This series of stories will be titled ‘I’m surprised I turned out as well as I did, given my childhood…’

I know I’ve already done an ‘Introduce me’ post and because I’ve been here on Steemit.com almost a year, this may not be entirely appropriate, but I’ve always been one to push boundaries and I’m going to try this…

The things I’ve experienced, lived through, encountered, watched and been subject to are what makes me Me (yes, I capitalised that on purpose).

When I was born, I was the long-awaited first-born grandchild. First child, first niece, and I was also the fifth generation alive in my family at that time.

That phenomenon was more uncommon back then, fifty years ago. These days, with teens giving birth and their parents sometimes still in their twenties, great-great-grandparents are more common.

So, there was me – all shiny-new and tiny. A babe in arms.

The next generation were my parents, but as we’re going down the generation line, focus was on my father’s side of the family.

The next generation were my grandparents – again, the line we’re following is from my grandfather.

The fourth generation was my great-grandmother – my grandad’s mum. I don’t recall her.

The fifth generation was my great-great-grandfather, my grandad’s grandad.

I came home to a ‘pit-house’. One step up from a miner’s cottage.

Terraced houses row on row.

This was the ‘Bottom Row’ where I lived. Our house was on the top row, opposite the school.

It wasn’t an easy birth, by all accounts, and my parents moved in with my grandparents (father’s parents) for a few weeks. My mother needed help after my birth and because there was no bath in their house, they stayed with the dreaded in-laws.

A little history may be helpful here. My grandmother was a harridan – some would probably describe her as ‘strong’, ‘assertive’ etc. From what I recall of her in later years, she never believed my mother was good enough for my father and she never tried to hide that fact – when I became aware of her ill-disguised hatred for my mother, I began forming my own opinions and voicing them – but more of that later.

One tale I remember being told:

My parents had decided to get married. The assumption was that my mother was pregnant. My grandmother cornered my mother on one visit and told her in hushed tones, “I don’t care if you are pregnant, you’re not getting married!”

But they did. Two years later, I arrived - make of that what you will ;)

I assume (from stories I recall and from observations later on, when I was old enough to start questioning things that happened), my mother was pushed to the back with regards to me.

I remember her telling me once, that she continued to breast-feed me longer than she would have normally, because it was the only time she got to see me. If she had allowed my grandmother to bottle-feed me, she would have lost me completely. As it was, I believe we didn’t get to enjoy the bonding process between mother and baby. I say that because I distinctly remember feeling like an imposition, especially when my younger brother and sister arrived.

I must have been a real handful because my mother arranged for me to start school earlier than I would have under normal circumstances.

I suppose then, once my grandmother no longer took me from my mother and she had me all to herself, she couldn’t cope.

I know from my own experience as a grandmother, you get out of practice! It’s easier to say yes than to explain why ‘no’ is more appropriate. In other words, I was spoiled rotten and then handed back with all the attitude of an entitled brat.

Good job, grandmother!

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One of my very early memories is of the living area of the house we lived in.

The house, as you can imagine, was a basic brick box. It was one room wide, two and a half rooms long (a pantry-cum-kitchen dogged on the end), with a steep staircase between the front and back rooms to the first-floor (in England, the first floor is the first level upstairs. We have a ground floor, then the first floor).

(Not quite like this, as I mention, the kitchen was into the extended bit.)

Not as good a drawing as the previous one, sorry about that…

From the front door, if the doors were open, you could see right through the house from back to front. The front door opened out directly onto the street and the back door opened out onto a tiny paved yard.

We didn’t use the front room much at all. The back room contained everything we needed. A black vinyl settee, a table and chairs, a fire and mantelpiece (with built-in oven and warmers), a sink and through a little door, the ‘kitchen’ – I don’t even remember if we had a fridge, but I suppose we must have.

I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, too cramped and dangerous for a toddler, especially when cooking was going on.

The black and white television stood (I think) in front of the sink, but far enough away so it could be used, of course.

We had a bath once a week, not surprising really, the preparation for a bath was a mammoth task.

Heat the water, fill the bath, bathe everyone (kids last) and then empty the bath and re-hang it outside on the wall.

One bath-night, I remember getting out, being wrapped in a towel and left to go get warm by the fire. It was obviously assumed I’d be safe, but my curious mind got me into trouble (I have no doubt it wasn’t the first time and it certainly wouldn’t be the last).

I remember sticking out my belly, feeling the warmth of the fire… I don’t remember much then, but I’m sure there must have been panic and a flurry of activity as I screamed the place down. My skin stuck to the metal of the fireguard – safety first!

I had a tiny square scar on my stomach, just below my belly-button where I touched the red-hot fireguard. The scar faded over the years and I don’t have it now.

Sometimes, it was too much trouble to get the whole bath ready, so we had this kind of wash.

I remember stepping out of the bath and slipping, falling heavily backwards. My parents were concerned (I remember that part). They were more concerned the next day when, at school, I tripped over the skipping rope and repeated the fall and crack to the head.

To the left of the fireplace was a gas outlet. A worrying invention was attached to it and inserted into the newly-laid fire to get it started. It was a hose with a metal poker on the end. The metal had holes along its length and it was lit to start the fire.

I remember the cat ‘Suzy’ had kittens and whether or not the story I was told was true, I don’t know for sure. The kittens allegedly went mad, spitting at nothing etc. One of the methods used to kill the poor little creatures was to put them in a box with the gas poker (unlit) in the box with them. I’m not sure if that method worked or not. There were also stories of them being drowned in the outside toilet at the bottom of the garden.

I won't be using the introduceme tag again after this post, so if you'd like to hear more stories from my childhood (otherwise known as 'Reasons I should have had therapy'), feel free to follow me

Pictures from Pixabay or Google Images

For those who want to see the next trip down memory lane, the post is here:

https://steemit.com/life/@michelle.gent/3ehqvh-this-series-of-stories-will-be-titled-i-m-surprised-i-turned-out-as-well-as-i-did-given-my-childhood