove. I can still remember walking along Shamrock Street and starting to salivate as I walked towards our back door with the warm and inviting smell of stovies coming from our kitchen window.
Mind you, I’d have a hard time choosing between a plateful of stovies and that other staple of the Scottish menu – tatties and mince. When it was ladled on to your plate beside a steaming white mound of mashed tatties (a large dollop of butter melting gently down the side) you had a tummy-filler that could match any other dish, anywhere.
When I left to come to Canada my mother handed me a small envelope. Inside there was a small sheaf of pound notes, a couple of addresses of Dundonians living in the Toronto area – plus her original recipe for mince written out in longhand. I’m happy to say it’s in our recipe box to this day and still produces mince that is dark, rich and delicious.
For some reason when I think of stovies or mince I also think of Irn-Bru – that lemonade with the distinctive taste, and colour. Nobody else in our family liked the stuff, but every so often my father would come home, give me a conspiratorial grin, and show me the bottle of Barr’s Irn-Bru he had brought home for me. Even a day after it had been opened and the fizz had long disappeared I still loved the rusty-coloured stuff.
But let’s get back to those hot comfort foods – and what could compare to a hot mealy pudden’ wi’ chips? That was the perfect capper to a night at the pictures. We’d duck out of the cold air and into the fish and chipper where
the air was always heavy with the grease and smoke of frying chips. But once outside again, you could feel your hands grow warm around your poke of hot greasy chips (slathered with vinegar and salt, of course!). And there, stuck right in the middle was a princely feast in itself: a mealy pudden encased in its shell of crusty golden batter.
That combination took away the nippy air of many winter nights as we walked our way home re-living the action scenes from the latest Western epic we had just seen.
I was later to be lured away from white to black puddens – there was something rich and solid in them that appealed to my taste buds. (I was later to learn that a prime ingredient in black puddens – and something that gave them their distinctive flavor – was pig’s blood, of which there was doubtless a surplus in the slaughterhouse).
As I grew into a fully-fledged teenager I developed a taste for those other prime products of Scottish gastronomy, the Scotch pie and the bridie, the latter supposedly invented by Forfar baker in the 1850s.
There was something very simple but delicious in siting down to the table and seeing in front of you a hot Scotch pie with a pile of baked beans smothered over its top. They probably had too much saturated fat and ‘way too much salt in them, but they were simply great eating. I seem to recall that Wallace’s Bakery made some of Dundee’s best.
About a month ago, my wife and I decided to visit a new bakery which opened up near us. No sooner had we walked in the door and sniffed the warm, yeasty air than I was whisked back to Dundee. Early morning – ready for breakfast – hungry as a horse – and suddenly my father was carrying in a plateful of morning rolls (baps) just delivered and still warm from the oven.
The sheer joy of tearing one open, slapping on some butter, then a nice wee spoonful of raspberry jam, and – into the mouth. Sheer heaven!
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My Friend Joe - 2
Hugh McGrory |
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Joe and I were both in Florida attending another of our regular meeetings – he had flown down, and one afternoon he asked if I’d like to take a flight to see Florida from the air, and of course I did. We first flew over Disney World – he tilted the plane so that the right wingtip was pointing at the ground, and circled above The Magic Kingdom.
Sitting in the cockpit felt rather like sitting in a VW bug – although the leg room in the Mooney was fine, Joe and I were almost touching shoulders, and my right shoulder was almost touching the only door.
Despite the fact that I was well strapped in, as we circled, my heart was in my mouth – I was looking straight down, and had visions of the door opening and me falling out, landing on Mickey Mouse and killing him in front of hundreds of kids …
The other thing that struck me was that Disney World seemed to have been cut out of the Everglades (in fact, my geography was more than a bit off, since the northern edge of the Everglades was more than a 100 miles south on the southern edge of Lake Okeechobee).
As I remember it, it looked something like the photograph to the right (a tight grouping of buildings surrounded by wild country), but when I looked at it recently on Google Earth, the whole area around seems to be very urbanised – of course it has been over 40 years …
We then continued eastwards, and Joe contacted air traffic control at the Kennedy Space Center, Cape Canaveral and asked for permission to fly over and along the runway that the Space Shuttles used to land.
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Permission was given, and we flew south to north very low along the glide path of the Shuttles, and leveled out at about 200 feet perhaps. Shuttles usually landed south to north (designated as runway 33) – the photo
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shows a north to south approach (same runway – designated 15). I know that as we approached the runway, we passed the Vehicle Assembly Building (VAB) on our right and we were looking up to see its roof – over 500 feet high. You can see this huge building in the top left corner.
The VAB is where the Shuttles and the Saturn rockets were assembled – it’s one of the largest buildings in the world by volume, the largest single-story building in the world, and is the tallest building in the United States outside of urban areas.
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If you'd like to experience, vicariously, our flyby, this video comes close (you should skip the portion between minutes 1:00 and 3:00) – we came from the other direction, and we flew right up the middle of the runway to simulate the glide path of the Shuttles. (You did know that they were gliders on the way down, no engine power – which means they had to get it right first time, because there was no 'go-around'.)
If you'd like to see what it was like for the Shuttle pilots during a real landing on runway 33, this video is the real thing.
That flight with Joe, was a great experience that I’ve never forgotten.
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Playing in the Street
Norrie Henderson |
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I enjoyed the recent Cardross Street anecdote from Dave Lowden and Jim Howie!
I don't have any memories of the incident they describe (after all, I was one of the Barnes Avenue mafia which, though a short walk away, was literally on the other/wrong side of the tracks due to the old coal-carrying rail line which ran parallel to the Cleppy (i.e Clepington Road.))
The story of child-unfriendly residents did, however, stir a memory of a sortie into Cardross Street by a group of us at Hallowe'en sometime in the late 40s.
Our local scouts mentioned a certain local lady who apparently lived alone and was felt to be disapproving of children. After some discussion, we decided to see how she would react to our solicitations . So we rang the bell and waited; when the lady appeared we asked ( as politely as kids could manage) if she 'needed ony guisers.'
She seemed rather surprised but not displeased. I can't remember any details of our 'performances' or even whether we actually went inside but I do remember she gave us our best cash reward of the evening!
I don't remember who else was in the group but perhaps there are others who do recall this.
Playing in the street was familiar to most of our generation. I'm reminded of a delightful Glasgow poem by Edward Boyd:
In Barnes Avenue, however, we had the good fortune to live adjacent to the sports field at Graham Street which could be easily entered at any time by scaling the fence between it and the gardens behind houses on the south side of the street.
As counterpoint to the Glasgow street shown above, I thought I'd include a couple of my own pics from Dundee. These were taken in April 1963 in a street near the west Port and long demolished to make way for university expansion.
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My Friend Joe - 1
Hugh McGrory |
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I was chairing a meeting sometime in the ‘70s in Washington DC, and I had two friends and colleagues sitting either side of me, Joe and Vinnie. We were all there because of our professional interests in computers and engineering.
I had to introduce them to the audience and began by saying “These two guys sitting beside me have 20 children between them, ten each” (not often you can say that …). There were a few gasps from the audience and one or two ‘wows’.
“But don’t worry", I said, "I had a little chat with them both before the meeting and explained what’s been causing it …”
But to my story …
For about fifteen years, mostly through the ‘70s, Joe and I, together with many able professionals in engineering and computing, dedicated untold hours to an organisation dedicated to promoting the use of computers in engineering. Joe was an innovator who could get things done – and if he liked an objective that you were pursuing, he would work hard to help you make it happen. I’m truly glad that I had the opportunity to know him, professionally and personally.
He was a multi-talented individual, and one of his skills was flying. He had his own plane, a Mooney M20, one of a family of four-seater, piston-powered, propeller-driven, general aviation aircraft, with low wings and tricycle landing gear.
The M20 was manufactured by the Mooney Airplane Company of Kerrville, Texas – it was the 20th design from Al Mooney, and his most successful plane.
Joe had the M20K (like the one above) which was a medium-body and was marketed as the Mooney 231. It was produced between 1979 and 1998 and had a turbocharged six-cylinder engine.
After the meeting, Joe and I had to meet with some people from IBM in New York State – we wanted support for a proposed National Centre for Computing in Engineering in the United States (we were unsuccessful …). Joe flew us there and back.
I sat in the right hand seat, of course, and Joe and I both had headsets on so that we could talk easily to each other, and I could listen in to traffic between Joe (and other planes) as the pilots talked to various air traffic controllers.
The Convention on International Civil Aviation requires that all civil aircraft must be registered with a national aviation authority (NAA) using procedures set by each country. (Every country has a NAA whose functions include the registration of civil aircraft.) The NAA allocates a unique alphanumeric string to identify the aircraft, which also indicates the nationality (country of registration). So Joe's plane had a registration number like N1234A , and he used this each time he used the radio.
As we flew, I could hear the chatter from other pilots and air traffic controllers using these unique identifiers when giving or receiving information. Knowing very little about airplanes or flying, this was all very interesting to me. Then I heard a pilot seemingly breaking with protocol – a very English voice saying something like “JFK Tower, this is Concorde”.
Joe said “Very few flights aren't required to use registration number identification (Air Force 1?) and Concorde is one of those …”
I flew several times with Joe, and I was impressed at how disciplined and yet how casual small plane flying could be. Disciplined in the way that the pilot follows regulations regarding filing of flight plans, pre-flight checks, communicating with flight control etc, but casual as in, "You hungry?" "Yes I am." "OK, there's a small airfield up ahead that serves a great all-day breakfast, let's drop in" – just like pulling off a highway into a service centre...
Stay tuned for a couple of further stories on Joe and his Mooney.
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I wonder if any ex-Morgan types out there remember playing 'Hucky Duck' in the schoolyard?
Now that I suffer from a very creaky back, I wonder if some of those hard-driving games of Hucky Duck put a couple of dents in my discs. But it was too much fun at the time to worry about stuff like that.
My memory of the rules is a bit fuzzy, but first naturally, we chose sides, usually five or six on each team. You did “rock, paper, scissors” to see who started, and the game began.
The team that lost the draw had its players crouch down level from the waist, holding on, one behind the other a bit like a rugby scrum, until they had formed one long line of boys presenting their backs.
Then, one by one, the opposing team ran towards them, jumping at the last moment to land as far up the line of backs as possible. They all did this – thump! thump! thump! And then came the last, savage part of the game.
This clump of boys on top then all humped up and down as hard as they could, chanting “Hucky duck! Hucky duck! One two three!” They did this three times. The idea was to make the line of suffering lads beneath them give way and collapse in a heap.
If the line held up (and it was tough when the opposing team had a couple of heavyweights to thump down on you) then you had survived. And – now it was your turn to leap on to their backs and let loose the Hucky Duck chant as you humped up and down on their backs as hard as you could. See it live here …
There’s no doubt an orthopedic surgeon today would be appalled at this schoolyard game. But when you’re 10 or 11
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years old, full of energy and high spirits, it was marvelous fun.
PS
This game has been around for a long time. Take a look at this painting, Childrens' Games, by Pieter Breughel, The Elder, dated 1560. It shows more than 80 games that children played 450 years ago – can you spot the one of interest? If not, click on the painting.
The game has many names:
• 'Bok-bok', South Africa
• 'Booleroo', Australia
• 'Buck Buck', USA
• 'Bung the Bucket'
• 'Finger, Thumb and Rusty Bum', Sheffield
• 'Hi-Cock-a-Lorum' , Kent
• 'High Cockalorum', RAF Officers' Mess
• 'High Jimmy Knacker', East London
• 'Hucky Duck', Dundee
• 'Hunch Cuddy Hunch', Scotland
• 'Husky, Fusky, Finger or Thumb', Notts
• 'Jack Upon the Mopstick'
• 'Johnny on the Pony', USA
• 'Jump the Knacker 1-2-3', Watford
• 'Polly on the Mopstick', Birmingham
• 'Stagger Loney', Cardiff
• 'Strong Horses, Weak Donkeys', Monmouthshire
• 'Trust', Lancashire
• 'Wall-e-Acker','Warny Echo', NW London.
In parts of Scotland and in Newcastle it's 'Mount A Cuddy', and this has such variants as 'Montakitty, 'Mont-a-Kitty' in Middlesbrough, 'Multikitty' and 'Muntikitty'. Still played around the world, today by kids, and adults.
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The Fife Coal Miners - 2
Granda McGrory
Hugh McGrory |
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My grandmothers gave birth a total of 26 times – 17 of these on my father's side. Of course, as was not uncommon around the beginning of the 20th century, quite a few of the babies died very young. (Around
1900, in Scotland, about 20% of all deaths recorded were infants less than one year old – 13% of babies died before reaching their first birthday – today in Scotland it's about 1.4%.) When I was a preschooler I had 8 uncles and 8 aunts, 10 having died before I was born.
The photograph on the right shows my Granda McGrory and his five sons (or 'The High Forehead Gang' as I've come to think of them...).
Back row from the left: Hugh (my Dad), Mick (aka Uncle Mick), and Wullie (whom you've met before, and who died at sea during the war), and front row: Barney (father of my cousins Mike (aka Big Mick), and Frank who was at Morgan a year ahead of me), Granda (aka Auld Mick), and James.
Granda, James, and Barney all worked in the Fife coal mines, my Dad was a bricklayer, and Mick was the local barber in Lower Methil, Fife, where this photo was taken around 1936/37.
The McGrorys first came to Scotland from Donegal around the time of the Irish Famine, settling first in Hamilton. They moved to the Methil area to work in the mines just before the outbreak of the First World War, living in Buckhaven, Denbeath, then Lower Methil.
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All of the above is background to the story I want to tell you about Granda and Uncle Barney:
The Fife Mining Community
Fife miners had a long history of fighting for their rights. In 1870, by means of a stay-down strike, they were the first in Europe to win the eight-hour day. The Buckhaven and Methil miners, most of whom would have worked at either the Wellesley or the Michael, were particularly determined. So when the British miners were betrayed by the TUC and the General Strike ended, they were in the forefront of those who continued to defy the mine owners.
Note: Comments below in quotes, are taken from the recollections of John McArthur, a parish councillor from E. Wemyss, and one of the local miners' leaders. The word strike is used a lot, but technically it wasn't a strike, since the owner's had locked the gates to the collieries to keep them out. Excerpts below are from 'The Militant Miners', edited by Ian MacDougall, published by Polygon Books, 1981.
John McArthur:
"The strike in the Methil area was 100 per cent solid. Not one man was found wanting. Not a vehicle moved."
Note: The General Strike Committee set up a system of sub-conveners each responsible for departments – Transport- ation, with a strict system of permits without which no vehicle could pass through the picketed areas; Defence and Organisation of Pickets; a Youth Committee; Communications, which made use of the Leven Motor Cycle Club's volunteered services as couriers and despatch riders; Entertainment, to counteract boredom; Publicity and Propaganda, for speaking engagements and publications.
"On the other side were the police under the command of an Inspector Clark who was notorious in our area for brutality, and he had under him a Sergeant Park who was equally of this type. Almost every conceivable avenue that he could think of he was always threatening to use against the strikers, and particularly against the strike leaders."
Note: The authorities preferred to use policemen who were strangers, and they drafted in personnel from all over the country – some were rumored to be Black and Tans brought over from Ireland along with their vicious reputation.
"The whole system of control over transport by the union was most complete and effective. Even if an ambulance was needed to take a special case to Edinburgh Infirm- ary, or hospital locally, they had to apply for permits. Permits were not readily granted by the Transportation committee.
On one occasion a runner came down from Station Road, one of the main road junctions, to say that there had been an attempt to stop a beer lorry from getting through and the police had carried out a baton charge and three of our picket were arrested."
Note: At one of the pickets set up by the Buckhaven and Methil miners, a McEwans brewery lorry driver had decided that he wasn't going to be stopped from delivering his beer. He had prepared his lorry by creating a wire cage aound the cab and had already driven right through the pickets at Lochgelly, Bowhill and Dysart. When he got to Muiredge and the Wellesley Road, the pickets couldn't stop him, but several of the miners mounted the lorry and threw every one of the barrels into the gutter. Despite the fact that none of them had had a beer for some time, their discipline was such that none of the beer was drunk... The police couldn't stop the miners, but, as stated earlier, they
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arrested three.
McArthur again:
"When I proceeded to the scene, men, women and children were running towards the area in hundreds, grasping whatever weapons they could get their hands on – some with fireside pokers, some with sticks, some with pickshafts, stones, or bottles. There was a building site adjoining and the police that were left were getting stoned and were running for their lives. One policeman cleared a six-foot wall round the slaughterhouse non-stop. He would have been suitable for the Olympics.
There was an immediate demand that we assault the police cells in order to get the three lads out. This raised an issue that was new to us but which we felt we would have to cope with. So it was arranged that we would have a meeting immediately at the big strike centre in the Co-operative Hall. The hall was packed to suffocation. Our meeting was taken charge of by Davie Proudfoot, who was convener of the Methil Central Strike Committee. He said, 'Well, we've now got to meet force with organised resistance. The picketing must be carried out, the strike must go on. We're in this strike for the purpose of winning it. We're not going to be diverted by police baton charges. That is a feature we'll just have to face and overcome.'
So we agreed to get some form of organisation. We in the strike leadership started off by saying, 'All right, every man look at his neighbour sitting beside him. If you can't volunteer or vouch for him let him be questioned to prove he is a genuine striker.'
Then we set about setting up a properly disciplined organisation. We asked everybody who had had army or navy experience to move to one side of the hall. Then we asked if anybody had been an officer. We did not run to the extent of having an officer. But we had two sergeant-majors and they were made corps commanders.
Everyone who had been an N.C.O. in the army was given charge of ten privates, and each private was given charge of ten men who had had no army experience. These ex-servicemen had complete control of this Workers' Defence Corps. There had been a lot of the youth committee and others in a loosely formed picket or Defence Corps before the baton charge, but its ranks swelled to about 750 or 800 afterwards.
We said, 'Well, you can arrange now the main points where picketing has to be done and decide how many men you require in order to make picketing continuous, with men held in reserve."' We organised cyclists who could act as couriers, and particularly valued were young lads who had motor-cycles.
At that stage the most fierce discussion took place; what were we going to do to get the three men out who had been arrested? There were immediate demands that we should march up to the police buildings and forcibly rescue these men."
Granda and Uncle Barney
This is where the McGrorys come in – one of the three men in the cells was my Uncle Barney.
McArthur again:
"I am not sure what would have been the outcome of that discussion but for the intervention of the father of Barney McGrory, one of the lads who had been arrested. The family was Irish Catholic and they were active militants in the labour movement. The father was old Mick McGrory.
He got up to say, 'Look, we're in a strike which is equivalent to a battle for our lives and our livelihood and all that we hold dear. You can't have a battle, unfortunately, without casualties. But if the battle is to continue then you must accept the casualties and carry on. My son happens to be one of the first casualties. I am very, very sorry that that is so, but he along with me would wish that we don't do anything that would prevent us from carrying out the strike. So we carry out the strike and they'll bear the consequences of having been arrested.'
That had a tremendous effect on the meeting and I think was mainly responsible for getting our policy accepted at that big meeting of men. So each man then went home, had a meal, and reported to the strike headquarters. I remember going back down to the headquarters when the first company were going to resume the picketing. As they came up with the sergeant-major in front, he saw me coming along and he shouts, "Eyes left" You could see the arms swinging. The arms were rigid because they were concealing pokers, hammers, and what have you.
The important thing is they went back to the scene where the baton charge took place. By that time there had been busloads of police drawn in from every area. But the picket took up its post and I remember watching them working. There were three roads converging on to this corner where the baton charge had taken place. The non-commissioned officer in charge of the picket put twenty men on each road, twenty men stopping the main traffic, with push-bikes running back and forward in advance, so that they could get timeous notice of any vehicle that was proceeding in that direction.
And then they had something like fifty men standing by in reserve in case they should be needed. In spite of the fact that there was a big contingent of police, they stopped every vehicle that came along and continued this activity. It was a marvelous display of organised, disciplined activity. They did their work without looking at the police. Everybody knew, including the police, that if anything untoward had happened they would have had a real struggle on their hands; and while there might have been some casualties amongst the strikers there equally would have been a number amongst the police.
I have heard it said that in some areas there was collaboration between the workers' pickets and the police in order to keep order. There was no such arrangement in the Methil-Buckhaven area! There the pickets went on duty armed with whatever they could secure: pickshafts, pokers, railway distance pieces, and anything that would be useful in a dust-up. They all also were under instructions to wear their pit boots – they also would be handy in a dust-up. A number of them even used the hard hat they had in the pit at the time, but this was not common. From the time that the Defence Corps became an organised body there was no more police interference with the pickets.
