This series of stories will be titled ‘I’m surprised I turned out as well as I did, given my childhood…’ 11

Memories from South Normanton are different from the memories from Blackwell.

For a start, because I lived in Blackwell and only visited South Normanton once a week, there are probably more from Blackwell.

Secondly, I was competing as a smaller fish in a larger pool – rather than being the only grandchild, I was third in a growing line. My cousins Pat (we called her Tricia) and her brother Stephen were a few years older than me. Mark and my brother came next and Neil, my sister and David next. Pat and Stephen’s dad remarried (he was a widower) and later he and his wife had children too but I was a bit older by then and more independent.

My grandmother took in her brother-in-law’s washing – no, it’s not what you think.

Uncle Edwin owned and ran a Bakery in the village and the coarse hessian sack-cloth oven gloves were washed by my grandmother in a wash-tub – called a ‘dolly tub’ - using a ‘ponch’.

Boiling hot water filled the dolly tub and wash powder was added, Then the oven mits went in for a soak.

I’ve mentioned that my grandmother was a large lady, and she was powerful and strong too. She would batter those oven mits with the ponch and then tip the water out of the dolly tub.

On occasion, my grandmother would take me with her to return the oven mits once washed and dry.

Just out of sight on the right, beyond the last person is where the shop was.

To the right of the boy on the bike is a shop window – that was the shop I believe. You can match the two pictures up. The street light on the top picture, to the left of the bike and rider, is in the same position on the bottom picture.

Added by Edit

This is the shop in the 1970s (Estimate).
You can see the buildings behind. Just to the right of those was the pigsty - out of shot.

Just below the shop is a drive-way and that’s where the bakery was.

Directly behind the shop was a number of outbuildings and one in particular was a favourite place to visit.

That’s where the pig lived.

When I was small, I remember going to visit the pig. I loved that pig.

Sometimes I was allowed to touch the pig, but sometimes it was grumpy and I wasn’t allowed to touch it. Sometimes it poked its head above the sty door but on other occasions it couldn’t reach.

It was a magical pig, changing colour, size and disposition.

It wasn’t until I was quite a bit older that I began questioning why its appearance had changed… and after a while I realised it wasn’t the same pig and I couldn’t bear to go and see it again.

Uncle Edwin’s bread and cakes were second-to-none. As I said, cooking and baking must be genetic. People would come from miles around to buy his baked goods and at certain times, an order had to be placed because no matter how early you went, they’d always sold out.

I remember a big stainless steel bucket full of whipped cream to be used for the iced buns and cakes.

My grandmother saw it and took a large scoop of cream, on her finger, straight from the bucket! I’m not sure that’s in keeping with food hygiene laws, but never mind :)

This is the shop now, turned into a house.

When Uncle Edwin sold the business, I believe a lot of the price consisted of ‘goodwill’ which means the reputation of the business went with it.

No one could bake like Uncle Edwin though, and the reputation soon dropped and the business is no longer running.

My grandmother was an awesome cook, as I’ve mentioned and there was always something on the stove.

One day, I asked what was in the pot.

“Chitlins,” she said. “Want to try some?”

“What’s chitlins?” I asked.

“What do you think they are?”

“No idea… sounds like chicken, but I bet it’s not.”

“Here, try some,” she said, offering me a spoonful.

To me, that spoon was full of ‘NOPE’ and looking up ‘chitlins’ in wiki, I think my instincts were spot on!

Chitlins

Another time, (I didn’t learn, did I?) I lifted the lid of the pot on the stove.

This pic is from Google, but linked to a blog on how to make dog food. My grandparents didn’t have a dog, that boiled head was for human food.

Lifting the pot lid became something of a dare, there’d be a sheep’s head or pigs’ trotters in there too.

There’s no wonder I like a bit of the macabre…

Images from Google