Early Catbow Memories

For the first four years of my life in the Catbow I knew only Mam, Dad, Granny and Granda the neighbours and relatives who lived close by. I did not know they were not my relatives and added ‘Auntie’ or ‘Uncle’ to their names.

I was aware of my surroundings, from a very early age and understood much more than I could articulate.

I knew that Dad and Granda went to sea during the week and sometimes were away for longer.  Mam and Granny each had their ‘own ends’ of the house, but Mam did most of the work in the house. They didn’t have an easy relationship and I know that Mam wanted a house of her own.

I was aware of the tension between them. Dad seemed unable or unwilling to do anything about it and just tried, ineffectually, to keep the peace.  Granda didn’t get involved at all. First World War guns had rendered him completely deaf and communication was difficult.

I spent a lot of time with adults and didn’t play with children of the neighbourhood very often. I couldn’t keep up with their active games and I fell a lot. I didn’t know I had cerebral palsy and figured that out for myself later. Dad used to say I had ‘a weakness.’

They did their best for me, but they had limited resources.

So this was how ‘OorMargit’ began, sitting on a creepie by the fireside, in the evenings, listening to the neighbours’ gossip and stories.

I absorbed everything they said and learned to speak the Doric before I learned to speak English.

On the left is me in 1953 in the Catbow before the road was made in 1963. On the right I’m posing for a professional photographer who came to the house.

Small town feeling?

We participated in a seminar yesterday afternoon, discussing the future of the small town in which we live.

The facilitator asked us to share why we liked living in our town.

Most people said, “Because of the small town feeling…”

But, apart from two immediate neighbours, we knew nobody else.

In fact, we were asked to wear nametags.

If it’s a ‘small town,’ shouldn’t we already be knowing everybody?

Chiffer Update

On my way from the store, yesterday evening, I stopped at Chiffer’s pharmacy.

He wasn’t there, which was a shame because I really wanted to include him.

I talked with the lady pharmacist and tried to describe my complaint about Chiffer.

It wasn’t straightforward, because I had no intentions of demonstrating his chiff and mere words don’t do justice to the act.  She had not witnessed this herself. The pharmacy windows are covered with posters.

So, I now believe that she thinks that he just clears his throat and chiffs, but that would be a clocher and no a chiff.

She said she would ‘have a word.’

I’ll keep a lookout to see if it solves the problem, but I’ll also keep my distance in case it doesn’t!

My First Home

The local doctor had arranged my adoption.  There was nothing so formal as a home study and no money changed hands.

It was decided I needed a home that was not to with my own flesh and blood and so arrangements were made.

When I was about six days old, I was taken from Cuparstone Nursing Home, Aberdeen to the Seatown in Buckie, to live with my adoptive parents, Alex and Peggy Cowie.

They made me so welcome!

Below is the first photo taken of me, with Mam, in my new home.  A wee suppie hair and nae teeth.  The double chin is evident even then.

The house was a traditional fisherman’s ‘but and ben.’  Dad’s parents lived in one end and we were in the other.

Behind Mam is the double bed that was in the living room.

At the time, the upstairs was an open space, where the nets were mended and stored. Great Uncle Jock was a sail maker and he also had space there for his sewing machine and materials. Later, the space was converted into bedrooms.

But this is where I lived for the first eight years of my life.

The Beginning of My 60 Years (3)

When I was growing up in Buckie, there was only one thing that associated me with Cuparstone Nursing Home. That was a book given to my adoptive Mother, by the Matron, Mary Stewart.

It was a ‘Baby book.’ It was quite academic and might have been a textbook for nursing school.

Miss Stewart had marked chapters that would have been helpful to a new Mother. She had also signed the copy.

When Dad died and I went to Buckie to prepare the house for sale, I planned to take the book back to California with me. It was part of my heritage.

But, by the time I got there, the book had been tossed out by the people who wanted to make my task easier.

It was so deeply personal to me that I could never have explained my loss to them.

The Beginning of My 60 Years (2)

I was born on December 27 1949 in Cuparstone Nursing Home, 34 Great Western Road, Aberdeen. It had been previously known as Cuparstone House. I was the last baby to be born there.

Cuparstone Nursing Home was founded in 1934, It was owned and run by Miss Mary Stewart. It closed in 1951. Here’s a link from the Scottish Archive Network.

The property had originally been owned by Archibald’s, a furniture company. So, was I born in a furniture shop window?

On my last visit to Scotland, in 2002, we went to Aberdeen and photographed it.