But that night the midnight or overnight arrests started. Proudfoot was arrested, and one or two others. These arrests were carried out at two o'clock in the morning. And that became the fashion. If you were going to be arrested, it happened when they thought everybody else was in bed. So that double precautions started to be taken, and those that were recognised as leaders had a protection squad allocated to them.
I remember an amusing development. The lads would approach you and say, 'Look, make sure you're not going to be arrested at night, make sure you're not sleeping in your own house.' Ordinary miners would come forward and give you a key to their house, and you had to put their name on it. I had a pocketful of keys for houses that I could go into without warning."
The photo below, taken at the railway station, shows the three miners who had been arrested – judging by the way they're dressed, they may be going to or coming from court – my Uncle Barney is on the left. You can see that they are unbowed. In my imagination they are saying to themselves 'You decreased our wages; you increased our hours; but we'll decide whether or not the beer lorries get through...'
The miners maintained resistance for a further six months after the TUC gave up. In late August, the
Nottinghamshire Miners Association broke ranks, and negotiated a deal with the local mine owners (the Notts miners were strikebreakers again in the 1984 strike).
In some mining areas, strikebreakers were ostracised in their communities for the rest of their lives, and some were still being referred to as scabs at the time of the 1984-85 'Maggie Thatcher' strike.
By the end of November, 1926, most miners had been starved – literally starved – back to work. However, many were black-balled my the mine owners, and remained unemployed for many years. Those that were employed were forced to accept longer hours, lower wages, and district wage agreements. The strikers felt as though they had achieved nothing.
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So how did the miners and their families fare in the years following the strike? The following paragraphs were written by a journalist who visited unemployed miners in Merthyr Tydfil, Wales, in 1933, seven years after the strike:
"With his wife and two children he lives in one-half of a house, which costs him seven shillings a week in rent. The house has not been repaired for fourteen years. Its windows do not shut tight, and it is damp. The lavatory is thirty yards away from the house, at the top of the adjacent yard. There is one water-tap for both families. This family's income is the father's unemployment benefit of 27 shillings and thruppence; after paying rent they have roughly a pound left to live on. Coal costs them half-a-crown a week.
This is their normal daily menu:
Breakfast – toast, margarine, tea.
Dinner – a few pennyworth of meat and potatoes, an onion, bread and tea.
Supper – same as breakfast.
Fresh milk is unknown in this family, who consume four tins of a cheap brand of skimmed condensed milk a week. It is not surprising that the eldest child was found to be suffering from malnutrition and was developing tubercular glands."
On the bright side, in case you're worried, it seems that the mineowners were able to maintain their standard of living very nicely thank you, despite the hard times.
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The Dundee Vernacular
Ian Gordon |
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Gordon Findlay’s article on the Dundee accent set me laughing and reminiscing about days gone by. It’s been over 50 years now since I was in regular contact with the ever-so-familiar vernacular (the Dundee language is much more than an accent.) Every time I hear a word or two I get that comfortable feeling like I was back home in Dundee.
I’ve travelled a lot over the years and have experienced many accents…in languages such as Spanish, French, German, Afrikaans and Portuguese…spoken with different accents in the many different countries and individual cities…but none come close to bringing back lasting memories like these…
A few scenes from the Dundee I knew:
The Clothes-Drying Green
The wimen git left t’ dae the washin an ir hingin’ thir claes oot on the greenie
The bairns are in their feet an’ nippin’ at their peenies.
(Competition is keen on the quality of the wash and newcomers’ claes are usually classified as no awfy clean.)
Enter a dark-skinned man carrying bunches of onions aroon his shidders.“Oh, look wha’s here – it’s Ingin Johnny. Jist in time… ehv only got a couple left fae last year. Gie’s a dizzen big anes. Ah’ll need tae gie them a good waash the night. That’ll gie me a good greet!
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THE FISH & CHIP SHOP
They don’t look so great anymore, but in our day as teenagers, and even beyond, it was exciting (cool?) to finish off your Saturday night activities with fish and chips (a fish supper!) – accompanied by mushy peas.
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In our day, Dundee had many fine fish and chip shops – remember The Deep Sea in its original location? Our favourite shop was always the one on Victoria Street, near the junction with Albert Street (couldn't find a photo). The shop was proudly owned and managed by Joe Delano, one of the many Italians who ran the Fish and Chip shops and Ice Cream parlors in Dundee. Joe and his wife Dora, who attended the customers while Joe fried the fish, were both remarkably bilingual in Italian and in the Dundee vernacular. I never heard them utter a word of English!
A bunch of six or eight of us would come in about 9.30 pm and order
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to take back to the small sitting room. Maria would always find it difficult to control eight hungry teenagers, all struggling to get their meal first. “Jist a meenit, jist a meenit,” Maria would cry out to the melee. Then Joe would come to his wife’s rescue – “Whit’s a goin’ on? Look you, yer skelling yir peas a’ ower mi bliddy coonter!
Joe’s stentorian tones (I think he would have made a great opera singer in another life!) calmed everybody down. During the rest of the evening, when things got a bit noisy in the sitting room, we would hear Joe call out: “A’m hearin' yis. ‘Nither squeak ‘n yer oot on yir bums.”
I‘ve been dreaming for years about fish and chips at Joe Delano’s. I’ve dined in some very elegant places during my life…but I never dream about any of them.
Shakespeare in Dundee
It was a real jolt for some of us when we were introduced to Shakespeare…if my memory serves me right it was in our 1st year at Morgan. We were fast casting off the remnants of the vernacular and learning to speak proper. It took longer for some than others! Shakespeare was something else again!
Anyway, the Scottish syllabus of these days had us reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream in our first year. The plot, if you have any memory of it, is one of the most unlikely and complicated of Shakespeare’s works…so the verbiage coming out of the mouths of 12 year-old Dundee pupils was decidedly more vernacular than Shakespearean. However, the enthusiasm of Cheesie, our English Lit teacher, was such that he had us play the parts as we went along.
I think Hugh got the role of Puck, because he was always busy arranging things, but I would get sued for disclosing who played Bottom…even after 70 years! The role of Snug, the joiner, was given to Islay Robertson, that sweet guy with the permanent toothy smile. Now, the intricacies of the plot provided for Snug being transformed into a lion and announcing regally that he was king of the jungle, in strident Shakespearean tones.
Drama was at a peak in the classroom, as the lion came forth to deliver his only, but earthshattering, lines:
“And the lion doth roAAAr”
Islay’s words resounded over the classroom, which by now had dissolved into an uproar of laughter. For all present, all of Pyramus and Thisbe’s problems were forgotten, none of Shakespeare’s grand words were relevant. Islay had relegated Shakespeare’s words to second place and would forever make him the star in our eyes (and ears).
The vernacular may well withstand the test of time.
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This is a big year for many of us – we are reaching our 80th birthday. My big day was Thursday the 13th of April. I sincerely hope that all of you octogenarians are blessed with good health and the support and love of your family. Happy Birthday!
Yours Aye, Ian.
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The Fife Coal Miners – 1
Background
Hugh McGrory |
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I intended to post a story, set in 1926, about my Granda and one of his sons, my uncle, both coal miners.
However, as I began to write it, I realised how woefully ignorant I was about the period between the Great Wars, and only when I read some of the history did I better understand what it was like for my Dad, his parents and siblings in a mining community in Fife through the '20s and '30s. So at the risk of boring you all to tears, I'm going to lay out, first, the historical background to my Granda's story.
The Lock-out of the British Mineworkers, and the General Strike of 1926.
Coal was vital to the war effort in 1914-18. In the early years there were coal shortages and hoarding – coal production slowed and a coal famine was reported. Shortages at home were caused by transportation
difficulties, and by lack of labour availability, many miners having volunteered to serve in the forces (some for patriotic reasons, some because anything would be better than working in a coal mine). Also, France’s industries had been hit hard by the invading German troops, and the country was importing coal from Britain to aid its armament production. This added to the shortages at home.
In February 1915 the Government decided that it had to take control of the mines, declared mining
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a reserved occupation, and improved miner’s wages and working conditions.
In 1918, British men returned from the war to find food scarce and prices rising so that their wages were being devalued (the coal industry employed 10% of all British working men). They saw a high demand for coal enriching the Government and the mine owners, while their own pay and conditions worsened.
At the time, working conditions were awful – there were few mines with showers for the workers, many of whom had no bathrooms or toilets in their houses. A miner was killed on average every five hours throughout the year and 20% of the workforce suffered injuries every year – around 500 were injured or maimed every day.
Can you imagine working a long day in a colliery, with coal dust in every pore, having no showers available at the mine and going home to a house that often had no inside toilet or bathroom and sometimes only an outside tap for water.
The photos below show how a miner got rid of the coal dust (these photographs are actually from West Virginia in the 1940s, a miner name Milong Bond – but typical of many UK miners of the '20s and '30s).
When injuries were caused by work, most pit managers would sanction compensation, but when war veterans were injured, the managers often claimed the responsibility lay with the armed forces. The forces then counter-claimed that the injuries were the fault of the mine owners and thus the men who fought the Great War 'for civilisation and freedom' were left unable to work and unentitled to any support.
With the mines returned to private ownership, the mine owners wanted to maintain and increase profitability. This turned out to be difficult for a number of reasons:
• The heavy use of coal during the First World War had depleted the rich, easy coal seams.
• Since Britain exported less coal during the war, other countries filled the gap and Britain lost future overseas customers.
• Coal production which had been falling since 1914 was at its lowest ebb in 1926. Output per man had fallen by 25% since before the war reflecting the fact that the more difficult seams now had to be mined.
• As part of their reparations for the First World War, Germany had to export "free coal" to France and Italy.
• Winston Churchill had reintroduced the gold standard in 1925 which made the British pound too strong for effective exporting. It also raised interest rates and hurt the profits of some businesses.
Mine owners turned again to their favourite strategy – reduce wages and increase the length of the working day – in order to maintain their profits, and they found it only too easy to reduce the wages of their workforce. They told the miners to accept a pay cut of 13% and an increase in hours from 7 to 8½ hours per day. The miner’s weekly pay had already gone down from £6.00 to £3.90 in the space of seven years.
The cartoon on the right – entitled "The Subsidised Mineowner—Poor Beggar!" was published by the Trade Union Unity Magazine in 1925.
The MFGB, the Miners’ Federation of Great Britain, rejected the terms: "Not a penny off the pay, not a minute on the day."
At one point and to his credit, King George V tried to stabilise the situation and create balance by saying, "Try living on their wages before you judge them."
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The owners announced that the miners would be locked out as of May 1st, 1926.
The General Council of the Trades Union Congress (TUC) called a General Strike to begin May 4th, 1926 in
an attempt to force the British Government to act to prevent wage reduction and worsening conditions for the 1.2 million locked-out coal miners.
Some 1.7 million workers were out – the locked out miners were supported by some half million workers who went on strike across the country, principally from the transport and heavy industries.
By May 4th over 4 million workers were out and Britain was virtually closed down, public transport ceased and people had
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to walk to work – the working class was in charge. The Government enlisted middle class volunteers to maintain essential services. There was little violence.
Then, the TUC, which, without informing the miners’ leaders, had been holding secret talks with the Government and the mine owners, after nine days, said that they would call off the strike if there was a guarantee that there would be no victimization of strikers. The Government stated that it had "no power to compel employers to take back every man who had been on strike."
The TUC folded and ended the strike anyway without a single concession made to the miners' case. (One theory for the TUC 'seizing defeat from the jaws of victory' is that they were persuaded that it was not a justifiable strike, but rather an attempt at a Communist takeover of the country. History has shown that this was nonsense.)
The miners, understandably, saw this as a huge betrayal, which left them worse off than before, and vowed to continue their defiance and fight on alone.
The Fife miners were amongst the most militant of Britain's colliery workers, and in a couple of weeks I'll tell you how they handled themselves and of the part played by my Granda and my Uncle Barney.
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Morgan FP Rugby
Alistair Mackay |
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In 1959 I was invited to start training with Strathmore Rugby Club I accepted and thoroughly enjoyed travelling to Forfar three times per week to meet with all the players. I was delighted when I was selected as tight head prop for the first game of season and asked to lead the scrum.
The first game at Forfar was progressing well when the Captain playing at scrum half was injured and was not able to continue. When we returned to the changing rooms after the game the Captain was lying on a bench presumably waiting for the Doctor.
Returning to training on the following Tuesday we were informed that the injury was more serious than we thought, and that unfortunately his leg had been amputated. If medical treatment had been more readily available the outcome might have been more favourable. His rugby playing days were obviously over but he was a regular spectator at all Strathmore games thereafter.
A sad story but medical services are now always in attendance at all contact sports.
Later that season we had an away fixture against Morgan Academy and I must have played well because Ian Norrie the Morgan Captain asked me to play for Morgan which was my home club. I quickly accepted as the Morgan had a better fixture list than Strathmore and were recognised at that time to be a better club. This was before leagues so Rugby although highly competitive was purely social.
I was selected for their next game at tight head prop a position that I retained for the rest of my playing career. The backbone of the team included senior players Frank Stott, Bill Kydd, John Paul, Gus Sim and Ian Norrie. There were also my contemporaries, Dave Meechie, Sandy Duncan, Laurie Mitchell, Jim Ritch, Tom Burt, Alex Gouick, Ian Lindsay and Dave MacKenzie – they all made me very welcome enjoying regular social evenings at The Breadalbane Pub in Constitution Street and the dances at the Chalet Dance Hall in Broughty Ferry.
Training on Tuesdays and Thursdays was at Forfar Road ground or during winter in the school hall. The circuit training in the hall followed by 5-aside football was the favourite as it was warm and chance of a quick wash.
We had excellent fixtures but the memorable games were in Aberdeen against Aberdeenshire who had Ken Scotland, Gordonians , Aberdeenshire, and Aberdeen Grammar School. We would leave Dundee by charter bus at 11.30am in plenty time for a 2.30pm kick off. Playing 35 minutes each way with a short break at half time we were generally finished without the need for floodlights which all the Aberdeen clubs had available if necessary.
The facilities at all the Aberdeen clubs were excellent so after we all enjoyed a leisurely shower then a buffet with pies, sandwiches and biscuits with plenty of tea, coffee and orange juice. We all then socialised for the next hour and a half before the bus arrived to take us to the Douglas Hotel where we had several welcome pints of beer.
The next move was to the Diamond Street Palais. The bus was leaving at a pre-arranged location at sharp 11.00pm for our return journey to Dundee so we all had to leave the Palais in plenty time. On one occasion one of our party missed the bus but he did turn up for training on the Tuesday so all was well.
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Winner to Wimp in 24 hrs.
Hugh McGrory |
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As Britain moved towards the Great Depression of the 1930's, the government was increasingly worried about the health of children from deprived areas in cities. This was the infamous era of the Glasgow rickets and other indicators of malnutrition.
In a very enlightened piece of legislation, the Camps Act of 1939 was passed. This set aside a sum of money (over £100m in today’s terms) for the construction of around 25 Centres in England and Wales and a further 5 in Scotland. This was a Department of Health initiative and the intention was that young people from the cities would spend some weeks at these Centres, eating well and enjoying the fresh, uncontaminated country air.
Completion of the buildings in late 1939/early1940, coincided with the start of the Second World War. The centres were constructed using high quality Canadian cedar and had a capacity of around 250 young people, plus other accommodation for staff and teachers. The government retained the Centres to be used for evacuees and, in addition to large numbers of Scottish children, the Centres had substantial groups from the continent – notably from the Netherlands.
It wasn’t until January of 1947 that the government was able to set up the organisations that were originally intended to operate the Centres. The Secretary of State for Scotland established the Scottish National Camps Association.
Currently the Scottish Outdoor Education Centres (SOEC), an Approved Voluntary Organisation and charity since 1987, has three outdoor education centres across Scotland and describes itself as the country’s largest provider of residential outdoor education. The Centres are: Belmont (Meigle, Perthshire), Broomlee (West Linton, Edinburgh), and Dounans (Aberfoyle, Stirling).
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Many of you will remember spending time, in the late 1940s, at Belmont Camp, in the beautiful, 100 acre estate around Belmont Castle in the valley of Strathmore.
I was there with many of my classmates from Dens Road School, probably one of the first groups in 1947. I can’t remember much about the experience, but I enjoyed the two or three weeks we were there. I think our teachers tried to do some teaching from the curriculum in the mornings, though I think the usual rigour was somewhat missing. The afternoons were given over to healthy outdoor activities.
One day our teacher said that we were going to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Lacking pins, and indeed, something suitable for pinning to, she decided that we would use the blackboard.
It was like the one in the photo, free-standing and could be spun on its horizontal axis to allow both sides to be used. She drew the rough outline of a donkey, then she asked for a volunteer. The kid was blindfolded, given a piece of chalk, spun around a couple of times then pointed towards the board. He/she held the chalk in front of them, and when it touched the board made a small ‘X’.
One by one my classmates did the same – some were fairly close to the right spot, some were way off.
Now in those days, I wasn’t big on volunteering or being on public display, so I kept my head down – I thought after a few had tried we would move on to something else – but no way. The time came when everybody but me had taken a turn ….
So I got my blindfold on and my piece of chalk, was spun around and pointed at the board. Being right-handed, I put the chalk in my other hand and held out my right in front of me. When I touched the board, I felt around the edge until I located the hinge, and having previously figured out that the spot I wanted was about three hand-widths to the left and two up, I measured this out and made my mark.
The blindfold was taken off, and I saw that my mark was almost right on the spot. The teacher said “Hugh wins” and the class began to cheer … At least that’s what I thought, until I realised that they were saying things like “He’s a cheating wee get …”.
The teacher, to her credit, knew a teachable moment when she saw one. She said, “The rules were that you had to wear a blindfold and make your mark on the board wherever you chose – they didn’t say anything about how you decided where to put it”.
So I won the prize – I think it was an orange (it was just after the war after all). For the rest of the day I felt like a champ ….
24 hours later.
The above must have happened close to the end of our sojourn, because the next day was Sports Day. One of my classmates, Bobby, said “You want to run in the three-legged race with me?” I said that I would.
As the time for the race drew near, my enthusiasm waned. I saw the crowd watching the events and I got stage fright – I choked – I wimped out... I told Bobby that I wasn’t going to race. He tried to talk me into it, then got mad (rightly so) and said “Fine. Well I’m going to find someone else.”
He looked around and saw, in the distance another classmate, and called out to him “Alan …”
To cut a long story short, Bobby and Alan won the race easily. Later, I hung around at the back of the crowd as they walked up to collect their prizes, pretending not to care but really standing on one leg trying to kick myself in the backside for being such a wimp …. One of those oranges could’ve been mine!
From champ to chump in 24 hours …
PS: My thanks to Jim Howie for the reproductions from his postcard collection.
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Cardross St Rounders
Dave Lowden
Jim Howie |
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Definitions :
Rounders: UK – a game similar to baseball; US – various, including scoundrels, rascals.
Cardross Street, Dundee, where we both lived, was a favourite place for children in the Clepington Road/Arklay Street area to gather and play. In the '40s, the street had a tenement block of 4 closes on the west
side overlooking allotments or "plots" across the road with a semi-circle in the middle. As private cars were few and far between, the circle provided an ideal playground for ball games etc.
Little did we (or our parents) realise that a game of rounders would lead to a visit from the police and a visit to court.
The Evening Telegraph twice reported the case on the front page and followed up by publishing readers comments.
This anecdote may jog a memory for some of your readers!"
We duly appeared in court again on the following Saturday:
Several of the Telegraph readers had their say:
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Tales from Our Backyard 3
Angel Wings
Hugh McGrory |
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I don't believe in angels, but the phrase 'angel wings' seems benign – not always so, as I recently found out...
In an earlier story I wrote of a Canada Goose that had broken its wing. Some time later, one of my neighbours drew my attention to another Canada Goose, on his pond, that was suffering from a malady referred to as 'angel wing', also known as airplane wing, slipped wing, crooked wing, and drooped wing – see examples of Muscovy Ducks below:
Angel wing is a syndrome that affects aquatic birds primarily, often seen in geese and ducks. The last joint of the wing (the carpus or wrist joint) is twisted with the wing feathers pointing out laterally instead of lying against the body. Males develop it more frequently than females. It can affect both wings or only one. Strangely, if it's only one, it's almost always the left – a syndrome that's not, at present, understood.
I found I could understand it better by comparing a bird wing to the human arm – see drawing:
The condition is incurable unless caught very early, and seems to be caused by high-calorie diets, especially ones high in proteins and/or low in vitamin D, vitamin E, and manganese. It seems that this causes rapid growth, to the extent that the carpus joints are retarded in their development and can't support the weight of the flight feathers. The result is a wrist which is twisted outwards instead of lying against the birds back when folded, and unable to perform its usual function. In extreme cases, the stripped feathers can resemble straws protruding from the wings.
