Heat, Drought, Price of Petrol and ‘Going for the Rations.’ 2

We didn’t have a car. We walked to the local shops. On Fridays, the grocery boy delivered groceries on his bike. Milk was delivered daily by Jimmy the milkman and his horse, Peggy.

I said my first swear word when I repeated I heard what Jimmy called Peggy. She didn’t deserve it, but it was just the way he spoke!

Now with the price of petrol, I can say it again! “@$##%”

Richard and I take pleasure in saying we were ‘Immediate Post War Babies.’

We remember some food rationing that continued till 1954 when bananas were no longer rationed.

Mam always called grocery shopping, ‘going for the rations.’

Richard still has his ration coupon book. ‘Per ration per person per man, woman or child.’

We’re not THAT old, but how is it that our lives are quickly reverting to our childhood memories?

I think we’ll have a Victory Garden and keep chickens and a pig!

Do you dig it, Man?

Heat, Drought, Price of Petrol and ‘Going for the Rations.’ 1

Finally, after days of record temperatures, the air is cooling and we are more comfortable. The garden suffered a bit, and since we are under water restrictions, because of the drought, we didn’t water as often as we’d like.

We’re doing all we can to save water and we’re glad we installed low flow toilets and showers. But, we are diligent in cutting down our water use.

Should I start to live the way I did in Buckie, in a house with no bathroom, dishwasher, or washing machine?

We were a household of 4 adults, Mam, Dad, Granny, Granda and myself, the quinie.

The lavy (toilet) was in a wee cupboard in the shed where we cooked, kept the coal and did the laundry, by hand, in the 2 sinks, with the mangle between them.

I stripped washed daily, at the laundry sink, washed my hair once a week and had a full bath in a tub by the fire on Friday evenings.

Food was prepared simply, without the aid of food processors, chopping devices, or blenders. When I had to dispose of the contents of the house for sale, after Dad died, I had to toss the blunt knife that Mam had used to peel and chops all the vegetables she used in the Sunday broth. I am really sorry I never bought her decent chopping knives, but I left home before I knew anything about knives and I forgot about the blunt knife with the broken handle.

Buckie Paper Restored

Earlier this year, I said I’d not be renewing my subscription to the Buckie Paper, (Banffshire Advertiser) because of postage costs.

I’ve changed my mind and will be receiving my paper, soon.

But if postage costs increase much more, it might be cheaper for me to go Buckie and pick it up myself!

Shoes

I wanted/needed summer shoes and sandals, but my search for them was getting akin to finding the Holy Grail.

I was close to getting coconut shells and clopping my way through woods and fields to help in my quest, and I thought I had a better chance of finding a nice shrubbery than footwear.

Stiletto heels are back in fashion as are the contrasting flat shoes and all are designed for young women with narrow feet and who have no concern for their feet or their backs.

Yet, I had a good experience in the Berkeley ‘Walk Shop’, the other day. I asked to have my feet measured, described my shorter right leg, with no ankle bending problem, and the salesman and I worked together to get me shod. This is what I chose; the style is R1702-51. They fitted and I think I’ll limp comfortably in them. They’re pretty!

As we say in Buckie, ‘Better tae be oot the qweets, than oot the fashion!’ (‘Better to twist your ankle than be out of fashion!’)

Bit it’s nae me that ye’ll see on thon stilettos!

Spike and OorMargit

On his last 2 programmes, ‘The Reel Blend,’ (BBC Radio Scotland) Robbie Shepherd has mentioned my Doric writing. On his most recent broadcast, February 3rd, he also mentioned that I used to write with the late Bob Johnstone. Bob had worked at the Aberdeen Press & Journal. That’s the paper in which Robbie’s Doric column is published.

I knew Bob Johnstone as ‘Spike.’ That was the pseudonym he used when, for many years, he wrote serial stories, in the Doric, for the Buckie Paper (Banffshire Advertiser.) Granda enjoyed Spike’s column so much and when I was a wee quinie, he read it aloud to me. We’d baith be greetin wi lachin.

I loved all the characters Spike created: Peter Rawn, fa wis skipper o the Mochba; Q. Coull, the poet o the Catbow; an Q.’s brother-n-law, Silas Jappy. Silas wis Buckie Thistle’s No. 1 supporter an finiver the team lost, he’d chase peer Q. doon tae the Yardie beach, threatenin him wi the widden drifter.

Syne there wis Geordie Plowter, the fairmer o Muckledubs, fa’s claim tae fame wis funnen a kangaroo-shaped tattie. There wis Julie McClype, the bus conductress, fa aye accused Spike o swikin’ on his ticket. There wis Feel Wisset, an Gerrick, the bobby an a hale curn mair. Fit an imagination an talent Spike hid!

Bit he wis affy generous tae me an gied me characters tae write aboot. I took “OorMargit” as my writing name. That, of course, means, ‘Our Margaret,’ which is what Mam and Dad called me and I’ve been “OorMargit” ever since.

I hid Dinah Dottie and her husband, Clint Coup. They ‘lived’ in San Francisco and my contribution was to describe their reactions to life here in the Bay Area. It certainly gave me a lot to think about, but Spike was very encouraging. He told me he wrote his column in about 30 minutes, but I struggled away with mine.