The Beginning of My 60 Years (1)

What do people remember about you?

When, in February 2009, I called my Primary-1 teacher, Mrs Banks, in Buckie, to offer condolences on the death of her husband, I identified myself by my maiden name, ‘Cowie,’ the name she’d remember me by.

But there were many ‘Margaret Cowies’ in Buckie at that time. I could have any one of them.

Her response was “Hello Margaret! I do remember you!  You were adopted!”

That certainly wasn’t the response I expected from a teacher. I’d heard that often enough from classmates, who tried to use it, is a taunt, in the playground.

Mrs Banks, or “Miss Babs,” as we called her, went on to tell me that I was one of the pupils she never forgot. I’d tried hard at my lessons.  I still remember the gold stars she gave in my jotter.

“You were adopted!” is almost an accusation. At least, it sounds like one to an adoptee, more so when it’s said out of context.

So that is the beginning of my 60 years, and how it seems I’m remembered in Buckie.

All is Vanity: Ecclesiastes 1.2

Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.

I swore, all my life, that I would never have my hair coloured.

For many years I went to a ‘green’ hairdresser who refused to use chemicals in her salon. She simply cut hair.

But, a few years ago, I started going to another hair salon. Hair colouring was a prominent feature of the salon and strongly promoted.

I said “OK, but just do highlights. Do not touch my scalp with dye.”

Then, on an appointment a few months later, I felt the dye brush on my scalp.

I ought to have insisted that the procedure stop, but I didn’t.

The result was cheerful and fun.

Of course my hair is turning gray. That’s what I expect at my age and I never chose to colour my hair to disguise the gray.

A few months later, I went to another salon.

My vanity required its due.

The stylist did not cut my hair well. Something went wrong with the colouring process and my hair felt more like a helmet than hair. My hair was brittle, brassy and my scalp was irritated. My eyes watered with an allergic reaction to the dye.

I have not had my hair coloured since and I never will again.

My dermatologist has prescribed medication and I am impatiently waiting for a cure for my flaky scalp.

I’ll Spit at You! Or as Monty Python (The Holy Grail) would say, “I’LL BITE YOUR LEGS OFF!”

A few years ago an alleged drug addict went into a local pharmacy and demanded prescription drugs.

Ever since, a security guard has protected the pharmacy.

I don’t know what protection he can provide. He doesn’t look as if he can run; he’s not armed, unlike the equally bored looking security man who stands outside the bank.  That guard has boots and a gun.

I don’t like guns at all and I’m not advocating that the pharmacy guard should carry one.

I actually choose to walk on the other side of the street when I approach armed bank guard.

So! What deterrent can pharmacy guard offer?

Pharmacy guard SPITS!!!!!!!

I’ve seen pharmacy guard, standing outside the pharmacy, drinking deeply from a bottle of water, not just sipping, but taking a deep draught and then he rinses it round in his mouth.

THEN he projects this mouthful of water in an arc that almost reaches the storefront across the road. Perhaps that is his ambition.

I hate to see him do this.  If he has a medical condition that requires that he rinse his mouth, he ought to do so in the pharmacy bathroom.

In my native Doric dialect, the word for spitting is ‘chiffing.’

I remember my Grandad Carrit, who chewed tobacco, chiffing into the open fire. The flames turned blue and sizzled.  The fireplace tiles were tobacco stained.

I call the pharmacy security guard ‘Chiffer.’

Chiffer has nothing to do, but sit and occasionally go outside to drink water and spit that wide arc.

He makes me feel uncomfortable. The pharmacy is small enough that even with customer privacy in place, Chiffer can hear your questions about your prescribed medication.

He passes his work hours by sitting, listening and going outside to swill and chiff.

I’ve taken my prescription to another pharmacy.

I’d like to ask him why he spits in the road, but maybe he’ll spit at me!

The bank armed guard looks ‘h-armless’ in comparison!

There’ll be Sair Herts

I grew up in a fishing family in the North East of Scotland… Everyone who knows me, knows that already, I suppose.

I am very saddened by the latest tragedy in the North Sea, off the Moray Firth Coast.  A helicopter, carrying oil rig workers back to Aberdeen, from a rig, crashed into the sea. To date, no survivors have been reported.

It used to be wives waiting at the quay for news of their men lost at sea.

Now, where do the wives and families go to wait?

As Alex  Salmond said, “There’s great wealth in the North Sea, but there is a huge cost in extracting it.”