Many of us were probably taken to Swannie Ponds as children to feed the swans and ducks with bread, then took our kids there to do the same – a
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practice that many ornithologists feel should be abandoned.
Angel wing can be drastically reduced by not feeding birds “people food,” including white bread, popcorn, or crackers. An acceptable alternative would be to substitute food such as seedless grapes cut in half, shredded kale, Swiss chard or romaine lettuce, and grains, including wheat, barley and oats. This could save many birds from this nasty disease.
Getting back to my neighbours bird, it looked very like the one in the photograph below. For several weeks, as I took my morning, before-breakfast, walk around the neighbourhood, I spotted the bird. Usually it was
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at the side of the pond, sometimes in a flock of 15 or 20 others. Often they simply ignored me as I walked by, but sometimes, for whatever reason, they took off – not the bird with the damaged wing – it remained by the pond side.
Birds with this condition can't fly – this one tried from time to time and would get up a few feet above the ground for a few yards, but couldn't sustain the effort.
One particular morning the sun was just coming up, there was no wind, and the surface of the pond was like glass. The bird was all alone at the
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water's edge, and it made me feel very sad.
Later that day I thought about it some more, and realised that, since the condition is congenital, the goose had never flown, so perhaps it was accepting of its condition. It grazes, and seems quite content. Of course it doesn't know either, that such birds typically don't live very long, dying from malnutrition or from the winter cold, or perhaps taken by a coyote or a red fox.
Then, one day, the goose just wasn't there. It was another beautiful morning, and the sunlit pond was shared by a Muskrat family, a mother with two youngsters swimming around busily, doing whatever muskrats do in the morning, and a Little Blue Heron, standing knee-deep in the water, absolutely still – it does this for minutes on end until a small fish, or frog gets too close when it stabs its beak forward and down, very quickly, and then enjoys breakfast.
I stopped to watch, and I could hear the words of Max Ehrmann "... whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.”
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The Cadet Corps
Gordon Findlay |
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Like many Morgan pupils ‘way back in the 1940s, I was a keen member of the school’s Army Cadet Corps. I enjoyed every aspect of it from marching and drilling to field craft and especially, weapons training.
My mother, who had lost three brothers in World War I, did not share my enthusiasm. “They’re training the next generation of cannon fodder,” she sighed to my father as I marched off in my uniform.
Within the Morgan detachment there was keen competition for “stripes”. We all wanted to have something to show on that plain expanse of khaki stretching down our arms: to rise from lowly private to lance corporal, corporal, then – a fervent wish – the dizzying height of sergeant.
It was a thrill when a sergeant from the real Army was brought in to demonstrate the Lee-Enfield No.4 Mk I rifle. He walked us through the proper way to tuck the rifle into the shoulder, how to aim, how to adjust the range-sight, how to load and unload the magazine.
The sergeant also demonstrated how to attach the bayonet, and of course, the proper way to oil and clean the weapon after firing. We all got a chance to hold it and to look down the sights. It felt heavy – and it was, weighing in at a hefty 8.8 lbs.
Then came highlight of his visit (to me at least). This sergeant said: “I’m going to show you a wee trick. Ye may never have tae depend on it. Ah hope not. But in case ye’re ever in a situation where ye have tae get yer shots aff as fast as ye can – here’s how ye dae it.”
He had us gather round the Lee Enfield. Then he put his middle finger around the trigger with his thumb and forefinger hooked around the bolt.
“Squeeze the trigger wi’ yer middle finger. Then flick the bolt open and back wi’ yer thumb and forefinger. Like this!” And, with an empty weapon, he quickly rattled off five imaginary shots using the technique, his hand a quick blur. We were totally impressed.
(You can see this in action in this video. The quick-fire technique begins at about the 4 minute mark).
The highlight of the cadet year was the summer camp, held near Carnoustie. We were housed in ancient wooden huts which leaked when it rained. Grimy and naked light bulbs hung overhead. Our beds were typical Army-issue metal frames strung with ancient chicken-wire. On top, a stained and lumpy mattress. The lavatories were primitive and filthy. The food was dull and badly cooked. And I loved every minute of it.
Near the end of the week we were marched down to the Barry Buddon Training Area rifle range, situated near the famous Carnoustie golf course. We were ushered into the butts – sunken trenches beside the targets. We were to be target spotters for a regular Army firing practice.
We stood looking up at the large paper targets which were mounted on a metal frame. This in turn was attached to a counterbalanced pulley system. You had to concentrate on the target because British .303 bullets didn’t make a particularly large hole. And of course, you had to be alert to complete misses.
We’d hear the sudden crack of the .303 as it zipped over our heads and splashed into the butts or sand mounds beyond us. At the same instant a hole would suddenly appear in the target. Then it was time to raise the long spotter’s pole. This pole had a large metal disc on the end; one side black the other white.
You moved the pole with the black disc showing and held it against the hole to show the shooter where his bullet had hit. If my memory serves me correctly a miss meant you flipped the pole over to show the white disc and waggled it from side to side.
Once firing stopped we wound the targets down, and with paper and glue, pasted over the bullet holes so the targets were clean and ready for the next session of shooting.
I’m certain that today’s generation of Army cadets would be equipped (sensibly) with good ear protection, and probably helmets as well to avoid bashing heads on metal and concrete down in the butts. But back in the 1940s things were simpler – and, I suppose, a wee bit more dangerous.
Many years later, in 1974, now the father of two girls and two boys and a Canadian citizen, I brought our family back to Carnoustie on a warm and sunny July day. We walked around the same firing range and climbed down into the sunken butts where targets were marked.
Things didn’t seem to have changed much at all; the whole area was just a lot rustier and in some spots the concrete was starting to crumble. We drifted through it, picking up the odd brass cartridge case now blackened with age. And I led them to the high sand mounds where we dug out a few mangled bullets from the sand.
Pure and simple nostalgia for me . . . transporting me back to my happy days as a keen young Army cadet.
The photos below show the modern Barry Buddon rifle ranges, targets in the lowered position.
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What the...? #2
The Answer
Hugh McGrory |
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Do you remember MacGyver? I used to love that show (not the 2016 version which I don’t like) the one that ran from 1985 for seven seasons. Richard Dean Anderson played a somewhat nerdy adventurer (first name Angus) who got himself and friends out of sticky situations by using everyday articles or materials to create unorthodox solutions.
I think most men have a touch of MacGyver in them – that’s why we have drawers in our workshops with odd nails, fasteners, used switches, pieces of metal/plastic tubing, old pulleys etc. – because one of these days …
That series was popular enough that the word MacGyver is now in the Oxford Dictionaries (for the meaning, re-read the first paragraph above).
Well I needed to MacGyver myself through the front door, and in the story I was sitting on the front step, head in my hands, knowing that, to get inside the door, I first had to be inside the door to take the chain off …
Well I couldn’t be both – on the other hand, though, I could be outside with my hands inside … That's why I scoured the garden to see if I could find a piece of wire – a coat hanger would've been ideal. I figured I could hook the wire onto the chain, stick my other hand through the letter box, then swing the wire until I caught it, close the door, then pull the wire to release the chain. Only problem – no wire...
Finally I came up with a modification of that approach, an idea that was born from the way my mother brought me up. She came from a decent working-class Scots/Irish family, and had been imbued with the ethic that said people judged a mother by the way her kids looked. The result was that she always made sure that my brother and I were dressed well before we left for school each morning – in clothes from stores like The ‘Sosh’, in Peter St., and Burtons, for shirts and pants; Marks and Sparks, for underwear and socks; and Birrell’s for shoes.
As I sat on the step looking down I saw my shoes – the kind that my mother bought for me when I got my first pair of long
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pants, and the kind that I’ve worn all of my working life (except when I was on construction sites) – Oxfords – like the photograph. It’s hard to believe, without thinking about it, but the lace in such a shoe is about 40 inches long. Aha …!
So:
• I took the lace out of one of my shoes;
• I unlocked the door and pushed it open as far as it would go – about three inches;
• I held the lace in my left hand and put that hand through the letter box;
• I put my other hand into the opening at the side, below the chain, then swung the lace back and forward until I caught it;
• Then the most difficult part – I tied the lace to the chain – not easy with one hand;
• I then closed the door and gently pulled on the lace.
The chain slipped off – nae bather at a’!
I opened the door, entered, closed the door, reattached the chain, and toddled off to bed.
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PS
Door chains, of course, don’t really provide much security – good peepholes are more useful since you can keep the door closed while deciding whether or not to open it.
I searched the Web for a photo to illustrate the type of door chain – came across this one and couldn’t resist using it … It’s supposedly an actual photograph of a hotel room door.
See how effective that one is here …
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Health – and Safety?
Murray Hackney |
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I was one of the boys who went all the way from the primary annexe to 6th year, so a fair chunk of my life was spent at The Morgan. Never a sporty type, I considered footie, rugby and cricket perfect ways to get hurt, so became clever at avoiding them. I notice now that most of my sporty friends have limps and various arthritic problems, which I seem to have avoided. Coincidence...?
Strangely though, I enjoyed physical training (PE) in the hall, (you remember Mr. Sorbie?) and could scoot up the 30 foot ropes no bother. Letting go up there would spoil your day if not kill you! Then there were the wall bars, beams, and other things designed to maim you.
I don't think I'm making this up, but I also seem to remember an occasional game of thugball. No rules, both teams just had to get the ball to the other end of the hall by whatever means. Any injuries resulting from that game drew nothing but ribald insults.
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During a tour round the new school, I noticed the science labs had safety boxes for experiments. Who remembers Bill Dow's experiment to demonstrate metal expansion and contraction? He had a bar with a wing nut at one end and a hole at the other. A cast iron pin was dropped through the hole, and a solid frame held things together. While heating the bar with the Bunsen, he tightened the wing nut to take up the slack, then left it to cool while he got on with something else. A few minutes later, without warning, there was an almighty bang and bits of shrapnel flew around, usually just missing the nearest pupil... Can you imagine getting away with that now?
Of course we also brewed up all sorts of toxic gases without the benefit of extractor fans, and I'm sure some of us sniffed them up just to see what would happen. I discovered in a quiet moment that the science lab gas pressure was quite low, and I could easily blow down the pipe to purge out the gas. Bill Dow had a little trouble lighting his Bunsen! A hiccup at the wrong time might have made me an addict!
Despite the dangers, we all survived and today's school kids probably would too. Although today's H&S police would, for sure, take a dim view of all that...
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What the...? – 2
The Break In.
Hugh McGrory |
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My thanks to those of you who sent in your answers to my previous ‘What the …?’ story, the one about the clock. I thought I would try you with another teaser.
My first job after leaving university was in Westminster, London, and I lived in digs in Beckenham, Kent. My landlady had lost her RAF husband during WW2, had quite a large house to keep up, and three teenage kids to look after, so she rented four of her bedrooms.
One evening I returned rather late – in the wee sma’ oors. I wasn’t worried, since we all had our own key. I stuck mine in the lock and the door opened – a few inches – then stopped. The #$%^& chain was on …!
This wasn’t supposed to happen since we usually decided at breakfast who was going to be home last and the rest of us knew to leave the chain off. Some numpty had got it wrong and I was locked out.
I could have just banged on the door, but it didn’t seem fair to waken the whole house. What to do …?
I could get one hand in the opening to about mid-forearm, but that, of course, made the chain tighten up – as you know, the door has to be closed, or very nearly so, in order to slide the chain off.
There was a letter box in the middle of the door – it let me get a hand in up to my wrist but that didn’t seem to do much for me either.
I looked around to see if there was anything I could use as a tool to somehow, maybe, hook the chain, or something... Unfortunately I couldn’t come up with anything. I sat on the front step, my head in my hands – there may have been some drink taken earlier in the evening – was there anything I could do?
Then I got an idea … I thought, “It’s worth a shot”, and gave it a go. It worked. I was able to open the door as I normally did, making almost no noise, walk in, close and lock the door again, and head for bed.
The next morning at breakfast I waxed indignant, we figured out who the idiot was and he apologised profusely.
I graciously forgave him, then one of the others said, “Wait a minute, how did you get in if the chain was on”?
I said, “You tell me …”
Well, can you?
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Wur You Brocht Up in Dundee?
Ron Duncan |
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My wife and I got quite a chuckle out of Gordon Findlay's recent submission on the above subject. It reminded us of an item we received 10 or more years ago from our niece in Dundee. This poem seems to have been around since the '60s, but the author seems to be unknown.
For you Dundonians, if you haven't seen it before, or even if you have, I hope it brings back fond memories from your childhood.
Fae Dundee and Proud O' It!
See when Dundee fowk sit doon thegither, hiv ye noticed, in among a' ther blether,
That those magic words of yesteryear have slowly begun to disappear?
So, for tonight, let's reminisce on some Dundee words that's taen a twist.
It's a cupboard now, that once was a press, and a mirror was a lookin' gless,
A purn is now a cotton bobbin, and pilfering, we ca'd it dobbin.
A launderette was aye a steamy, and a coverall was jist a peeny.
Repairing yarn was a caird o' worsit, stys were things that 're now called corsets.
House slippers – mind when they were baffies, street orderlies are still but scaffies.
Slightly aff – we just said foosty, and weather-worn was bluddy roosty.
Half a penny was a maik or a hupnay, sixpence a tanner, and half that a thrupnay.
Under stress was just plain trachled, ill fittin' shoes – yer feet were bachled.
The Tansad's noo a baby buggy, and it's sparrow now that once was speuggie.
The pigeon tho' remains a doo, but the watery's changed – it's now a loo.
Breaking wind, we yased tae ruft, and a broken date pal, you were duffed.
For training shoes, oor word was sannies, and school caretakers were only jannies.
Tight-fisted now – we just said gruppy, and it's kilos now, no' half a luppy.
A paper bag was aye a poke, and nauseated meant you'd taen the boke.
Well-dressed, mind was awfy tricky, and a little drop was just a tickie.
Didn't cotton on means you didna twig, and a little sip was just a swig.
A metal fastener was a safety peen, conjunctivitis, scubby een.
Pimple, mind when it was a plook, swimming we aye gaed fur a dook.
Dirty feet were deemed as barkit, and coordy-custard's chicken-hearted.
False teeth were aye a set o' wallies, and pucks are whut we ca'ed prallies.
A piler's noo a four-wheeled cart, a scratch was nothing but a scart.
The lobby has now become the hall, a fitba' tube is now a ball.
An it bounces now, it disna stott. and "let me try" wiz "geize a shot".
Pen and pad, we yased a scailie, and half a mo' was jist a wee whiley.
A hangover – yer heid wiz nuppen, a baby diaper wiz a huppen.
A wall tae us was aye a dyke, and a mattress yased tae be a tyke.
At great speed was an awfy tek, redundancy, we got the seck.
It's take a look now, no hae a gander, take a walk was aye a dander.
Fowk now jibber, whaur we did haver, imagine "fly" instead of spaver.
Truancy – oor wurd was yited, soft in the head, we ca'd them dited.
A dog-end yased to be a doupie, Riverside Drive was aye the Coupie.
But I'm glad to say that in Dundee, a manhole cover is still a cundie.
There's many words I must hae missed, in fact I've still hundreds on meh list.
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A Half-sliced Loaf
Hugh McGrory |
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Years ago, on my way home from work in Toronto, I used to call into a particular bakery – maybe once every week or two. It was one of those stores that sold mouth watering sweetstuffs – little cakes, large anniversary-type cakes, tarts, trifles, lots of different kinds of biscuits (cookies as they're called in N. America) – just desserts of all kinds...
Though tempted, I never once bought any of those – honest! The store was one of a small chain, the owner was local and it was staffed by several pleasant, middle-aged women. The reason for my visits was that they also baked bread every day, and had a machine to slice a loaf for you if you wished.
One day, there was a new server. I asked her for my usual order, “I’ll have one of those loaves and would you please cut it in half and slice one half for me”.
“What?” she asked, in a rather crabby voice, with a frown on her face.
I said, politely, “Just cut the loaf across the middle, put one half into the bag and then slice the other half and put it into the same bag.”
She retorted “We’re too busy for that.”
I said “It’s never been a problem before – it only takes a few extra seconds and the shop isn’t that busy, is it?”
She said, “Do you want the bread sliced or not?”
"What I want now, is to speak to the manager."
“The manager’s not here”.
I said “OK, then I don’t want the loaf", and I walked out – and picked up a loaf from another bakery on the way (so that management wouldn't be annoyed with me when I got home...).
I decided I would call the owner to see whether or not he wanted my business, but it was a week or ten days before I got to it. I explained the situation to him and asked if he was happy to have a customer treated in this way.
He said, “Would you mind telling me why you’d want half a loaf sliced.”
I said “Well, when I get home, my wife and I have fondue for dinner, and we use the un-cut half – we then use the sliced half over the next day or two for toast or sandwiches.”
He said, “Oh – that makes sense. I apologise for the way you were treated and I’ll make sure that it doesn’t happen to you again”.
I thanked him, and a few days later I visited the same store. One of the long-term employees served me and I made my usual request. As she was attending to my order, one of her colleagues said to me “Oh, it was you wasn’t it?”
“What was?”
“You complained about one of our staff.”
“Yes, that was me", I said, "is she on tonight?”
“No”, she said, “she got fired!”
“Oh. Well I certainly didn’t ask for that. I just wanted her to serve me the way the rest of you ladies always do."
Thinking about it now, I still feel that she wasn't suited for the job, and the architect of her own misfortune – a case of ‘just desserts’...
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Tramcar Coolness
Gordon Findlay |
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As Dundonians of a certain age, who can forget those double-deck yellow and green tramcars that were a
fixture in our city for so many years?
Wooden seats, glass windows that slid down halfway, no heating – they rattled around Dundee streets swaying beneath their lifeline, that flexible pole which pulled in the electricity from the overhead lines and powered the tramcar along the metal tracks.
Although he had a little round pole-seat beside him, drivers mostly stood upright gripping the swing bar which acted as the throttle. Rising out of the floor beside his heel was a round metal disc. This was the driver’s “horn”. When he hammered down on this, a long metal shaft clanged repeatedly on the rail, warning cars and pedestrians out of the way. Under the foot of an expert it could set up quite a racket.
But to me, back then, the coolest part of tram travel was the unlawful descent. In other words – hopping off the tram while it was still under way. You had to pick the right conditions. Rain-slicked streets were a dangerous no-no. And slippery leather-soled shoes could be a problem.
There were, of course, notices posted at the exit reminding passengers to “Please wait until the car stops before descending.” But most conductors were pretty laid back. The older ones had seen it all and mostly they just ignored us. To young bucks, that official notice just made our cool move more of a challenge. Here’s how it was done.
You came down the stairs to the open exit and waited until your stop came into sight. Next, you moved down to the lowest step and hung on to the railing with one arm, feeling the wind rush past you. Then, at the first indication of the tram slowing down, you leapt out and away from the tram.
The secret was to lean backwards to help overcome the forward momentum as your feet hit the road. As they did, you did a frantic sprint-step with both legs for about ten yards until you could slow down to walking pace. And then there you were, walking past your stop as the rest of the passengers slowly climbed down in the proper way.
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My pals and I did it all the time, but every so often things could go wrong. It happened once to a good buddy, Murray Lamond. Two of us had successfully completed our high-speed dismount, but as Murray leapt away from the tramcar his foot struck the ground precisely where a local dog had deposited its business. His foot shot out from under him and a second later he was tumbling head-over-heels in front of the Dundee worthies on the sidewalk. He rose, somewhat battered and bruised, his jacket torn, and smelling rather unpleasant. Then he also had to endure the hoots and jeers from the rest of us.
Of course, the ultimate was to perform this high-speed dismount with one hand casually stuck in your pocket, and with a fag in your mouth. This manoeuvre was only to be attempted under perfect conditions. But it was definitely supercool.
With thanks to The Dundee Museum of Transport – visit their website here.
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Tales From Our Backyard – 2
The Deer
Hugh McGrory |
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At the far end of our backyard we have a small woodlot-covered rise which abuts the field of a neighbouring farm. The guy who built our house, and from whom we bought it, cut a gap through the wood so that he could install a garden shed at the back, hidden by the trees – actually a 40' insulated trailer which used to truck oranges from Florida – you can see one end of it at the foot of the large Scots pine in the photo.
White-tailed deer use the woodlot to travel round the back edge of our property – we rarely see them, since it takes them only a couple of seconds to cross the gap, though in the winter we often see their multiple tracks in the snow. (One thing I've never understood is how the deer, with their thin legs, manage to traverse the woods when they are deep with snow. The ground is covered by fallen trees, tree limbs, bushes, vines etc. – I find it quite a challenge when there's no snow on the ground – yet they never seem to break a leg...)
A few years ago, in the autumn, we had the whole mishpocha over for Sunday dinner, about a dozen of us. Most arrived mid-afternoon, and we decided to play various games of skill in family competitions. The last game we played was Bocce, in the middle of the backyard, and when we got called in for dinner, we left all the balls in place – the match to be continued...