I miss Spike a lot. He was a great mentor and a classic Doric writer.

An naebody cwid read Spike oot loud like Granda!

No More Buckie Paper

My subscription to the Banffshire Advertiser (AKA the Buckie paper) recently came up for renewal. I have always said, “YES PLEASE!” and submitted my credit card number.

But this year I hesitated. The paper costs 45p, but it costs 1 pound 50p to mail.

Div I really wint tae spen that muckle tae ken fa’s deid? 

Halloween Part 2

When I was a child in Scotland it seemed that Halloween and Bonfire Night were two celebrations in one. Bonfire Night, on November 5, celebrated the discovery of, and the foiling of, the plot by Guy Fawkes, and others, to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605.
A classmate did once invite me to a Halloween party and we played the traditional games: dooking (bobbing) for apples, eating treacly scones tied on strings and pinning the tail on the donkey, blindfolded.
But that was not the usual way we celebrated the season.
Preparations for Bonfire Night started in late October. There was indeed a bonfire to be built. This was long before these events were regulated and the local children scoured the neighbourhood for bonfire material; old tyres, tables, bits of wood, old rugs and rolls of unused wallpaper were collected for the funeral pyre of Guy Fawkes.
We made a Guy out of scarecrow material; old clothes stuffed with straw. He came with us as we foraged for the bonfire and we pulled him along in a hurlie (a wee cart.) “Penny for the Guy!” we shouted.
The pennies bought fireworks. On Bonfire Night, with little adult supervision we lit Roman candles, Catherine wheels, bangers, rockets and waved sparklers about with no care of personal injury or property damage.
The safest place for a bonfire is on the beach, but when I was wee, the bonfire was built on top of the brae, the communal drying green and so very close to our houses.
The Guy sat on the top and once the bonfire was burning, neighbours gathered and kept it blazing, tossing more rubbish on to it.
We cheered when the flames got to the Guy and devoured him.
Then we children started our ‘guising’ and knocked on neighbours’ doors. We were expected and welcomed.
We didn’t shout ‘Trick or Treat.’ We simply knocked and were invited to come in and perform for the treat.
We earned our treat. Those who could dance or sing did so and the reward was a few coins, a toffee apple or a piece of homemade tablet (fudge.)
We didn’t have fancy costumes and I wore my mother’s wrap-around-apron as my outfit. I had a false-face, which was a sixpenny piece of cardboard, secured behind my head with an elastic band.
It usually rained and the false-face was mushy on my cheeks.
Most children had a talent for dancing or singing, but I didn’t dance or sing or entertain.
My talent was to recite and bore.
My favourite poem has always been, “The Lay of the Last Minstrel,” By Sir Walter Scott.
I‘d launch into:

The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem’d to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy

I’d start weeping when I got to “carried by an orphan boy…” The poor wee laddie carrying the heavy harp in the cold wind. I got my sixpence and went weeping to recite at the next house.

But on October 31 I will turn on the porch light and I will have a basket of candy.
I don’t want the wee ones to trip over their costumes climbing up my steps.
I’m not really so grumpy.

Scots Language Society

I have always enjoyed writing in my native dialect, The Doric. I heard it before I learned to speak English and I could call it my ‘comfort language.’
An article I wrote a few years ago explains this in more detail; “Speak Bonnie Noo.”
I’ve written a number of articles and stories in The Doric which have been published in the Banffshire Advertiser (The Buckie Paper, AKA, ‘The Squeak,’ and in the newsletter of the Buckie and District Fishing Heritage Museum.
A few years ago I joined the Scots Language Society. I think the Society has very few members outside of Scotland.
I’m chuffed tae bits that last year the Society published a story I wrote.
I’d been telling the story for 40 years and wrote it as a piece for Susan Ito’s writing class at UC extension. But it just didn’t work in English.
The story was about a visit from Canadian relatives and despite our sincere efforts to make them feel welcome and comfortable, it was a laughable disaster!
I heard the Doric voices in contrast to the Canadian voices and realised that was what the story was about. There were two extremely different cultures and expectations.
“Scottish Hospitality” was published in The Doric, in the winter edition, 2006, of ‘Lallans,’ the journal of the Scots Language Society.

Here’s a short excerpt of me reading this story.

Customs’ Duty Puzzle

Background to the question: as part of my personal clearing up after myself, I decided to offer my Dad’s war time (WWII) medals and certificates to the Buckie & District Fishing Heritage Museum.
The museum agreed to accept them.
On October 3 we took the package to the UPS store and arranged for expedited shipping.
The shipping costs, including the packaging and insurance were $99.91. This included tracking the package as it was scanned at each UPS depot.
We laughed at the notation that delivery was to a remote area. Buckie is not remote!
On October 10 UPS arrived in Buckie, with the package, plus a request for 20 pounds and 59 pence for freight charges.
Freight charges from where? We had already paid for door to door delivery.
I called UPS customer service. They say charges are from UK Custom services.
Why? The medals are of no commercial value and will not be resold. They were a donation.
Of course, I will be contacting UK customs & excise, but if anyone who reads this and who knows about current custom procedures, I’d appreciate information.
I’m going to bed humming, “The deil’s awa wi the exciseman.”