In the middle of the meal, my oldest daughter glanced out of the window and said "WOW!" We all turned to look at the view you see in the photograph, and there were three deer, a doe and two fawns emerging from the woodlot and walking towards the house. This was very uncharacteristic behaviour – never seen before or since!
We all got up to the dining room windows to watch, wondering what they were up to, then realised that they had been attracted by the brightly-coloured Bocce balls. All three came right out to the middle of the backyard and inspected the balls up close – of course they knew immediately that they weren't apples – they walked back into the woods and went on their way.
The whole incident lasted little more than a minute, but none of us have ever forgotten the thrill of seeing those beautiful creatures up close...
(They looked very like this, but this is a stock photograph, not 'our' deers – by the time we'd finished oohing and aahing and decided to grab cameras/phones, the deer were gone.)
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Shortly after Great Britain declared war on Germany on September 3rd, 1939, urban mothers around the country had a decision to make. Do I send my children away from the city to safety, or do they stay home?
Plans had been drawn up by the government for the evacuation of children from cities around the country to rural areas. Enemy air raids were expected and major cities would be the obvious target.
From September 1st to 3rd more than 1,500,000 British children were moved from urban centres to country locations. It was recorded as the largest single migration of people within Great Britain in the history of the country.
On one particular day – September 1st – around 70,000 children and some parents, left Glasgow. From Dundee around 10,000 children headed for Kincardineshire, to be housed in small communities in that area.
| Children evacuees leaving Dundee and arriving in St. Andrews. |
Parents who decided to evacuate their children were allowed to make their own arrangements. Our mother had a longtime friend in Carnoustie: an older lady who was a widow and who lived in a small house not far from the sea. My mother got in touch with her, talked at length, and a deal was struck.
Next day, at lunch, our mother gave the news to me and my older brother David. We were going to have to leave home in Dundee and go to live with Mrs. Fraser “for a little while.”
That was the bad news. But there was good news as well. It seems that before she had married, Mrs. Fraser had served an apprenticeship with a Dundee bakery. Following that, and before her marriage, she had gone into service in the kitchens of a local Earl at his estate in Forfarshire.
Our mother assured us that Mrs. Fraser was a lovely person, was looking forward to having us in her home, and would feed us well. David and I weren’t too sure about all this, but the fateful day arrived, and all too soon we were being ushered into a tiny stone cottage by a grey-haired old lady who – to our young eyes anyway – looked to be around 100 years old. (I believe this was in Ireland St., shown as it looks today, in this photo.)
It says a lot for Mrs. Fraser’s kindness and patience that she was willing to take two energetic young schoolboys, an 8 and a 10-year-old, into her quiet little home. I would guess she was around 65 years old at that time, so it was no small undertaking.
Mrs. Fraser and her late husband had never had children, but as we were to discover, she adored youngsters and took us in as if we were her very own. She had a warm and loving heart and hadn’t lost any of her skills as a cook and a baker.
Rationing hadn’t yet started to clamp its tight fingers around Scotland, and Mrs. Fraser took it as a personal challenge to fill up her two young refugees with good food.
She baked her own bread. She made morning rolls. Her home-made jams were delicious. Her savoury stews were a joy. I even loved her creamy morning porridge.
And her reputation in the neighbourhood for making the best fruit pies on the East coast was well earned. They were a joy to behold, crisscrossed with delicate strips of pastry and stuffed with local berries. They were an even greater pleasure to eat.
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For me and my brother, evacuation was like a happy holiday. We’d scoot out of Mrs. Fraser’s in the morning and spend hours on the beach, roaming the dunes and exploring the rocks by the sea shore. Then, there was the added joy of walking back to her little cottage and smelling the sweet aroma of a freshly-baked pie just out of the oven.
She had one peculiarity, although looking back on it, I imagine it was for her own sanity. Mrs. Fraser insisted we stay out of the cottage all afternoon. She served us lunch at noon, and after that it was: “Awa’ ye go, now. I’ll close the door, and Ah’ll see ye at dinner time.”
Rain or shine, that was her wish. I suspect the poor woman lay down and had a well-deserved nap in the afternoon, and who could blame her?
We didn’t stay evacuated for long – my memory tells me it was no longer than three or four months. Fears about a German invasion had subsided. Air raids on Scotland had been concentrated on Glasgow and the Clyde dock area.
My parents sent word that we were to come home. On that day my brother and I stood on Mrs. Fraser’s doorstep with our little suitcases, ready to return to Dundee. Then, all at once she pulled each of us in turn towards her and hugged us hard.
We weren’t a hugging family and I looked up at her in surprise. To my amazement Mrs. Fraser’s face was awash in tears. She was shaking with emotion. She stood there, hankie held to her face, as David and I walked away.
I never saw her again.
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A Nun's Story
Hugh McGrory |
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Sister Beatrice, as the family referred to her, was my wife, Sheila's, first cousin once removed – and a good friend of her mother when they were growing up. She was a nun in a convent in the Maritimes and would occasionally come to Toronto to visit family and friends.
On one of Sister Beatrice's visits, for Christmas and New Year, Sheila, announced to me that we were going to take her out for dinner one evening. I was a little apprehensive – as an atheist who had never before even spoken to a nun...
Learning soon afterwards that she was actually the Mother Superior at the convent didn't help – the term Reverand Mother didn't exactly flow off my tongue. (Although, and I may have gotten this wrong, I got the impression that this was a rotating position – sort of like in some University faculties where taking a turn as Dean for several years is seen as a penance, the job being likened to herding cats.)
I remember when we sat down to dinner, I wasn't sure if I should ask her if she'd like a glass of wine – but I did and she did. She turned out to be a frendly, warm person with a sense of humour, and as the evening progressed I grew quite comfortable talking and joking with her.
Around dessert time, we were getting along just fine, and so finally, I couldn't resist – I said "May I ask you a question?"
"Yes" she said.
"Say a nun has a brother who is a priest."
"Yes?"
"Would such a sister call her brother, Father, Mother?"
She laughed, and afterwards I felt, that she thought, that I was a very funny guy.
Looking back, it was probably the wine...
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That Unmistakeable Accent...
Gordon Findlay |
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In all honesty, Dundee can’t lay claim to much that is famous around the world, although the city did raise the inventor of the adhesive postage stamp (James Chalmers) and the first working incandescent lamps (James Bowman Lindsay). We also lay claim to launching marmalade on the world (Keiller’s).
We did build Antarctic explorer Robert Scott’s research ship “Discovery”; we have the largest teaching hospital in Europe (Ninewells); and we should own up to having raised the world’s worst poet, William McGonagall, whose doggerel lives on to this day.
“Beautiful railway bridge of the silv’ry Tay
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath Day of 1879
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.”
You get the picture.
But we do have something unique. Over the years Dundonians have perfected an accent which has been delicately described as “quite distinct.” It certainly is that. Others might label it ugly, harsh, grating, grotesque, or simply incomprehensible. But to the trained ear, it has a certain lyric rhythm to it.
Let’s start simply with some key words of the Dundee alphabet. To wit:
BAFFIES – Slippers.
CUNDIE – A drain cover.
DOWP – That part of one’s anatomy we sit upon.
EHRUM – Upon which your hands are affixed.
ERSE – See DOWP.
FLOOERS – Given to girlfriends and spouses on special occasions.
GANSIE – One’s undershirt.
JEHKIT – An item worn outdoors.
KEEKER – A black eye, inflicted for forgetting the flooers.
LEHN – A loan. As in “Geez a lehn o’ a fehver.” (Give me a loan of 5 pounds.)
LUG – That through which one hears sound.
NAIKIT – Undressed.
PEECE – Jelly or jam are favoured, but peanut butter is also popular.
PEELY WALLY – To look unwell. As in “She wiz lookin’ affy peely wally.”
SANNAYZ – A foot accessory now overtaken by Reebok and Nike.
SKELP – To strike a blow, as in “Ah’ll skelp yer lug furr ye!”
TULLY – The local newspaper, available in the evening.
Another couple of expressions which seem to be made-in-Dundee, are:
FLEH CUPPIE – meaning a quick cup of afternoon tea, and
SAIR FECHT – meaning a sore fight or a hard life.
And I doubt that many would decipher the meaning of a Dundee tenement housewife who might tell a friend: “Ah’m hashin’ fir a hingie.” She would mean that she was rushing through her housework so she could lean out the window to talk to other housewives doing the same thing.
Anyone from our fair city could quickly understand the following short, sad story: “Eh fell doon the Wellgate steps, an’ mah peh went skeh hegh.” Or even a slightly more advanced sample, given to the proprietor of a bake shop: “Twa pehs, twa plehn bridies, an’ an ingin ane an’ a’.” (“Two pies, two plain bridies, and an onion one as well.”)
And thus, employing our distinctive “eh” intonation, any Dundonian could swiftly understand the words of some kind matron, saying to a nicely-dressed young man: “Oh, meh – whit a bonny teh.” Once you get the hang of it, it’s quite simple.
Anyone else out there who can come up with a few more favourite, Dundee-only words or expressions? Let’s share . . .
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What the...?
The Answer
Hugh McGrory |
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A few weeks ago I spoke of the time when I thought my face was stopping a clock – see the story below. My thanks to those of you who responded with a variety of clever suggestions – but no one figured out what actually was happening. For the non-responders, here's the answer:
I remember at Morgan, in physics class, learning the whys and hows of pendula. As far as pendulum clocks
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are concerned the pendulum, along with the escapement, regulates the speed of the clock and keeps it relatively constant. Traditionally, power comes from a descending weight which is raised up again, periodically, by a key.
My bewilderment at what had hap- pened with our clock really arose from the moment we first set eyes on it.
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We said somethng like "What a nice little pendulum clock...", and over the years we always referred to it, and thought of it, as the "pendulum clock" (such as the one on the left above). The problem is that clocks such as the one in question (on the right), are not pendulum clocks...
They are battery powered – typically the time mechanism is based on a vibrating quartz crystal. An electro magnet gives a pulse to a magnet on the horizontal pendulum arm, which gives the pendulum a natural-looking swinging motion – but the pendulum is really just a decoration.
The time mechanism operates independently of the pendulum movement and the pendulum has no effect on it. When the battery begins to get low, the pendulum, which requires more power than the time mechanism, stops swinging, but the clock continues to keep time for a bit longer.
So the first day when I thought the clock had stopped, it really hadn't – only the pendulum. When I flicked the pendulum with my fnger and it began to oscillate, I assumed that it then continued to swing – in fact it probably stopped again a minute or so after I left the room.
After the second day, I replaced the battery, and the pendulum began to work reliably again. So there you have it.
At this point, some of you may be saying to yourselves, "Nah – it was his face" – but I'm sticking to my story!
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After I finished my two years of National Service, I went back to my sub-editor job at D.C. Thomson in Dundee. Being single and living at home, I had cash to spare, so I indulged my young self by buying a nifty little M.G.
It was a 1945 MG-TC. Bright, fire engine red. Rear-wheel drive, 54 horsepower, 4-speed gearbox, wire wheels, cable brakes, and of course, a drop-down front windshield if you really wanted to feel the wind in your face.
The manufacturer claimed a top speed of 80 miles an hour. However, that must have been when it was brand new, factory-tuned, and maybe with a good following wind. Still, when you were sitting low down in the car and practically on the road, you felt like you were flying along at 150 miles an hour.
It had cable brakes with fairly small drums, so you had to allow for a fairly lengthy stopping distance. Even more so if it were raining, since the water got into the wheels and the drums. Suddenly you had to allow a good 100 yards to come to a stop. It made life interesting at times.
I bought my little MG in 1953, so the car had been thrashing around Scotland for some eight years, and I suspect that a couple of previous owners had bullied it around a bit. The dashboard was definitely showing its age. Being all wood (walnut, I think) the impact of sun and rain had aged it badly.
Fortunately, my older brother was a skilled mechanic and while he set about rejuvenating the sturdy 4-cylinder engine, I tackled the dashboard. Once removed, it was relatively straightforward to sand it, have it re-waxed and polished, and to fit it with an upgraded tachometer and a couple of new switches.
The drop-in side windows of Perspex had clouded slightly, and the canvas top kept the rain out – but the whole wet weather arrangement had become – let’s just say – a lot looser over the years. Rain spray from the road or from other (much taller) vehicles going past came sifting in both sides. I tried to tell my girl friend at the time that it was good for the complexion. Don’t think she bought that line.
But these shortcomings are minor when you’re young. The car was thrifty on petrol, the engine was unbreakable, and the bright red beast was great fun to drive, especially on a warm summer day with the top down.
Then, in 1955, I decided to emigrate to Canada, so I advertised my car for sale. Amazingly, I sold it to another MG enthusiast within a week, and for the same price I had paid for it. So, I figured I’d had a grand time with licence plate US 7906, for only the price of petrol and oil . . . plus some labour of love in sprucing it up.
Fast forward now to June of 1959. I have returned on holiday to Scotland with my new Canadian bride, to introduce her to my parents and to show her something of the land where her husband grew up.
We are in Edinburgh on a fine sunny day. We tour Princess Street and nip in to a nice restaurant for a bite of lunch. We come out afterwards, and stand on the sidewalk figuring out the easiest way to get across the street and over to Edinburgh Castle to continue our tour.
And that’s when it happened. Just like a scene from a Hollywood movie.
I’m looking up Princess Street to get my bearings when suddenly my eyes are attracted to a flash of bright red coming down towards us. I look more closely. Surely it can’t be! This is unbelievable! But a second or two later there’s no mistake: here it comes – licence plate US 7906 – my shiny wee red MG-TC bouncing down towards us, with a young man driving it. He has a young woman sitting beside him.
I grab my new wife, point at the little sports car and yell like a madman: “Look! Look! That’s my old car! My old MG! The one I sold before I left!”
We stood there, laughing together at the sheer unlikeliness of it all. Then we watched as a happy piece of memory went gliding on past us, down Princess Street, and out of our lives forever.
What were the odds?
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My Uncle Wullie
(7 Feb 1909 – 10 June 1941)
Hugh McGrory |
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by the recent Remembrance Day ceremonies, I want to tell you about my Uncle Wullie.
I spoke in a previous story, of the death, in a plane crash in Iceland, of my 20-year-old Uncle Frank, my mother's brother. Wullie, my Dad's brother, also died, at sea, serving his country – he was 32 years old.
He lived in Methil, Fife – I'm not sure what he did for a living – I was only four when he died in 1941 – I think he may have worked in the coal mines, probably the Wellesley or the Michael, and/or at Methil docks. The only thing I remember about him is once hearing the statement "he was a bit of a lad, wis Wullie...".
I decided to see what I could discover about how he died, and almost immediately
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came up with a puzzle. I found his death commemorated on the war memorial in Upper Methil honouring local men who had died for us in two world wars:
I also found his name on the War Memorial in Point Pleasant Park in Halifax Nova Scotia, honouring Canadians who, having died at sea during the war, have no other marker:
So I set out to find how this came about, and came up with much more information than I expected. Before I tell the story though, I want to set it in it's historical context,:
Background – June 1941 – Battle of the Atlantic
Britain
By mid 1941, U-boats had had great success against Allied convoys travelling back and forth between Britain and N. America. The British were beginning to understand how to better deal with the undersea
menace, but still had a long way to go before supremacy at sea would be achieved. There weren't enough escort ships to protect the convoys all the way across, so for roughly the middle third of the voyage, the convoys dispersed, and the individual, poorly-armed, if at all, merchant ships separated and had to fend for themselves.
Norway
The Norwegian Campaign of World War II refers to the invasion of Norway by Germany and the brief campaign that followed (9 April to 10 June 1940) against a British and French expeditionary force that came to Norway's aid. Despite some success in the north, Germany's invasion of France in May eventually compelled the Allies to withdraw and the Norwegian government to seek exile in London. The campaign ended with the occupation of Norway by Germany, and the continued fighting of exiled Norwegian forces from abroad. The only nation that withstood the Nazi Blitzkrieg longer than Norway (62 days of fighting) was the Soviet Union.
With the German invasion of Norway, the question of control of the Norwegian merchant fleet became critical, and the Norwegian government, the British government and the Germans were the main contenders. Around 15% of the total fleet was within the German-controlled area and was lost to the Allies; the battle would be for the remaining 85% sailing worldwide.
The British contemplated confiscating the Norwegian merchant fleet as they did with the Danish fleet, but decided against it because the Norwegians continued to fight and because of intervention by the Norwegian ambassador in London. The Germans and their Norwegian collaborator, Vidkun Quisling, radioed to Norwegian vessels to sail for German-controlled waters, but the Norwegian masters ignored the orders and instead took their ships to Allied harbours such as London, England and Halifax, Nova Scotia.
The Norwegian King and most of the Norwegian Government landed in England on June 8, brought over by the heavy cruiser, HMS Devonshire. At that time the Bank of Norway and merchant ship owners together with Norwegian Naval personnel had gathered in England and Norway and had managed to convince Britain that it was to her advantage that Norwegian ships come under Norwegian management since Norway, at that time, had the 3rd largest merchant fleet in the world. NORTRASHIP, NORwegian TRAde and SHIPping Company, a conglomerate, was formed by Norwegian ship owners and the Norwegian Government in Exile in London.
For the first three years of the war, Norwegians transported more than half of the supplies, food, fuel, munitions etc. to Britain, in fact some of the Norwegian ships were already doing this in 1939. More than 9,000 non-Norwegians served on Norwegian Merchant Navy vessels during the Second World War, of these about 2,000 were Canadians (the youngest Canuck was 14 years old).
Records show that 694 Norwegian ships were sunk during the war, representing 47% of the total fleet. At the end of the war in 1945, the Norwegian merchant fleet was estimated at 1,378 ships. More than 3,700 Norwegian merchant seamen lost their lives.
Germany
The German Navy was no match for the mighty British fleet as far as surface vessels were concerned – which is why the U-Boat fleet was so important in the first four years of the war.
One of the U-Boat 'Aces' was Kapitänleutnant Klaus Scholtz, commanding U-108. In June 1941 U-108 was
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on patrol in the Mid-Atlantic attacking Allied Shipping – by then, Scholtz had sunk 6 ships (40,000 tons) out of his grand total, by war end, of 25 ships sunk (128,000 tons). As you can see from the yellow on the graph above,
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1942 was the heyday for U-Boat captains like Scholtz – but it was also the beginning of the end for them...
Uncle Wullie
So how did my uncle who lived in Methil end up as a merchant seaman in the galley of a Norwegian ship, the Christian Krogh, in a Canadian convoy from Oban to the St. Lawrence? A clue may be found in the partial ship's log on the right.
As you can see, the ship was a frequent visitor to Methil, and my theory is that Wullie probably got to know the crew in one of the many pubs in Methil. He was probably going to be conscripted anyway, so when the ship had an opening for a galley attendant – called a mess boy – he may have decided to go off to see the world.
Convoy EC23 departed Southend on 22 May 1941, northbound for the Clyde. On 24 May, the D/S Christian Krohg, Captain Ingvart Hagen, left Methil, bound for Oban. The ship joined the other 80 or so ships of convoy E23 and arrived safely in Oban on 26 May. (The convoy continued to the Clyde arriving 28 May).
The Krohg joined convoy OB329 (38 merchant ships and 7 escorts), and left Oban on 1 June bound for Canada – the St. Lawrence.
At this stage in the war, such convoys were only escorted as far as longitude 20W, at which point the escorts turned back and the convoy was left to fend for itself. Since the only point of convoys
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was to group ships together so that the escorts could protect them by acting like sheepdogs, the formation was no longer of value, and so ships were ordered to disperse. The Krohg stayed with another Norwegian ship for a day then on the 5th set off alone.
U-Boat 108 had left its base in Lorient, Brittany on 20 May to prowl the Atlantic convoy routes. It came upon the Christian Krogh late afternoon on 9 Jun and began to manoeuvre into a firing position.
The merchantman was a small ship – the average size of ships in convoys was probably around 5,000 tons, and the Krohg, at 1992 tons was the second smallest in convoy OB329.
Like most merchant ships at this time it was probably quite defenceless – it might have had a Lewis gun or two at best.
On that afternoon most of the crew would have been attending to their various duties – my uncle probably washing dishes or preparing vegetables in the galley – and some who had night watches were probably asleep.
Apparently, not one of them saw the wake of the torpedo that was fired at the ship around dusk – perhaps it simply missed, or since defective torpedoes were not uncommon, it may have been a dud. In any event, no signal of an attack was sent from the ship. So the unaware crew was given one more night of relative serenity...
The U108 followed the ship all through the night and sent another torpedo at dawn on 10 June. This one hit and the Christian Krohg went down, with all men lost, at 47°N 41°W according to reckoning by the U-boat as noted in the ship's log.
The submarine had not managed to identify the ship, but with common German exaggeration had estimated it to be 3,500 tons. Analysis of U-boat reports and lists of losses show that this was indeed the Christian Krohg. Seventeen Norwegians, one Swede, two Englishmen, one Estonian, one Newfoundlander and my uncle were lost.
The submarine resumed its patrol, and before returning to its base in Lorient on July 1941 it sank three more merchantmen:
The map below shows how the 108 roamed around the Atlantic on this patrol looking for prey (the markers indicate the location of 'kills' – the Christian Krohg was 'D') before returning to base in Brittany:
So it would seem that, since he served in a Canadian convoy, my uncle's name appears in the Canadian Virtual War Memorial and on the Memorial for Canadian Merchant Seaman lost at sea, in Point Pleasant Park, Halifax, Nova Scotia, as well as on the Buckhaven War Memorial.
Not bad for that "bit of a lad" from Methil, eh?
This story was put together with information from many sources. I owe particular thanks to the Norwegian Consulate, Toronto; Berit Pittman of the Camp Norway Foundation, Nova Scotia – read Berit's story here ; Siri Lawson for her website; and Johanne Neville, Canadian Agency, Commonwealth War Graves Commission.
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Celebrities – 6
Hugh McGrory |
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Sometime in the '70s I had just landed in Lexington, Kentucky and was walking through the terminal towards the luggage pick-up area. I saw two guys that looked like cowboys walking towards me – they weren't wearing stetsons, but had fancy shirts, jeans, and high-heeled cowboy boots – actually they looked a bit more like Rhinestone Cowboys than the Marlborough Man... As they passed I looked at the shorter one and thought I vaguely knew the face, but...
I got my luggage and went outside to get a cab, and I saw in the parking lot a large bus of the type that entertainers use to get around the states, and it had Loretta Lynn written across one side in huge letters – which should have been a clue...
When I got to the hotel and settled in, I was leafing through a 'Whats On' publication and realized who I'd seen at the airport when I read that Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty had brought their country and western show to town.
This duo had huge success in the '70s and '80s, and Twitty was referred to, by some, as The Uncrowned King of Country and Western. If you'd like to hear one of their greatest hits, click here. I listened to this again just before I posted this story, to remind myself of how much I've always disliked C&W...
To be fair though, I have enjoyed some of the crossover, C&W/Pop music which began in the '50s when country performers were seeing their audiences wane and began to drop the banjos and fiddles, and pop artists began to appear on the C&W charts... In the '70s, '80s and '90s – artists like
Anne Murrray, 1970, "Snowbird".
Kris Kristofferson, 1970, "For the Good Times".
John Denver, 1974, "Annie's Song".
Olivia Newton-John, 1974, "I Honestly Love You".
Glen Campbell, 1975, "Rhinestone Cowboy".
Crystal Gayle, 1977, "Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue".
Shania Twain, 1999, "Man I Feel Like a Woman", and many others, had hits that climbed both the C&W and Pop charts.
As you may know, Crystal Gayle was Loretta Lynn's baby sister.
There is a story, possibly apocryphal, that Harold Lloyd Jenkins chose his stage name when looking at a road map. I went looking and found the area shown below – the Texas Panhandle east of Amarillo – which may lend some credence (though not Clearwater...) to this story.
I guess he could have called himself, "Pampa McLean" or "Panhandle Wheeler" or "Claude Goodnight " or...
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Damn Cassies!
Gordon Findlay |
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Pride comes before a fall, they say – and ‘way back in ’53 I proved it in spades.
I was working as a junior reporter at the Dundee Courier & Advertiser and drove to work each day on the apple of my eye – a 350 cc B.S.A. B31. A single banger, 4-gear foot-change, racing seat, totally reliable. Black and silver, with a handsome green 4-gallon gas tank. Just like the one below.
I kept the chrome parts free of oil and grease and polished the rest of my bike till it shone. When I parked it at Meadowside I’d throw a rain cover over it and tie it down. Parked it on the street beside the building and walked away with my “skid-lid” under my arm. Nobody ever touched my pride and joy. Those were the days, eh?
Now, back then, many of Dundee’s streets were paved with rectangular blocks of black granite. We called them cobblestones or “cassie blocks”, and I’m sure they were wonderfully durable, but they did have one serious deficiency. A sprinkle of rain turned them instantly into greasy, slippery slime patches – as I was to find out
On this summer day, I had popped home for lunch, then headed back to work. Down Forfar Road , then Albert Street and on down to the long right-hand curve of Princes Street, with Menzies and Sons store on the left-hand side.
| Where it happened (as it looked in 1984), Black's Camping Store where Menzies used to be. |
I’m humming along, happy as a lark, leaning gently into the bend when I saw to my horror that the shop-keeper had washed all his store windows and had covered not only the storefront and the pavement but also the entire left-hand side of the road, with lots and lots of soapy water.
My front tire hit this, and it was like suddenly nosing on to the Dundee ice rink – at an angle – and at 30 miles an hour. I just had a split second to pull my right leg up and out of contact with the road before my beautiful B.S.A. began a thumping slide across those damned cobblestones towards that soggy pavement.
I can still vividly recall being on my back, hanging on to my sliding bike and looking up to see a large woman leaning out of a top window above the store, staring placidly down at me as I performed my ignominious glissade across the road.
The upshot? A dent in my tank, a long scrape down the front teleforks, one pair of grey flannels shredded up to my buttocks, a very sore bum, plus one severely bruised ego.
I’ve never felt quite the same about cobblestones since...
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Around 1980, the president of the consulting engineering company I worked for called me into his office and
said that he'd like me to go to Brussels for him. The background was that the company had been invited to go on a Trade Mission to Europe organised by the Liberal government. My boss's plans had changed and he wanted me to fill in.
I of course agreed – it beat work...
The trip was organised i.e. we all travelled together. I remember two things
about that flight over, the first, meeting the Agriculture Minister, Eugene Whelan. I always thought he was from Alberta or Saskatchewan, somewhere out west, since he always affected a green Stetson, but I just learned that he was born in Amherstburg, Ontario – albeit in a log cabin.
He was a plain-speaking farmer, very bright, and got to know Mikhail Gorbachev a few years after our trip when Gorbachev visited Canada as the Russian Agriculture Minister.
At this point I must digress briefly:
The Russian Ambassador to Canada at the time was Aleksandr Yakovlev. He had democratic ideals, and had been "banished" to Canada some ten years before because of this. He and Gorbachev took a long three-hour walk together on the Whelan farm one evening, and apparently 'hit it off'. It seems they talked about the failure of the Russian dictatorship and the need for a democratic government. Two weeks after his chat with Mr. Gorbachev in Amherstburg, Yakovlev was invited to return to Russia to take charge of the Institute of World Economy and International Relations. That walk has been referred to as "the walk that changed the world...”
As soon as Mr. Gorbachev became the head of the Soviet Union, following the death of Konstantin Chernenko in March 1985, Mr. Yakovlev became of one of Mr. Gorbachev’s key advisors and worked closely with him in implementing perestroika and glasnost.
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The second thing I recall about the flight over was meeting one of the McCain brothers (I think, Harrison). He was another farmer, from New Brunswick who, with his brother Wallace built the hugely successful international frozen food (french fries) business. Another really interesting guy to listen to.
I honestly don't remember the official part of the trip – there really wasn't any specific reason for us to be there – we agreed to go just to support the government of the day, since they were often clients of our engineering company. Two things stick out in my memory though:
I joined up with another fellow to go out one evening to have a meal in the old part of town. While wandering, we came upon the famous statue the Manneken Pis. (I understand that this is pronounced very similarly in French and in Dutch – "Mannekin Piss".)
As you probably know it's a fountain featuring a bronze statue of a little boy having a pee. The original statue apparently goes back to the late 15th century – visited by thousands of tourists every year, it's a tribute to the Belgian’s ability to laugh at themselves. The thing that most surprised me about it was how small it is – only about two feet tall.
The fountain is located on Rue du Chêne/Eikstraat (Oak Street) at the corner of Rue de l'Étuve/Stoofstraat (street of the Oven). We then decided to eat and my memory says that it was in a small bar/café on the rue de l'Étuve which is a narrow one-way street. The establishments on the street had small frontages, and were long and narrow premises.
We sat at a small table, he with his back to the street, I facing him. Over his shoulder I looked across the narrow street into a pub which had a bar at right angles to the street.
The photo below sets the scene with Rue du Chêne/Eikstraat running left to right, and Rue de l'Étuve going off into the distance,. The famous wee man is on the corner, and the café we were in was near the top on the right. |
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You'll have realised at this point that I don't really remember a great deal about that trip. I don't remember the name of my companion, or where he was from in Canada, nor the name of the restaurant, or what we ate or drank, but the evening was memorable for one thing.
As we chatted, I would, from time to time glance over his shoulder into the bar opposite. There were tables on the left with a few people sitting at them, and a few more sitting on stools at the bar. In particular a couple, a man and a woman, the man half-turned towards her, and she half-turned to face him (and me).
Timing is everything so they say, and I happened to glance across the street just at the moment that the man cocked his fist and punched the woman right in the face, knocking her off the stool onto the floor. Then people in the bar reacted, crowded around and I really couldn't see anything more of significance.
I enjoyed Brussels, the little that I saw of it, but left (to fly to Madrid – but that's another story), apparently with only two real memories – a wee boy peeing and a poor woman being assaulted...
PS: Quirky Brussels has given the Manneken a sister and a dog over the years. See here if you're interested.
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Tattie Picking
Sir Galahad
Tom Burt |
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Our group of young boys and girls got on the bus at some unearthly hour in the morning and set off to the farm. This was a great time for the boys to become more familiar with the girls, and I was no exception.
Joan Kilpatrick was my close friend and we both settled in the back seat next to the window, where else, for the journey. It was becoming an enjoyable time and potato picking was not uppermost in my mind. As we went along my thoughts were interrupted by, of all things, a wasp. Joan got a bit excited and of course I stayed calm thinking of what to do. Then it dawned on me that I could kill the wasp with my haversack and get back to being nice to Joan.
My haversack was an old army gas mask holder, like many others at that time, where you could fit a bottle of lemonade down one pocket and the lunch down the other. So there we are with a wasp interrupting our socialising, it was time for the kill.
I picked up my haversack and as the wasp settled on the side window at the back I pushed my haversack hard on to the pest and crack, this rear window suddenly had four or five cracks in it going from top to bottom, fortunately the glass did not fall out.
Yes, you guessed it, in my hurry to be the saviour I hit the window with the bottle side instead of the lunch side. Silence followed as you would expect, and the bus continued until we got to the farm. Being a bit anxious about what was going to happen I admitted my stupidity to the driver, after all I had to impress Joan by telling the truth.
So there we are, probably the only Morgan pupil ever, who broke a bus window in an act of chivalry, what a claim to fame...! As it was, neither I (nor my parents), had to pay for the replacement.
Happy days.
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Some of you, after you read this little story will probably say "How could you be so dumb" - all I can say is that I was really puzzled for a couple of days...
You've heard the expression "A face that could stop a clock". There was a time, about thirty years ago when I began to wonder if I had such a face...
At the time, we lived in a 'side-split' house. I would park in the car-port and enter the house by a side door onto a floor which had two bedrooms - one of which I used as my office, the other was a guest room. I had gotten into the habit of using the guest room to change from my street shoes to my baffies.
Sitting on a dresser in the room there was a clock, a present that someone had given us years before. It was
the type that has a horizontal pendulum - similar to the one in the photograph - and it still kept good time. I glanced at the clock and noticed that it had stopped. I looked at my watch and back at the clock and realised that they showed the same time. I thought to myself, "I guess it just stopped as I walked in - what are the chances...", then sat down to change my shoes. I then restarted the clock by pushing the pendulum - watched it for a moment to make sure it was going, then left the room.
The following night I worked later, and when I did get home I followed my usual routine. I sat down to take my shoes off then remembered the clock, glanced at it and saw that, though it was showing the correct time, it had stopped again...
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It was at that point that I began to wonder about my face... Why would the clock stop two days running exactly when I entered the room?
Some of you, smarter than I, are probably saying "That's obvious", but it wasn't to me...
Just for the hell of it, if you know why it happened and are interested enough, send me an email in the next ten days or so and tell me. If you're puzzled too and would like to know the answer, drop me an email and I'll send you a link to a page with the answer.
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Upper Crust Adventure
Pete Rennie |
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Having left my years at Morgan Academy behind I went on to study Architecture at Dundee College of Art. Having successfully navigated the first year of the course I was eagerly looking forward to summer weeks of freedom.
My complacency was deflated when I was informed that during this interval we were expected - nay obliged - to source a suitable building of Architectural or Historical significance and prepare measured drawings of it for submission on our return to College for second year.
Like Hugh's recent selection of poetry I sought a building that would not involve too much time or effort to complete this task. One of the senior students came to my rescue by suggesting I choose Inchyra House near Glencarse, I had his assurance that it met my not too stringent requirements.
One Sunday subsequently armed with my sketch pad, measuring tape etc. I got a bus which dropped me off at Glencarse. I made my way to the Lodge House which stands at the entrance gates to Inchyra House and knocked at the door. I explained the purpose of my visit to the lodge-keeper who helpfully suggested that I make my way up to the main house and that he would inform Sir Derick of my arrival.
I was somewhat taken aback by this since in my naivety I had not considered that the house which was to be the subject of my task might be occupied, even less so than by a ‘Sir’! Fools rush in etc.
I rang the bell at the front door of Inchyra House, it was duly answered by a gentleman I took to be Sir Derick, I explained again my reason for being there and apologised for not having asked for approval in advance. Sir Derick (for this was he) was very good humoured about the whole thing, suggested I should carry on and left me to it.
My intention was to measure only the frontage of the house which was nicely symmetrical, so I got on with my sketching and measuring for about two hours, suddenly the front door opened and a lady appeared and asked if I would care to have tea with the family, I gladly accepted since a cup of tea was just what I needed at that time.
I was ushered into the rather grand dining room where a large table was laid out for afternoon tea. The family was assembled, Sir Derick, his wife, two daughters and a governess.
I sat down and my tea was poured by a maid after which I was offered a slice of fruit loaf which, as is usual, had several burnt raisins around the edge, at home I would have picked these off to avoid eating them but here in such grand surroundings and in the presence of an upper crust (no pun intended) family I had no option but to eat the bread, burnt fruit included!
Polite conversation ensued and eventually tea was over I thanked them for their kindness and took my leave. I made subsequent visits - by that time the family had returned to their home in Eaton Square, London - and I was always invited into the kitchen for tea and cake by the cook.
Some time later I discovered that Sir Derick was in fact Sir Frederick Robert Hoyer Miller and he was, at that time, British Ambassador to Western Germany - which must have been tricky in the days of a divided Germany and Cold War Politics. He later became Lord Inchyra and is shown below escorting his older daughter, Elizabeth, at her wedding in 1965.
The other photograph shows the same Elizabeth Anne Hoyer Miller after her marriage to William Euan "Billy" Wallace, a former escort of Princess Margaret in the days when the British press followed her excursions into London's nightlife as avidly as the American press now follow the Kardashians - see this article.
So much for my brief spell mixing with the upper crust. Happily, my drawings met with approval on my return to college.
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Give the System what it Wants...
Hugh McGrory |
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When I first joined the workforce, post-education, it took me a while to get my 'sea legs'. At first, I thought that everybody around me knew it all, and that I didn't know much of anything. This changed as I began to realise that none of them 'knew everything' and that I just had to do what they did - apply whatever knowledge and skill they had to each problem that came along, seek help if necessary, then make a decision and deal with the results.
At that point I developed a tendency to 'kick against the pricks' as the ancient Greek proverb puts it. When 'Authority' asked me to do something a certain way that I, in my wisdom, considered to be the wrong way - or perhaps asked me to provide some information, which I believed they never actually used, I would protest - 'take up arms' as it were - and sometimes get myself into a 'sea of troubles'.
Over time, with, if not wisdom, at least enlightened self-interest, I developed a new approach that I think of as 'Give the System What it Wants'. If the issue isn't a crucial one to me, doesn’t involve an important point of principle, or create a load of useless work, it's often more productive to simply provide what was asked and move on.
Let me give you two actual examples:
1. I decided to take a course in 'Problem-solving Techniques' at Ryerson Polytechnical Institute (this later became Ryerson University.) As a prospective student, I had to sign up for the course, and, since there was often limited space and a big demand I went down on the evening of the first day of registration.
The room was a long rectangle - it had a counter about 25 feet long and the space for customers was about 10 feet deep. It was packed with would-be students, and there were only three clerks behind the counter. So I had to squeeze into the room then slowly merge my way towards one of the clerk positions. Eventually I was second-in-line and there were as many students behind me as there had been when I arrived.
I was right behind the fellow being attended to, using my elbows to protect my turf and keep others from cutting in - I couldn't help but overhear the whole conversation between the clerk and the would-be student. The young clerk was asking questions and filling in the information on the appropriate form. She asked him ,"What is your SIN?"
The SIN is the 9-digit Canadian Social Insurance Number - in those days higher education institutions were entitled to ask for it - not any longer. The young man stuttered began to search his pockets then said that he didn't have it on him. She said "Sorry, you'll have to come back". He protested saying that he'd been there for almost an hour, and that the course might be filled when he got back, etc., but she was adamant, and the very unhappy lad finally pushed back from the counter and left - allowing me to slide into the space and begin the process.
A few minutes later the clerk asked me "What is your SIN?" I politely said 253-867-954 - a number I made up - she carefully wrote this in, I paid my money and I was registered. I figured if it was important I'd correct the information when it came up.
Nobody ever asked.
The system wanted a number and I gave it one....
2. One day my wife received one of those notices from the Post Office saying that they had been unable to deliver a registered letter, and that it could be picked up at a local sub-office. She asked me if I'd pick it up for her on the way home from work.
The next day I stood in a line of about six people waiting my turn to be served by a lady of indeterminate age, with the lined face of a lifetime smoker.
I gave her the information slip - she looked at it then in a loud, penetrating and sarcastic voice she said "Is your name Sheila?" I, of course, explained the situation and handed her my driving licence to show that I lived at the address - to no avail. I was told, rather rudely, that my wife would have to come herself, or supply me with authorisation.
I went out to my car, tore a piece of paper out of a notebook and wrote "Please accept this as my authorisation to allow my husband, Hugh McGrory, to pick up my mail." I signed it "Sheila McGrory".
So ten minutes after my first visit, I was again standing in a line of six people...' Soor Dook' saw me as I joined the queue, and I saw her eyes narrow - as Shakespeare would have said, the game was afoot... The queue slowly dispersed, and I could see her continually glancing my way - each time I gave her a pleasant smile.
Finally I reached the counter and said "Hello again", and handed her the information slip and 'The Authorisation'. She took it, and studied it, and I could see her trying to decide how she could prevent me from getting the letter. She finally came up with " We keep these on file you know."
I said "That's a good system - you can't be too careful."
She didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at me, and I could see several different expressions flit across her face. We stared at each other for a few more seconds, then her shoulders slumped and I knew she was done. She handed me a form and said through gritted teeth, "Sign here." I did and she reluctantly handed me the letter. I smiled pleasantly and said "Thank you". As I left the building I looked back and she was still staring at me.
The system wanted a piece of paper with a signature and now it had one...
Sometimes simply "Giving the System What It Wants" is the best way...
PS The Postal Service has since changed its rule, and will now allow you to pick up a letter in such circumstances by showing photographic ID that includes the same address as the letter.
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Mosport Fun and Games
Gordon Findlay |
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Hugh McGrory’s delightful Anecdote of his love affair with the Mini brought back memories for me. Although I never managed to own one, I loved the look of that cheeky little car - both on the road, and on the race track in its souped-up versions.
The Mini was innovative in many ways, and if you're interested, the BBC did an interesting two-part film on how they were manufactured. See both parts here.
The Minis, Austin and went on sale in August, 1959, and the early batches had problems - principally water leakage resulting in wet interiors and water-logged distributors. The first Minis arrived in the US in 1960, and while the American public was intrigued, it was used to big flashy cars - and gas was cheap...
In 1961, in an effort to create interest, BMC decided to stage a race at Lime Rock Circuit in Connecticut with several well-known race car drivers competing - all in Minis, of course. The drivers included the great Juan Manuel Fangio, arguably the best ever, who had retired from Formula 1 just three years before. See film of the race here.
Also that year, as it happened, a new Canadian car racing circuit was opened on 450 acres of land north of Bowmanville, Ontario. It was named Mosport (from Motor Sport) and soon it attracted thousands of car racing enthusiasts to picnic, party, and enjoy the sights and sounds of world-class racing in every category.
BMC decided to hold another demonstration race at Mosport, and when I heard that Fangio would be there I had to attend...
Now, from a social standpoint there was an early problem at Mosport. Ontario’s tight liquor control laws in those days did not permit “open” drinking. A bottle of wine was OK but cases of beer or bottles of Johnnie Walker were out of bounds. However, since the rolling hills around the circuit were perfect for picnicking, most of us made a day - or a weekend - of it on the grounds.
We’d set up our “camp” then flock to the best vantage points to watch each race. The poor Provincial policemen charged with security - and liquor law infractions - faced a hopeless task. Most of us had prepared “milk” bottles (a short bottle painted white on the outside) which contained our tipple of choice for the day.
The other gambit was for some of us to hold up a “privacy” blanket while the others took a long pull at their bottles of beer. Then they would return the favour for us. Of course, as soon as the loudspeakers announced the next race, there was a mad scramble for the best vantage spots (the tight and dangerous double-bend of Moss Corner was always a favourite action spot).
The race was great fun, and all eyes were on these famous drivers as they jockeyed for position and flung those brightly-coloured Minis around the track.
I loved the sound of those finely-tuned British machines as they howled down the Mosport track; the sudden staccato whine as they changed gears for a bend, then the banshee roar as they blasted down the straightaway. Close to the track, you were immersed in the hot, sharp smell of racing fuel and the smell of burning rubber as those tiny 10-inch Mini wheels whipped round corners. Happy days indeed around the marvelous Mini!
As soon as the last race was over for the day at Mosport, what usually happened was that everyone within the circuit grounds headed for the exits, and of course, EVERYONE was infused with what they had been watching all afternoon! Cars went peeling down Highway 2 or through Bowmanville, doing their own imitation of the race drivers, cutting in, overtaking like madmen, and flying into corners at crazy speeds. It was a wild and wacky way to end the day!
Mosport is still going strong, now owned by Canadian Tire a large Canadian retail company. The introduction to its website includes the following:
"More than 50 years ago the piece of land that we know today as Canadian Tire Motorsport Park was a farm. At that time, standing on a hill, looking over the fields and groves of trees, who could have imagined that the best drivers and the fastest cars in the world would come to this pastoral place and race on what would be named as one the most challenging tracks in the world and provide the best excitement and entertainment that motor racing has to offer.
But they did come: racing legends like Stirling Moss, Gilles Villeneuve, Bruce McLaren and even stock car king Richard Petty. No fewer than 16 Formula One World Driving Champions – men like Juan Manuel Fangio, Jim Clark, Jackie Stewart, Mario Andretti and Niki Lauda have raced here. Some 10 Indianapolis 500 winners including Rodger Ward, A.J. Foyt, Al Unser, Bobby Unser, Rick Mears and Gordon Johncock have also raced at Mosport.
There have been Formula One cars, Indy cars, Can-Am, stock cars, World Endurance, Formula 5000, Formula Atlantic and Super Vee. Add Formula Fords, GT cars of every description, Superbikes, karts, snowmobiles and off road machines. Throw in a couple of rock concerts, some air shows, and sky divers and one begins to wonder if there is anything that hasn’t been seen at Mosport. Anyone standing on the hill in 1959 would not believe what has transpired over the last 40 years."
Its great to know too, that enthusiasts can still see Mini Coopers racing at Mosport today.
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Thanks are due to Jeremy Sale who bolstered my failing memory. Jeremy edits Pit Signals for The Vintage Racer, the magazine of VARAC (The Vintage Automobile Racing Association of Canada).
Jeremy was educated at Gordonstoun, and at 73, is still racing his 1962 Lotus Super Seven!
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You'll Never Take the Two of Us Alive, Coppers! - 5
Hugh McGrory |
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Many of you know Arklay St. in Dundee. It's a steep brae that runs almost exactly north-south - from Clepington Road at the top end south to Dens Road, passing the end of Tannadice Street, the home of Dundee's two senior football clubs, and Gussie Park, where the carnival used to set up every year. From the tap o' the brae there's a lovely view across the River Tay to the Fife shore at Woodhaven Pier.
The photograph shows the bottom end close to Dens Road with the Rashiewell Weaving Mill, now the Dens Road Market, on the corner to the left. This intersection was the hangout for the Bottom o' the Hill Gang, a name I just now made up, better known as Billy and me. Billy's home is shown by the 'Z'; I lived in the ground floor flat marked 'Y', the single window to the left of the Y is the room where I was born, #2 Fairbairn St.
The X marks the scene of the crime...
Most of you will remember, I'm sure, the street games we used to play for hours every day until it got dark (do kids today still play any of those games?) The boys of that era will remember pinner. Pinners were pieces of steel, usually about two inches square and half an inch thick, scavenged from scrap metal bins at the back of factories. There were a number of rules (see them here), which had to be followed, but the main purpose was to throw your pinner at the other guys' pinners and try to hit them.
On this particular occasion, I think it must have been during the school summer holidays, Billy and I were hanging around in the street, our pinners in our pockets, but not actually playing with them. We were probably about eleven at the time. My mother had insisted that I look after my wee brother, he would have been four years old, and we had given him a pinner which he was throwing around, practising.
Suddenly a figure appeared round the corner - our nemesis, the local Bobby. He proceeded to give my wee brother a lecture about how people could be hurt by these flying pieces of metal, then made him take his pinner over to the cundie in Arklay Street near Dundonald Street (marked with the 'X') and drop his pinner in.
My poor wee brother immediately burst into tears and went running to find my mother. She came storming out of the house with steam coming out of her ears looking for the copper (who had made himself scarce, no doubt congratulating himself on how well he had dealt with that four year old, ne'r-do-well, Dundee scruff...)
My mother, not wanting to waste her righteous indignation unleashed it on me, wanting to know why I hadn't stopped the policeman from doing that to my poor wee brother. My reminder to her that I was eleven didn't help any...
Finally the dust settled, and Billy and I congratulated ourselves on not having to give up our pinners still safely ensconced in our pockets.
I visited that corner recently and took a photo of the very cundie - still providing yeoman service after sixty years. Maybe the pinner was still there!
Actually it wasn't. As soon as the coast was clear, that day, Billy and I lifted the grate from the drain, then I held onto Billy's legs while he lowered himself in, recovered the pinner and gave it back to my wee brother.
I like to think that the wee lad not only got his pinner back, but also a life lesson on giving authority the respect it is due...
Bottom o' the Hill Gang 1, Boabbies zero.
Yes!!!
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Morgan Primary
School Desks
Anne Ogilvie Close |
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One day that stands out in my memories of P7 is when we came into our classroom in the morning to discover that the old desks, which used to be screwed to the floor and had bench seats accommodating two people, had been removed. In their place were brand new oak tables and separate chairs.The photographs below show desks very similar to the ones I remember.
The top of each table lifted up and below was a space which could hold all our books and jotters. Bliss! No longer would we have to carry everything every day in our school bags. We need take home only what was needed for the homework of the night.
Unfortunately our joy lasted about two weeks. Too many of us forgot to take home the books and jotters required so we were told to empty our desks and from that day everything would be carried in our bags to and from school.
I think we were allowed to leave paint boxes and gym shoes but nothing else. We really felt hard done by but in those days you did not complain out loud. Those school bags weighed a ton containing as they did three or four jotters, text books for Arithmetic, English, History and Geography plus an atlas and not forgetting Schonell's Spelling book.
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I wonder if the problems we have with shoulders and backs stem from those days?
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Tales from Our Backyard
The Goose
Hugh McGrory |
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My wife, Sheila, and I live in the country north of Toronto. It's a little more than 50 kms by road from Toronto City Hall - 45 minutes in off-peak and twice that during rush hour - roughly the same distance as Dundee to Kirkcaldy. So we have the pleasure of country living but still easy access to the city when necessary.
There is a pond at the edge of our property, and each year we have a pair of Mallard ducks move in and also a pair of Canada geese. We look forward to seeing the ducklings and goslings each spring.
There are quite a number of other ponds around us, perhaps fifteen or twenty in a one mile radius, and so from spring to fall we see flocks of Canada geese flying in and out and lots of baby birds wandering around under
the watchful eyes of their parents. From time to time some of these geese visit our little pond, but the resident geese usually see them off in fairly short order.
A couple of years ago I noticed one goose that seemed to be behaving strangely, and realised that it had something wrong with one of its wings. We wondered if this was a temporary condition; it hung around the edge of the pond, near the little windmill in the photo - it seemed to be eating, but never flying, and I realised that the wing was broken. We decided we'd have to do something about it.
I made several calls to appropriate bodies but didn't get much help until I tried the Toronto Wildlife Centre. They said they couldn't help either as they only operated within the Metropolitan Toronto area. I wasn't sure what to do - I didn't see any way I could catch the bird, and figured that even if I did I'd be like the dog that said to itself "Now what", after it caught the car it was chasing...
However, I got a call back from the Centre about an hour later saying that they had a rescue van on the outskirts of the city that day, and the crew had said that they'd be willing to come and see what they could do.
Later that day a van showed up with two young fellows manning it. They armed themselves with large nets on extendable poles, and we tracked down the goose on the edge of our pond. They approached it cautiously, but it saw them coming and ran into the pond, swam across to the other side and took off running.
I figured that it was heading for another pond about quarter of a mile away, so we set off to see if my hunch was correct. Sure enough, we saw the goose in the middle of the pond with a flock of about twenty others. I thought to myself "Good luck trying to cut that goose out from the flock, guys" as the birds moved to the opposite side of the pond from where we were.
The young lads didn't seem at all fazed, however, and went over to their van to get their nets. They then unloaded another piece of equipment - a radio-controlled model speedboat (looked something like the one in the photo) - and I said to myself "Well I'll be damned...!"
They put the boat in the water, and steered it at low speed over to one side of the pond then cut it's engine. They then went to the opposite bank and stationed themselves behind some bushes, with their nets at hand.
The flock eyed them warily and drifted over to the opposite bank near to where the speed boat was sitting.
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Then all hell broke loose - the speedboat burst into life, and was it noisy once it got going! The flock took to the air and the poor injured goose paddled away as fast as it could. The operator guided the boat just like a collie gathering sheep, and the goose headed for the shore and took off up the slope past the bushes just at the right spot. In a flash, the net swung and the two rescuers grabbed the bird, immobilised it and calmed it down, then loaded it into the van.
They refused any payment and said that the Centre would no doubt contact us to see if we wanted to donate - something we were happy to do.
I wish I could tell you that this story had a happy ending, but when I called the next day, they said that the injury was too severe to repair and the bird had to be put down.
At least it didn't suffer a lingering death - that's something, right?
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Hugh's anecdote, some time ago, about Wull Kelly brought back memories as I also had him for maths soon after he arrived at Morgan Academy.
I remember he had on a very badly-fitting suit and always seemed to be covered in chalk dust and Hugh is correct in that he did throw chalk at miscreants - like me!
I recall one time when two girls appeared late for his class and he made both stand on the floor in front of the class for the whole period. On another
occasion someone dropped a tennis ball on the floor and it rolled out in front of him. He picked it up and drop-kicked it into a fireplace which was on
the back wall of the room, no doubt a relic of older days at the school!
I also came up against him during the Staff v Pupils football match and one time as the ball fell between us I was aware of a booted foot coming up and just missing my nose! He was just as uncompromising on the pitch as in the classroom...
I must say though that my maths marks improved under him, caused I am sure, by fear.
He was to be respected.
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Two Brief Cases
Hugh McGrory |
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Early in my career I worked in Perth for a couple of years, but lived on the outskirts of Dundee - so every day I travelled the twenty or so miles back and forward on the A90.
My car was a Mini, one of my all-time favourite vehicles. Actually, it was the van version - since this was classified as a commercial vehicle there was no sales tax, so I was able to afford a new one.
It was 1956 when Alec Issigonis sketched out his idea for a car that would carry four adults in comfort and yet fit into a 10x4x4ft box. By 1959, what was to become one of the world’s most famous cars, The Mini, was in production. Surprisingly roomy, though small and easy to park, it had a number of innovations that contributed to its success – a transverse, front-wheel-drive engine, with the gear box underneath in the sump, rubber cone suspension, small (10”) wheels positioned at the outside corners...
It was wonderfully sporty to drive - being so close to the ground made you feel that you were going faster than the speedometer said - but also, like the TARDIS, it seemed to be bigger on the inside … and the van version was great for carrying all the paraphernalia that came along with our new baby.
It really was a remarkable vehicle, and was put to all sorts of uses over the years:
I loved driving my Mini, though it used to cut out and stop in the rain because the distributor was right at the front (I later got a plastic cover designed to keep the distributor dry - it worked well). I remember, when I first go it, I felt rather intimidated when pulling up beside a double-decker bus and realising that the top of my head was pretty well aligned with the top of the bus wheel...
The Mini's legacy endures. There are more than 450 Mini clubs in the UK and at least another 250 world-wide. The car is continually voted one of the most favourite cars of all time and it was recently voted as Britain’s favourite car ever produced.
Mine looked like this - it was Whitehall Beige, if I remember correctly, and my father found someone to custom build a roof-rack for me, rather like that shown, which came in handy many times...
But I seem to have gotten a little carried away with nostalgia, so...
Case 1
One morning, I was driving to work and a few minutes along the Perth Road a car came up behind me and flashed his lights. I looked in the mirror at him but couldn’t figure out what he wanted. He pulled out and drew level with me then gestured at my roof. I still had no idea what he was on about - maybe my roof rack had come loose - in any event, as he sped up, I looked for the first opportunity to pull over.
I got out and looked at my roof, and there was my briefcase, standing up, looking as if it belonged there. I couldn’t believe that it had stayed in place – it was standing with the narrow sides fore and aft, so I guess it was heavy enough that the wind pressure on the narrow end wasn’t enough to push it off, and the weight kept it from falling over on the turns …
For most of my working life I carried that briefcase back and forward to work. It was second nature to me to pack it, when leaving the office, with any work that I intended to work on or look over at home that evening.
Next morning I’d do the reverse - though quite often I hadn’t gotten around to actually opening it, so it didn’t need to be re-packed - and I was in the habit of putting the case on the roof while I dug out my key …
Case 2
When I moved to Canada, I continued the same briefcase habit. For the first few years, I wasn't senior enough to get a parking spot in the basement of the office building, so I had to find street parking each morning.
The car I was driving at the time was a two-door, what they call in North America a coupe. To access the rear seats it was necessary to fold the front seatbacks forward. Each time I got in I would tilt my seat and place my briefcase in the footwell of the back seat.
One evening I got home, reached for my case and it wasn’t there. I checked the boot – not there either. I checked my mind – did I leave it at the office – no, I remembered carrying it down the stairs when I left the building.
My habit when I got to my car was to put the briefcase on the ground, in line with the rear seats so the door had room to swing open, then get my key, open the door, swing the seat forward and put the case in.
I realised that I had probably done this as usual but forgotten the last part – so I had driven off leaving my briefcase in the middle of a residential street about six feet out from the kerb.
Cursing my stupidity I got in the car and drove all the way back to where I’d parked. Every thing looked normal, but no briefcase...
I decided I’d better go door to door, up both sides of the street, asking if anyone had seen it. I began with the house that was closest to where I’d parked, and knocked.
The door opened, and the lady of the house said “You wouldn’t be looking for this would you”, and in her hand she had the briefcase! I happily marched back to my car and put the case in its proper spot. Dodged the bullet again …!
Driving home, I’m sure I heard a testy little voice behind me saying “That’s twice …!”
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The Royal Arch
Sandra Moir Dow |
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Here is a new memory of something I did with my eldest son Ken that stirred up nostalgia for old Dundee.
Those of us who who grew up in the '40s and '50s in Dundee will remember well The Royal Arch. It was
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built between 1849 and 1853 to commemorate the 1844 vist of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert to Dundee. Loved by some and detested by others, it was demolished in 1964 as part of preparatory work for the Tay Road Bridge. The demolition proved to be difficult - it was built very solidly and had to be dynamited, as can be seen in the photo.
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Back in May, I spotted in the Courier that a company wanted volunteers to help build a replica of the Royal Arch (on its original location)... out of cardboard. Ken visits me each Saturday - he lives with paranoid schizophrenia, and while he is doing well on modern medication, he tends to lack much initiative for anything new. I'm always on the lookout for activities to introduce him to some variety, so he and I headed up to Dundee to help build the Arch.
The re-creation of the Arch was to be one of the high points of the Ignite Dundee 2016 month-long festival of culture and creativity. The creator of the replica Arch was French artist Olivier Grossetete, who has been responsible for helping design similar Peoples’ Towers all over the world.
It was amazing - about a hundred citizens of all ages moving 1,200 cardboard boxes into position on the
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direction of a very able crew. The top was done first and then raised, on a whistle command, to push the next layer underneath. Guy ropes stopped it toppling and sticky tape held the boxes together.
The finished product looked ridiculously like the original. See a time-lapse video here.
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If you click on the photo on the left, and have good eyesight - and a magnifying glass - you can just see me, with Ken behind. It was great fun.
We then discovered that Slessor Gardens had some paving etchings recording the history of the Royal Arch right to its demolishing. Finally, I got a souvenir booklet of the history of the 114 years of the Arch - a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon’s adventure!
The next day, as planned, staff toppled the 16 metre by 16 metre structure to the ground, and Dundee's children were invited to destroy it.
The kids went at their task with gusto - see them in action here.
By 4:00 pm Sunday, the scaffies had left with the remains, and the site was back to normal.
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How to Get Your Own Back
Hugh McGrory |
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In a previous story I talked about one of the trips my wife and I took with my kids in the early ‘70s when we went down to the Florida Keys dragging our tent trailer. (I just checked and that’s a return trip of about 3300 miles - what was I thinking …?).
On the way back, heading back to Canada via Detroit, we saw in a guide book that there was an Indian Museum and Village, and the kids (and Dad) decided they really wanted to visit. So we diverted from the I75 freeway, after we passed Chattanooga, into the Great Smoky Mountains and the town of Cherokee. (One guess as to which Indian tribe we were going to see …).
We arrived at the village, Oconaluftee, and spent several enjoyable hours there. I remember speaking to a Cherokee man, and we ended up comparing their clan system with Scottish clans.
When it was time to hit the road again, the kids wanted, as usual, to visit the gift shop to get a souvenir. We ended up with a feathered headdress, a rubber tomahawk (this led to a fight in the family - see it here) - and finally, a boomerang … Don’t ask - I suspect I tried to talk them out of the boomerang, but to no avail …
Back home, the kids had fun with the toys for a few days, and then lost interest – “The boomerang doesn’t come back, Daddy …”
Some time later, I picked it up, probably to put it in the toy box, and took a look at it. I had assumed that it was meant to be what is called a ‘throwing stick’ or a ‘rabbit stick’, used to hunt small game. They looked like boomerangs, but Native Americans never invented a returning stick.
Our toy was red, made of plastic, and when I looked at it I realised that it was shaped in cross section – one
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face was plain, while the other was curved like an airplane wing. It also had chamfers along opposite edges …
This got me wondering, so I did some research (as I write, I’m thinking “Googled it” – but this was the early 70s … I probably looked it up in an Encyclopedia – can’t really remember) but it sounded like it was shaped like a real boomerang.
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I read up on the technique for throwing (see how to do it here), then asked the kids if they’d like to try getting the boomerang to fly – they were all for it, of course.
The following Sunday morning, earlyish, we drove to Sunnybrook Park, not far from where we lived, and where I played field hockey. This is a huge park, and at that time in the morning we were able to find a people-free area to try out our toy.
I gathered the kids close behind me, checked the wind direction to align myself, then threw the boomerang as per the instructions I’d read up on. I didn’t have any real expectations, and I’d told the kids that this probably wouldn’t work. Was I wrong!
First throw, the boomerang, spinning rapidly, climbs into the air turning left across the wind, then heads back towards us. The kids and I are shouting ”Wow”, and I shout, “I’ll try to catch it”, then, a moment later, “Duck!”
We all hunkered down and it sailed over our heads and landed some 40 ft. behind us - almost took my head off...
And that’s how you get your own back …
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Tattie Howking
Gordon Findlay |
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As World War II progressed, most of the young men disappeared into the forces. By the mid-1940s, farmers all round Britain had lost many of their workers, but crops still had to be picked. And that’s when school children across Scotland became farm hands.
At Morgan the announcement was made and it was straight to the point. “Our potato crop is vital and it must be picked. Morgan has agreed that our pupils will be part of the effort to bring in the crop.”
Potatoes in Angus are picked in October, so for three weeks of that month we Morgan pupils were pulled from the classroom and became part of the country-wide effort to bring in the spuds. . . at the princely reward of 8 shillings per day. The “Tattie Holidays” were under way.
We showed up at the school somewhat bleary-eyed at 6.30 a.m. carrying our jelly sandwiches and maybe a bottle of lemonade in our haversacks. Buses were
waiting in the back of the schoolyard for us, and off we went to the farms and fields around Dundee.
October can be cool at that early morning time, and we shivered as we waited in the farmer’s yard. Then the farmer’s head man (too old to serve in the forces) arrived and marched us out to the potato fields.
He had marked each row of bushy potatoes with long sticks about six paces apart. These were our “bits” which we would pick once the digger came along. He marched us along, one drill after another, dropping one of us off at each stick.
Then the action began. A grinding drone announced the farmer aboard his tractor. Behind the tractor he towed the digger: a simple device like a large metal wheel with thick radiating arms which spun around and dug down into the potato plant.
The force of the whirling wheel threw the spuds against a heavy mat hanging off to the side and they cascaded all over the drill as the tractor roared on. Now our job began.
Being small (I was around 10 at the time) we school kids had one advantage over adults. We didn’t have so far to bend to pick up potatoes and farmers quickly discovered that our nimble hands were good at gathering the crop.
As you picked, you tossed the spuds into a wide wicker basket which you dragged forward up the drill. As you can imagine, the fuller the basket became the heavier it got - and the harder it was to heave it forward.
When picking, the goal was to pick your “bit” as fast as you could. Then you could have a wee rest before the roar of the tractor announced that the digger was churning up the adjoining drill where your next “bit” was already marked out.
Cold early mornings were the worst. You shivered out in the field. You could see your breath, and fingers were quickly frozen by the cold ground. It was easy to break a nail or cut a finger on a jagged stone. You prayed for the sun to come up and warm you.
Around 9.30 the roar of the tractor died away: it was time for your morning “piece”. It was only 15 minutes, but it was blessed relief. You dug into the sandwiches your mother had made, opened your lemonade, and eased your back against the farmer’s stone dyke.
We gathered spuds until 5.30 or 6.00 o’clock when the shadows began to gather. Finally the roar of the tractor died away and after a long day of grubby, tiring labour we were able to make our way back to the farmyard where our bus was waiting.
At most farms there was a water tap. Now and then a friendly farmer’s wife would add a chunk of hard soap, and we would queue to take our turn washing the dirt off our hands.
This photo is not from my time, but a few years later:
After that, came the best time of the day. The farmer produced a heavy box, and one by one we walked up to get our 8 shillings of hard-earned money.
Then, what a joy it was to climb aboard the bus, sink into a seat and lean back. We often had sing-songs on the way home. “Pack up Your Troubles”” was always a favourite, and although you were dog tired, you joined in and belted out the words.
Hey - after all, we told ourselves - we were part of the war effort!
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You'll Never Take the Two of Us Alive, Coppers! - 4
Hugh McGrory |
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The Spangie
For those of you who aren't familiar with the word Parkour, one definition is “the activity or sport of moving rapidly through an area, typically in an urban environment, negotiating obstacles by running, jumping, and climbing.” My definition of Parkour, as practised by many, would include “… an equal blend of athleticism, courage and stupidity”.
No doubt many of you have seen Parkour in movies and on TV, but if you’re interested in seeing the “athleticism and courage” in action, see here.
If you’re interested in seeing “courage and stupidity”, see here.
David Belle, a Parisian, is usually considered to be the originator, in the late ‘80s, of Parkour. The Urban Dictionary states:
“Le Parkour (also known simply as Parkour, PK, or free running) was invented in 1988 in the Parisian suburb of Lisses by a group of teenagers including the legends David Belle and Sebastien Foucan, who formed a clan called the "Yamakasi", or new (modern) samurai.
It is a sport in which practitioners, called traceurs, run, jump, climb, and roll through rooftops, gaps, pipes, practically anything in an urban environment. It demands great physical agility, and masters of PK, such as Belle, are able to jump over cars, leap 9-meter distances from one rooftop to another. It has been described as "obstacle-coursing" or "the art of movement".
The fluid art of parkour is sometimes combined with the smooth flow of such arts such as capoeira and Xtreme martial arts. An example of such hybrid practitioners is Team Ryouko, the famous Toronto martial arts stunt team.”
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However that may be, and with all due respect to Monsieur Belle, my buddy Billy and I beg to differ … we would suggest, respectfully, that we were practicing parkour in the late 40’s. We didn't call it that, of course, and what we did bears little resemblance to any of the videos above, but we did run, jump, climb up drain pipes and walls and run over rooftops in an urban environment. We didn't demonstrate much courage, but there was, from time to time a few acts of stupidity - in our defence, they did seem like good ideas at the time...
One of our sometime haunts was the roof of the Rashiewell Weaving Works at weekends, playing in the
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peaks and valleys. The Rashie- well weaving sheds are now the Dens Road Market situated at the foot of Arklay Street between Dens Road and Dundonald street (see photo on left - click photo to enlarge).
In the photo, Arklay street runs almost due north - our approach was always made from Dens Road a bit east of |
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the buckie at the corner where we believed that the night watchman hung out. We waited until there was no traffic on Dens Road, then shinnied up a drainpipe. I just checked, and it looks like the original drainpipe is still there (see photo on the right) just to the left of the peeling Dens Road Market sign.
The last time we carried out this exploit, we were having a game of 'tig', and, Billy, being Billy, ran over the corner of one of the skylights and cracked the glass so that a chunk fell down into the factory. Fortunately, he didn't get his foot caught, nor, heaven forbid, fall through.
We stared at each other wide-eyed - even if the Watchie was asleep he must have heard the glass coming down! So he would probably call the bobbies and then set out after us.
We took to our heels and headed northeast with the plan of getting to Dundonald street where the Cash & Carry store now sits (see photo - The Rashiewell roof is on the right just behind the trees).
This is opposite the pub that was then called the Airlie Arms (at the corner of Clepington Street, which happens to be next door to the wee but and ben where my Gran and Granda lived).
You'll see from the plan photo above that once outside the works property there still is a conglomeration of huts, sheds and small buildings, a bit different from, but similar to what was there 60 years ago.
We came to two small buildings, both with flat roofs, separated by about 5 or 6 feet, ours about 4 feet lower. In Parkour, this is a common situation (over much bigger gaps) and is dealt with using what is known as a cat leap (see photo)..
Billy and I stood at the edge of the gap and Billy said "we'll have to spangie it". Now a spangie was our version of the cat leap (spang pronounced as in "the bell rang"). Identical to the cat leap as portrayed above - except for the landing... Instead of grasping the edge of the target roof with our hands and absorbing the impact with our legs and feet, we landed flat against the wall with our arms bent so that our elbows were out horizontally and our hands were underneath our chin.
In a properly executed cat leap, the traceur uses the impact force and the elastic muscles of the leg to immediately rebound in a jump up onto the roof and continue apace. Our technique was to hang there winded, then try to get one leg up onto the roof and gradually edge up onto it. It could be quite awkward to do, but encouraged by the alternative of dropping some 10 or 12 feet to the ground, we managed it - sometimes with a little help from a friend...
We then shinnied down a drainpipe and out to Dundonald St, then took off via Wolseley, Tannadice and Neish Streets into Fairbairn St, and via the backyards, home. We never heard anything about our escapade - and we never played on that roof again...
Did any of you use the word 'spangie' when you were kids? Spang is a good old Scottish word.
 Recently, and quite coincidentally, I was looking for a Netflix film to watch, and stumbled on "Brick Mansions", a sock-schlocky movie starring Paul Walker (in a posthumous performance, he having died in a car crash before it's release).
The first action sequence in the movie featured Parkour, and after I'd watched it for a few minutes I realised that I was watching a tattooed David Belle, now in his forties and pursuing a career in the film business.
If you’re interested in seeing Holywood's take on Parkour, see here. Staged though it all may be, you have to admire the courage and skill of the man!
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Morgan Primary
Wireless Days
Anne Ogilvie Close |
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I wonder if any of my primary classmates remember listening to Schools' Broadcasts on what we knew as the wireless? We didn't refer to them as radios then, and they looked like these:
Our Primary 7 teacher (it was Primary 5 in our day as our first two years at school were spent in 1st and 2nd Infants) was not a great supporter of new gimmicks so we were only allowed to listen to these programmes on very rare occasions. Normally it was a Nature programme or Music and Movement which was not one of my favourites. The music was fine but having to pretend to be a tree or waving branches on a tree did nothing for me. I just thought everyone looked very foolish trying to pose or act out this type of situation.
When we were told that we were to be given the treat of a wireless programme, a feeling of excitement would ripple through the class. We were thrilled to have anything that would break the normal daily class routine.
The radio was carried into the classroom and placed on the teacher's table. There were no electric sockets in our room so in order to get power, our teacher, Miss Chalmers, had to climb onto her chair and from there to the table. From this height she was able to unscrew a bulb from one of the light fittings and in its place attach the cord running from the radio to the socket.
This done and after getting herself back onto terra firma, we waited with baited breath while she twiddled with the knob in an attempt to pick up the correct station. Why this was so difficult I do not know as I am sure there were only two stations in 1949 - Home and Light programmes. After a great deal of hissing and crackling we eventually managed to get tuned in and we were ready to listen to the programme.
Once the programme ended the whole rigmarole of disconnecting the radio from the light fitting had to be gone through before the machine was carried reverently back to whatever secret cubbyhole it had come from and normal classroom service was resumed.
I wonder what present day pupils would make of this ancient technology accustomed as they are to all the electronic gadgets they have at their finger tips. But then, the wireless was modern technology to us in the forties. Happy Days!
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My last story may have given the impression that I am a poetry fan – actually, I’m not – I never read poetry if I can help it. I prefer technical subjects, with numbers and statistics (probably explains why I ended up in a career in engineering), or mystery fiction for relaxation.
There was a brief period in primary school though ….
I’m sure you remember, as I do, being introduced to poetry. I recall reading, amongst others, Wordsworth, Masefield and Tennyson, in Miss Laing's, or was it Miss Stewart’s class, at Dens Road School. We were told that we each had to choose one poem from a list of three, memorise it, and then recite it in front of the whole class (which created quite a lot of consternation, I can tell you...)
The first on the list was Wordsworth’s Daffodils:
“I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils; …”
It didn’t do much for me.
I remember I did enjoy our second poem, though, John Masefield’s Cargoes which begins:
“Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,”
I particularly liked the third verse:
“Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays …”
However, the third on the list, and my choice, was The Eagle, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
“He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.”
After I had finished my recitation, the teacher said,
“That was very good, Hugh – you chose the shortest poem, of course...”
At that age, I didn’t have the nerve to respond to this put-down, but I remember thinking:
“What were the rules, and what information did I use to make my choice?
Oh yes...
"Pick a poem to recite from memory" and,
Daffodils, 4 stanzas of 6 lines each – 24 lines;
Cargoes, 3 stanzas of 5 lines each – 15 lines;
The Eagle, 2 stanzas of 3 lines each – 6 lines;
"Duh …”
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Homage to D.B. Smith
Lawrie Mitchell |
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“Does anyone speak any goddam French?” This was from an Ottawa-born surgeon at 2 am in the emergency room in Ottawa, a supposedly bi-lingual city, when the surgeon had a French-Canadian patient with severe abdominal pain.
I had just started work there and hesitated, waiting for native-born Ottawans to come forward. None of the staff volunteered, so this Dundonian, with Higher French only, came forward to translate, struggling with the strong Quebec accent but managing to help with the diagnosis.
Two months before this, we foreign graduates had to re-sit exams for Ontario registration. My clinical case was an elderly Francophone lady with a chronic skin condition. I had no idea of the diagnosis, but again, D.B. to the rescue! She spoke no English so I explained my exam situation, and asked her if she knew her diagnosis. I was so relieved when she obliged with chapter and verse - no problem then with the examiners!
Next benefit from D.B. was on an assignment for UNHCR (The UN Refugee Agency) in the Chadian civil war. (Although I didn't know it at the time, the beginning, for me, of many years spent in West Africa)..
I headed a small medical team from the UK, but with typical UK insularity, I was the only French speaker in the group. Chad is a francophone country and we were working with the French army and the International Red Cross. I spent as much time as an interpreter as with medical cases!
My next French exercise was ten years later starting at the airport in Libreville, Gabon, where the departing doctor gave me a very short briefing and then left to go back to France. I had spoken no French for ten years and was now working in the ELF/Shell hospital in Port Gentil and Gamba in southern Gabon. There were no roads, and we usually went by air between the two locations - one above the equator and one below. I spoke French there 80% of the time.
This was followed by a spell as Médécin de Barge in a large oil pipe laying barge in offshore Congo, Angola and Nigeria. It had a crew of 400, Senegalese and French - no English spoken …
Back in Gabon with an Oklahoman drilling company near Lambaréné I was with an American drilling team and again was used as an interpreter as the Americans spoke no French. This was a magical experience deep in the tropical rain forest - and I even got paid to be there!
Life as a medical gypsy then brought me to the oil rigs offshore Côte D’Ivoire. My brief was to do a medical audit of the local clinic in Abidjan and on the rigs we flew in those micro helicopters - a nightmare for someone like me with a fear of heights - plus the French pilot usually had a strong smell of Ricard on his breath!
Finally, my wife Eme and I now live in Portugal, and have several rental properties that we rent to tourists as a base from which to explore this beautiful country. As 50% of our rental guests are French, I still rely on D.B.’s tuition.
You can see that my time with D.B. Smith was not wasted. My only regret is not telling him before he died...
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Watching The Andrew Marr Show on television this morning, in Dundee, I learned that Frederick Forsythe, whose many works of prose have sold millions of copies around the world, has turned to writing poetry, by the many recent commemorations of those who fell in war:
"Sleep in peace, Fallen Soldier,
where your kinsfolk here have laid you
While we who are left tread so safe above
You are home from the fight
from the clamour, from the danger
Laid in the breast of the land that you love
We should have told you more how deeply we loved you
We knew not how short was the while
To kiss and to hold, to cherish your presence
The sound of your laughter, the sun of your smile
When you first marched to the colours
You were young and oh so handsome
You pulled on your badge, standing straight, standing tall
And you gave us your promise, your sworn word of honour
And in your last moment you gave us your all
So sleep Fallen Soldier, here in your homeland
Wrapped in our flag until when
On some far distant morn you hear his last reveille
Then you and your comrades… will march once again."
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This reminded me that, when I was a child, my Gran had a little framed copy of that famous verse from Laurence Binyon's "For The Fallen" on her mantelpiece. I think that someone probably gave this to her in 1942 after she received the news that her son, my Uncle Frank Ryan, Aircraftman 1st Class 1341600, 612 Squadron, Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, Artificer, had been killed in the crash of an RAF plane near Reykjavik. He was 20 years old.
I was impressed enough as a primary school kid to memorise it:
"They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them."
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There is a Canadian author, Maureen Jennings (actually born and grew up, in Birmingham, England) who has had great success with her series of books, 'Murdoch Mysteries', and the TV show based on that series which is seen around the world (recently confirmed for its 10th season).
I thought you might be interested in an email I sent her a few years ago, and her gracious and amusing response:
Me:
"For some time, my wife and I have been enjoying the Murdoch TV series, and I just finished your book ‘Season of Darkness’.
I enjoyed the book, but feel compelled to point out (and I suspect that others have too), that you have, I believe, misquoted the verse from Binyon’s ‘For the Fallen’.
My uncle was killed early in the Second World War, and someone gave my grandparents a small plaque with this verse, for their mantelshelf. I was very young then, but it made a big impression on me, and I memorised the words and can still quote them some seventy years later.
I just checked a number of sources on the Web, and they agree with my memory - and it’s the fourth verse, not the second..."
Ms Jennings
"Thank you so much for your email. The man responsible for that error was of course, Sir Percy Somerville. He read what sounded more natural on his tongue even though it was INCORRECT, and his memory was faulty about which verse it was. Sigh. That's what happens when characters get the bit between their teeth.
Thank you for pointing out the mistake. I shall make sure it is corrected in future editions."
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Big Jock Wilson
Gordon Findlay |
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My father’s pub (Caw’s Bar on Panmure Street) could be a busy place on a Friday or a Saturday night. The work week was over and like people everywhere, Dundonians went out to enjoy themselves.
Away back then - in the mid 1940s and 1950s - pubs closed at 10.30 p.m. It’s hard to believe that hour today, but in those days Dundee’s night life was largely confined to pubs and the firm hand of the Calvinists and the Presbyterians was still in evidence. All of which meant that from 6.00 until 10.30 p.m. there was some serious drinking going on.
The problem occurred when the “Time gentlemen, please!” call was made by the barman or the pub owner. There would be a chorus of groans, and often a quick plea for “just anither wee nip. Ah’ll drink it doon fast!”
Most of the regulars took the news cheerfully. They’d timed their nips and their pints to neatly coincide with closing time. They gurgled down the last of their drinks and slowly made their way out of the pub, often to gather for a few minutes outside to finish a story or to make plans for the next day.
But - and there’s always a “but” isn’t there? Every now and then my father, or his barman Bob, would come up against someone reluctant to leave the cozy confines of Caw’s. “Hey –look - Ah jist got in. Ah’ve only jist started ma pint! Ah’m no leavin noo!”
Or occasionally, a group of pals had been refreshing themselves liberally for the past few hours. They were feeling wonderful, on top of the world, and they had no intention of going anywhere. “Wha’s gonna make me?” might be tossed out as a verbal challenge.
And that’s when my Dad’s secret weapon showed up in the form of Sergeant Jock Wilson of the Dundee police force. And what a form it was.
“Big Jock” Wilson stood six feet four inches in his stockinged feet. In his black duty boots and with his hat on, he towered above the world: a huge and impressive figure with hands like bunches of bananas.
He had a large, rough-hewn and impassive face; one that had watched over the gritty streets of Dundee for over twenty years, had seen every kind of boozy bravado or thuggish behaviour. A cool, unblinking gaze which had stared down a thousand toughs, drunks, thieves and trouble-makers.
A few minutes after the “Time gentlemen, please!” call had been made, the massive shape of “Big Jock” would quietly appear in the doorway of Caw’s Bar. He never had to say a word. His mere presence was enough to encourage even the hardest of hard men to gather up their jackets and make their way outside.
Sgt. Wilson simply stood there, silent and massive, the epitome of overwhelming power in his dark blue uniform, nodding now and then impassively to people he knew. Big Jock’s reputation was well established around Dundee. He no longer had to prove it to anyone. All he had to do was stand there.
In five minutes Caw’s Bar was empty.
That was when the other side of “the arrangement” took place. He’d walk over to the corner of the bar and my father would pour him a generous double of his favourite Scotch.
“Thank ye, Muster Findlay,” he’d murmur.
With a smooth sweep of one massive hand, the glass would be tipped back and the Scotch would disappear. The glass would quietly click back down. Then Sergeant “Big Jock” Wilson would stroll out into the night.
A fine example of commerce and law enforcement working seamlessly together.
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Valentine's Day
Hugh McGrory |
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Around 20 years ago, I was at a business meeting in a high-rise office building in the heart of downtown Toronto. Around 5:00 pm the meeting was drawing to a close and I was about to head for the basement parking, get in my car and drive up to Ryerson University where I taught a business computing course (for about 25 years - you may imagine how much the course changed over that time...).
Just I was leaving the conference room I overheard a remark and realised that I had forgotten that it was Valentine's Day - suddenly some very negative brownie points were looming in my future...! I fessed up to this problem and one of the clients said that, just round the corner and a city block away up Yonge St, one of the main thoroughfares in Toronto, there was a little flower shop.
Relieved, I headed out of the building, taking my rather heavy briefcase with me since it was no great distance, and walked to the shop. It had just gone out of business! At that point I had a choice, go back for my car or find another flower shop - I decided to walk north a few large city blocks to a large mall known as the Eaton Centre.
The Centre is a huge mall but I got lucky - as I walked in, I saw one of these 'boutiquey', cart-type thingies in the entrance hallway selling flowers. But there was a small queue and I thought I'd walk into the mall and would surely find a bigger flower store - I asked a passer-by and they confirmed there was a store at the far north end of the mall.
Ten minutes later I got there - and found a queue of about 40 last-minute-males.... By this time, I was actually closer to the University - but I needed my car. I turned tail and headed south to the boutique. My bad knee (this was before I got my new one) was beginning to complain, and I was a little worried about the time. As I got back to the store I realised that the queue was now about twice as big. I waited impatiently and finally was back out on Yonge street with a large bunch of flowers wrapped in silver paper and tied with coloured ribbons.
I was slightly self-conscious, hirpling as fast as I could down the street, seeing all the knowing glances from passersby, but finally got to my car and set off through the rush hour traffic on Yonge street, got to the university parking area, grabbed my briefcase, locked the car and headed for class. I was a few minutes late but explained to my students the emergency situation I had faced and they forgave me.
After class I headed to the parking area feeling pretty pleased with myself. Arriving at the car I clicked to open the trunk saying to myself "Don't crush the flowers when you put the case in." I didn't crush them - because they weren't there. Obviously I had put them inside the car - though I don't usually like to have anything in my parked car that might encourage someone to break a window...
I looked in the front seat, not there - tried the back - not there either! Where could they be? That's not a rhetorical question - I'm asking you - where could they be... because I never saw those flowers again!
Thinking about it, I remembered having the flowers when I entered the parking elevator - the best I can figure it, I opened the trunk to put my briefcase in and to facilitate this probably put the flowers on the roof of the car next to mine. In the ensuing 8 seconds I managed to forget that I'd put them there and drove off!
I later constructed a scenario in my mind where the owner of that car left his office that evening knowing that he'd better get flowers somewhere on the way home, got to his car and - "No way. ..!"
Driving home up the Don Valley Parkway it occurred to me that I would soon pass a large grocery store - it was about 10:30 pm but I had a feeling that it was open 24/7. I peeled off the highway, it was, and it had flowers. I was saved...
When I got home, I told my wife the whole story - and still came out smelling like roses - for two reasons:.
1. I had gone to all that trouble to ensure that she got Valentine flowers, and
2. I had confirmed, once again, her long-held theory - that she married an idiot...
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Ernie Landsman - A Tribute
Clive Yates |
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We probably all had a favourite class teacher and there were probably many and varied reasons for that. My favourite was Ernie Landsman who seemed to follow me around through successive years. He was an encourager and I found myself responding in my English studies to that encouragement! However, there was another side to his teaching methods!
I was in his class for so-called Religious Knowledge (or whatever it was called in early 1950s.) I sat next to a friend - Colin G-------, who lived near me and was a Catholic, (who did not exercise his right to exempt himself from this class!) Ernie’s teaching method for his RE-class was to settle the class down. (For settle, read SILENCE!)
We all got our Bibles out. Ernie would then enquire where we had got to last week. Some bright spark would remind him - ‘I read CHAPTER so-and-so, sir!’ As we always sat in the same seats, Ernie would then say “CHAPTER Y verse N, read ten verses each (or whatever) starting from Bloggs! -- When you think you are ready, Bloggs!”
The class would then quickly settle down either to work out what portion of text they might have to read by counting forward to their anticipated verses, or, if you were seated behind the first victim (having read last week,) you got out your homework books and used the time for preparation.
Meanwhile, Ernie immersed himself in some other task of preparation, or marking some other classes work, or whatever took his fancy. To all intents and purposes, the class just carried on, reader and teacher seemingly totally oblivious of the other.
‘But to our tale, ae winter’s night …’. (Quoted from Burns: Tam o’ Shanter; proof positive of Ernie’s skill at making things stick!) My desk-neighbour CG correctly stood up at the appropriate moment to take his turn at reading his appointed ten verses. Here the story became memorable.
His ten verses were from the book of Joshua, reading Chapter 8 into 9 including verse-1. Colin’s voice droned monotonously on and ever onwards to that inevitable encounter with Joshua’s enemies, namely:
“…When all the Kings who were beyond the Jordan in the hill country and in the lowlands all along the coast of the Great Sea towards Lebanon; the Hittites, the Amorites, the Canaanites the Per’izzites, the Hivites, THE CHEESEMITES and the Jeb’usites all heard of this, they gathered together with one accord to fight Joshua and Israel. …”
Around the class, a smothered ripple of suppressed laughter from those who had happened to be listening, and some hushed talk began to erupt only to be extinguished by a command from Ernie who did not appear to even look up from his own work ….
"G-----l ! Would you read that last verse again please?” said Ernie enquiringly.
CG did what he was told but on this second occasion, he omitted the words ‘the Cheesemites.’ He finished and an awkward silence ensued. The class were suddenly all attentive!
“I thought I heard the words ‘Cheese mites’ in that last verse,” said the laconic Ernie - still not lifting his head from his task. We all waited, watching CG closely. How would he handle it?
"Cheesemites sir? There is no reference to Cheesmites in verse-1, sir,” exclaimed CG triumphantly, believing that the danger had been averted completely.
“Exactly!” said Ernie: “I think you should write that out 500 times for next week, CG.”
To my own recollection, ‘Cheesemites’ never appeared again whilst reading about the Tribes mentioned in the Old Testament.
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Around 15+ years ago I asked my GP if he would refer me for a colonoscopy. I duly had this done, and the report said that no polyps were evident and that I should have another one done in 10 years time.
Ten years later I asked my GP again for a referral, and he said that, given my age and family history he didn’t think I needed one, and that I should take the Fecal Occult Blood Test instead – through a program run by the Ontario Government. They send you a kit every two years which you use to take three consecutive poop samples, send them into the lab and get the results, a few days later, by mail.
I did this, got a negative result (i.e. no blood detected) and repeated this two years later, with the same result.
Two years after that, I got the test again, took the sample and sent it off. In due course I got the test result - it said “No report – sample degraded”. I was, of course, by now, an expert on this procedure – I’d done it the same way as before and couldn’t figure what had gone wrong …
So I called them up and got another test sent. Repeated the test, sent it off, and got the result – it said “No report - poor quality sample”.
Now, like most people, I’ve suffered rejections in the past - from team selectors, prospective employers, women... and bounced back with no problems - but to have my poop rejected as being of inferior quality - whoa!
So I decided to go back to square one – I’d re-read the instructions... I hadn’t looked at these since I first did the test – I didn’t really need to, of course, 'cos I’m so smart – but it seemed like the place to start my investigation.
One of the first statements that caught my eye was “… discontinue vitamin C supplements and eliminate citrus fruit and juices for three days prior to and during collection of stool …”
At which point I said “Oh shit!” I'd forgotten about that restriction, and given that I start each day with a glass of orange juice, the problem was obvious.
So I contacted the authorities again and had another test kit sent out (number three in case you've lost count). When it arrived, I wanted to make sure that I got it back as quickly as possible - which meant no orange juice for three days then doing the test the next morning and for the two days after that.
The kit comes in an envelope inside of which there is a stamped, addressed envelope which contains the test materials, and which is used to return the samples to the lab when completed. I took out this inner envelope and after three days without orange juice I put it in an obvious (as I thought) place so that it would remind me the next day.
On the first test morning, my wife had gone to work and I remembered I needed to do the test - I looked around but couldn't see it! I began to search in the obvious places with no result, then scoured the not so obvious. I went through the whole house three times that day since I knew it had to be somewhere within our four walls. I finally gave up …
That evening my wife came home and I said “I just spent the whole day looking for that poop test - couldn’t find it anywhere – I’m baffled …”
She said “Don’t worry about it, I found it”.
“Oh good - where is it?”
“What do you mean, where is it - I posted it for you!”
So, yet again, I call up the authorities and they send out another (the fourth) test kit. I duly completed it - and got the all clear a few days later.
In the end - if you'll excuse the pun - no real harm done, though I suspect in some government medical database there is now a notation on my file - ‘Coprophiliac’!
Oh Shit …
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Hail the teachers, every one
Gordon Findlay |
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Even today, more than seventy years later, I still remember the opening verse of Morgan’s school song. I would guess that most former pupils of our school find the words still spring easily into mind.
“O’er the bridge that spans that spans the river . . . Moving slowly to the sea . . . Looks ‘The Morgan’, stately, splendid . . . Fairest school in all Dundee . . .”
Then there’s that rousing chorus which begins: “Hail ‘The Morgan’ stately, splendid . . . Hail the teachers, every one.”
Surely we can all remember the times, when, huddled together in a sniggering little pack in a corner of the schoolyard, we gave vent to the amended version: “JAIL the teachers, every one!” It was our tiny little bit of defiance against an adult-governed world. And thereby hangs a tale.
One memorable year when I was around fourteen, I was attending a music class. It was close to the end of school before summer break. I believe the teacher was Miss Millin, who normally ruled her music classes with a very firm hand.
But on this day, with around five minutes before the end of period, she announced that it would be a good idea if we sang the school song. She passed out printed copies of our song, walked to the piano, struck the opening chords, and away we went.
I rather enjoyed the exercise because I like the Rev. Blair’s stirring words and Mr. Bewick’s music. But, to be honest, we really didn’t put our hearts and souls into the song. We sang it rather drearily, droning through it without much enthusiasm.
But then Miss Millin sprang her surprise. And won us over forever. “Right,” she said. “I’d like you to sing our school song with some real spirit! " A slow smile took shape on her face. “And I’ll let you sing your version of the chorus. YOU know the line I mean, don’t you?”
We all looked at each other. We could sing THAT line! Openly! Encouraged by a teacher? This is grand!
So with that incentive, she walked back to the piano, launched into the opening chords and led us into the song. This time we sang with gusto, waiting impatiently until that second line of the chorus when we fairly bellowed out:
“JAIL the teachers, every one!” We fairly rattled the windows of the old school.
Definitely a highlight of the year.
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Travel Travails - 3
They Always Picked On Me!
Hugh McGrory |
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We’re all very aware of the growth of terrorism in today’s world. This is not a recent phenomenon. International terrorism had begun to grow not long after we left Morgan, and by the late '60s, hijacking had become a favourite tactic.
In July 1968, for example El Al flight 426 from Rome to Tel Aviv was hijacked by Palestinians and diverted to Algiers. The Munich Olympics attack was in 1972. In the US, home-grown groups like the Weathermen were becoming violent.
The chart below shows the exponential growth in terror attacks in Europe through the 1970s:
The FAA began more aggressive security requirements in the late ’60s and early ’70s after more than 130 successful and attempted airplane hijackings. For example, airport staff began to use the FAA’s hijacker psychological profile to try to determine if passengers were a threat to the skies.
Flyers who exhibited odd behaviour, such as lack of eye contact or inadequate concern for their luggage might be subjected to additional scanning. This background sets up my story...
In 1974, I was travelling with an American professor of engineering, visiting national engineering computing centres in France, Holland, Germany and the UK.
Each time we arrived in a new country, the immigration people looked at him, thought to themselves something like "A fine young All-American lad", said “Welcome to our country.”, and waved him through.
They took one look at me, thought to themselves something like "Oi, Oi - what 'ave we 'ere then...?", said “Over there," then proceeded to grill me, and go through my luggage before, reluctantly it seemed, admitting me to the country to join my colleague waiting patiently (and laughing at me) in the wings.
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| Each time he was treated like a welcome guest, while they seemed to think that I was some kind of disreputable character not to mention a possible terrorist.
Not even my Scottish accent charmed them …
I couldn’t find a contemporary photograph of my companion, but on the left is what he looked like in later life – actually, he hasn’t changed much – just add a lot more fair hair...
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The photo on the right shows how I looked at the time.
So why was I always the one picked on?
Beats me …. |
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Travel Troubles
Richard Crighton |
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While working for a local coach company I frequently drove holidaymakers to north-east Spain. There were always two drivers for these trips. We would leave the depot near Perth at 1 o’clock on Tuesday morning and make many stops throughout England to pick up passengers on our way to Portsmouth for the P&O Ferry. The ship would leave at 8 p.m. on Tuesday and arrive at Bilbao at 7 a.m. on Thursday. The two night sailing after our long drive south was a welcome break before making the two day journey to Catalonia.
However, things did not always go as planned - surprise, eh? On one of our trips, while we were still on our way through England, we received a phone call from the tour company informing us that the ferry, the Pride of Bilbao, would be late arriving at Portsmouth.
It would then have to offload before we could embark. There wasn’t anything we could do about that, of course, except to let our passengers know that there would be a delay.
There was near chaos at the port as the passengers from a dozen or so coaches, other holidaymakers and truck drivers all clamoured for information. Not wanting to have a coachload of hungry, grumpy passengers on our hands I suggested that they be taken to a motorway service station near Southampton for a meal break. I remained at the ferry terminal to await any further news of the ferry’s progress.
Word came through from the ferry operators that a gentleman on board Pride of Bilbao had suffered a heart attack when the ship was well out of port on its way out from Bilbao. A helicopter was called in but the ship had to wait as it was almost out of range for the aircraft. Once the patient had been airlifted the ship resumed the voyage, but so much time had been lost that it was impossible to make up time.
Unfortunately, because it was late, the ship had missed its scheduled time for its allocated berth and could not dock because another P&O vessel was there. The Bilbao just had to wait in the Solent until the berth was clear. But, there was another problem. When, eventually the Bilbao was being unloaded, two coaches on board refused to start and were blocking the service door for removing the laundry. There was a further delay because a mechanic had to be sent for before the lifeless vehicles could be moved and the laundry taken off.
We set sail at 2.30 a.m. by which time the restaurant staff were all off duty.
The captain was a greatly relieved skipper when we arrived at Bilbao on time on the Thursday morning.
P&O no longer operate between the UK and Spain.
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Celebrities - 5
Hugh McGrory |
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The peak of my career of not actually meeting celebrities took place around 1971. I was in Houston, Texas, attending another computer/engineering conference with my buddy Sam - he was actually the Conference Chairman, Houston being his home town. Our meetings were held in a high-class hotel attached to the Galleria, a very upscale mall – stores like Tiffany and Bulgari.
We had finished work for the day and were headed for the hotel restaurant to have a leisurely dinner with colleagues when I remembered something I wanted from my room. I told them to grab a table and I’d be back in a few minutes.
I walked over to the elevator, which was just descending and as the doors opened I realised that there were people inside. I stepped aside to let them exit, and out walked:
I hadn’t known they were in Houston - for the opening of their movie Catlow - so it was, to say the least, quite a surprise!
As an aide memoire for all you older folks:
Jo Ann – she was a real dish – that’s Lieutenant ‘Dish’ to you – the nurse who was Hawkeye’s love interest and who saved the dentist from suicide in that famous scene in the MASH movie.
Richard Crenna – an actor that most would recognise but perhaps not remember the name. He played Rambo’s commanding officer in several of the Sylvester Stallone movies.
Yul Brynner – needs no introduction, of course – everyone knows him and his major contributions – from The King and I and the chief good guy in The Magnificent Seven, to his posthumously shown anti-smoking commercial.
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Potato Rogues
Gordon Findlay |
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Now that school was finished... how to make some money during the summer?
Away back in time - I’m talking 1949 - this was the burning question my pal Kenny MacGregor and I faced. Our years at Morgan were over. University loomed, but in the mean time we wanted to earn some money. The question was - how?
After tossing several ideas around, we eventually hit on potato roguing, since we learned that a qualified roguer can earn between 3 and 5 quid an hour. Back in those days, that was big money!
Neither of us were farming types, but we knew that SRUC- the Scottish Rural University Colleges - were looking for candidates to rogue the seed potato crops of farmers. The 2-week course was offered at the Elmwood Campus in Cupar, Fife.
In order to win official accreditation, students at the end of the course had to be able to swiftly identify 30 different potato varieties (the common varieties, not the Scottish heritage potatoes shown above) and to accurately spot 7 different diseases which affected growing potatoes. Only then would they be turned loose to rogue the seed potato crops of Scottish farmers.
Why is roguing vital? Well, a field of potatoes being grown for seed might contain a lot of unwanted other species – or “rogues” – within it, and would thus be condemned to cattle feed only - bringing the farmer only 5 quid a ton, rather than the 150 quid a ton that first quality seed potatoes would bring on the market.
Farmers in Scotland grow about 80% of the seed potatoes in the U.K. - around 400,000 tonnes a year - and around a third of this crop is exported around the world, since Scottish spuds are highly prized for their quality.
Thus it was that the pair of us duly showed up on a May morning in Cupar, paid our SRUC fee, and launched into the testing world of potato roguing.
Soon we were staring intently at rows of bushy growing spuds which to the untrained eye all looked pretty much the same but were in fact Arran Banner, Arran Pilot, Hermes, Pentland Dell, Lady Rosetta, Majestic, King Edward, Maris Piper, and many more.
(Hover your cursor over photos.)
All potatoes grown in Scotland could be attacked by a variety of enemies - bacteria, viruses, fungi, insects - diseases such as black leg, leaf roll, severe mosaic, wart disease, or even the dreaded Colorado beetle could appear. We knew, of course, that, once we qualified, our main task would be to look for “rogue” potato plants growing in among a farmer’s crop. These rogues grow as weeds from a previous crop, or from a few of the
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wrong variety of potato planted by mistake with the intended seed crop.
One of our instructors, a laconic ex-farmer, gave us a priceless bit of advice early on:
“Afore ye start yer roguin’, lads, here’s a wee bit o’ advice. Tak’ a guid lang look at the tatties in the field first! Ye just might find somethin’ nasty in there. Naethin’ worse than roguin’ all his tatties for seed quality, then findin’ a lot o’ black leg on the last day. ALL his tatties will be doongraded to cattle feed! An’ you’ll no get tuppence for a’ that work!”
For the final exam we were led to a special area of the campus where a mass of different potatoes were growing, almost all different and some diseased. With our exam paper in hand, we had to correctly identify each plant and the disease - if any. We were given 30 minutes to mark down all our answers.
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Kenny and I were both thrilled when we passed the test. We were now officially potato roguers! We could start making our calls on local farmers.
When we tackled our first roguing job, the pair of us walked up the furrow between two rows, checking the spuds on each side. Then slowly, as we got used to the look of that potato variety in all light conditions, we began to check two rows on each side, up and down the field for hours on end. Walking and looking. Walking and looking.
We each had a walking stick in our hand, and if we spotted a rogue, we’d slash at it with our stick, snapping the plant over. A farm boy, coming behind us, would then dig the offending rogue potatoes out of the ground, toss them into a sack or basket, and the job continued.
Roguing continues in rain or shine, and as you all know, it’s been known to rain a bit in Scotland. We quickly discovered that it was wise to dress in shorts, shirt, PLUS a light waterproof jacket on top no matter how warm the day. The reason was simple. A rain shower will always hit you when you’re at the farthest point away from shelter. And unless it was torrential, you simply slogged on.
When you’re clumping down the fields on those wet rainy days, you begin to gather great clods of mud on the soles of your boots. It was like glue and as you walked you rose in height. Soon, you’d be teetering along on ugly stilts of thick and heavy mud. We were like some soggy Frankenstein of the fields until we stopped, sat down and laboriously hacked off the offending lumps.
Once the fields were rogued, the Department of Agriculture inspector was called and an examination of the farmer’s fields was scheduled. Provided Ken and I had done our job correctly, the farmer had some nice seed potatoes ready for market - and we were entitled to a nice payday. But that’s where it sometimes got interesting. Most farmers paid us quickly and cheerfully. But - there’s ALWAYS one.
When we got confirmation that this particular farmer’s field had been graded for A quality seed, we drove up to his farmhouse and knocked on the door. “Oh,” said his wife when she came to the door, “he’s oot.” When might he be back? She looked a little sheepish and said: “Ah dinna ken.” We left our bill for roguing service with her, and said we’d be back the next day.
This cat-and-mouse game went on for over a week. He was always “oot.” And his wife didn’t know where. That’s when we got creative. The next morning we drove up at the crack of dawn and circled his property on foot until we spotted him in one field working on a fence. We closed in.
When we reached him he looked up and his face fell. “Ah wis waitin’ tae pay ye,” he muttered. ”But Ah wis aye oot whin ye came by.” We glowered at him, but soon were back at the farmhouse where the old tightwad grudgingly forked over the money he owed us. A real old Potato Rogue he was...
And what did I do with all that hard-earned roguing money? Put it in the bank? Bought myself a long-term bond? Stuck it under the mattress for a rainy day? Of course not.
I bought myself a shiny new 350 c.c. B.S.A. motor bike. But that’s another story...
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Angus, Me and the Film Star …
Hugh McGrory |
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I’ve spoken before of my great friend, Angus. He was once told by someone that he resembled a certain actor, and while he, himself, didn’t really see it, he was prepared to accept it, with a pinch of salt, as fact.
He liked to tell the story of the time he was in a bar having a quiet pint, and became aware that a couple of women, sitting at a nearby table, seemed to be talking about him. One of them got up and walked towards him …
Angus said “I expected to hear her say, are you …”
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What she actually said was “Are you …”
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As I grew older, the Canadian winters began to remind me that I was losing my hair. I finally decided that I needed to wear a hat when it was really cold outside, and bought one from Tilley’s the Canadian firm that
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makes clothing for outdoorsmen and travellers. It felt a bit weird wearing a hat for the first time in my life, but it certainly kept the heat in, and I began to think that it was quite stylish, and reminded me of a similar hat in a movie that I’d seen.
The first time my son saw me in the hat, I asked him if it reminded him of a film star …
He took a good look and said “Actually, now you mention it, it does.”
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Sic transit gloria mundi...
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over words or photographs it's inviting you to click for further information.
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 Battalion Black Watch after Battle of Neuve Chapelle March 1915 Large.jpg "Click to Enlarge")
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