No.6

When I was a young boy, Easter wasn’t really important in Scottish life. Holy Week wasn’t observed and as for Good Friday - that was the day we got hot cross buns! Easter Monday was the Spring holiday in Glasgow, but in many other towns it was either the Monday before or the Monday after.

On Sunday morning of course we attended church. That was certainly an important occasion because, apart from the bright hymns we sang, Easter Sunday was the day when all the women and girls turned out in new hats, dresses, etc. And I’m sure there was quite a bit of rivalry between certain ladies!

It was just recently I learned that by the end of the 16th century it had become the fashion to wear new clothes at Easter. Much later, Poor Robin, an 18th century almanac maker is recorded as saying -

At Easter let your clothes be new

Or else be sure you will it rue.

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When I saw this squirrel stationary on the telephone wire, I dashed inside to get my camera. Surprisingly, it was still there when I returned and I was delighted with the result.

That was in 2009. Since then, we usually have a little squirrel around during the summer months and very often he will perform the tight-rope act.

The one who visited us in 2015 was quite tame. When I was in the garden, it didn't dart away but would stay put, munching happily while keeping a firm eye on me. 

On one occasion I decided I would see how near I could get to the little creature. Moving very, very slowly, I gradually advanced towards him. When he was almost at my feet, I began to lower one hand and I was astonished when he stopped chewing and sat motionless looking up at me. I reached down and gently touched him and ever so slowly stroked his head.

It was a wonderful experience. Perhaps if I had been a real nature lover, I might have tried to develop the relationship, but the thought never entered my mind. I now think of what I missed.

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The Tragedy of the S.S.Daphne

On 3rd July 1883 there occurred in Glasgow what many believed was the worst accident ever on the River Clyde.

The launching of a ship was always a great event attracting many sight-seers, and this occasion was no exception. Some of the tradesmen were still working on the vessel when the launch took place and others had come on board just to experience the thrill of it.

Going down the launching pad, the ship seemed to keel over and on striking the water capsized and sank immediately. The death toll was 124 men and boys, and some families lost both father and son.

Among those drowned was a relative of ours, John Murrie. He was in his mid-twenties and on 9th June the previous year he had married into our Graham family when he took as his wife Isabella Graham (1852-1936).

Although the subsequent inquiry failed to find any criminal negligence, recommendations were made which led to important safety regulations in shipbuilding.

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Primary One in Lairdsland School 1929

I’m in the middle row, 4th from Left. (Notice the butterfly?) On my left is Johnny Lang - we came in contact with each other very often through our music, he played trumpet and was associated with the Players Club. In the front row 4th from the left is Archie Little who played violin in our music group at Lenzie Academy.

And here are a few memories of my time at primary school.

I REMEMBER that in the wintertime we went to school wrapped up in layers of clothing. Boys always wore caps and short trousers; in those days we had to wait till we were 15 or 16 before we got long trousers.

I REMEMBER that, if there was torrential rain in the morning, the school would close at lunchtime and we got a half-holiday. In such weather the boys would cram into the playground shelter at the morning interval, stand up on the long wooden bench and stamp their feet in time to their repeated cry of “We want a hauf!” (a half-day).

I REMEMBER that sometimes a pupil would have an epileptic fit in the classroom. The child was usually writhing on the floor, while the rest of us sat in awed silence. I don’t recall the teacher attending to the victim - the fit passed quite quickly and the lesson was resumed.

I REMEMBER that a good number of my class-mates came from much poorer homes than ours. Those boys were all dressed alike, in trousers and jackets of a coarse brown material which had been provided by the School Board.

I REMEMBER that “the basket class” met in the church hall across the road. This was for children who were considered to be uneducable and included a whole range of cases from just a bit simple to mentally defective. They passed their time doing handwork and, although part of our school, there was no contact between them and us.

I REMEMBER there was an important event which hadn't happened before. The headmaster visited our class. Now, I’ve no idea what he spoke to us about for, like the rest of the class, I was sitting shaking in fear of this great man.
When he finished, he turned to the pupils in the back row and asked the first one, “How long is the River Clyde?" There was silence! We were horrified when he produced his strap and belted the boy. He directed the same question to the next pupil, and again, when no answer was forthcoming, he used his strap. And so he continued along the row, gradually getting nearer to where I sat, trying to appear invisible. No one knew the answer and the punishments continued till it was my turn. But - miracle of miracles! He didn’t ask me. Instead he told us the answer, and chided us for not having paid attention to his little talk.  (I still don't know how long the Clyde is).

The River Clyde near Abington

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P.S. The Clyde is 109 miles long.

P.P.S. Thinking back to the episode with the headmaster, I realise as an adult that my escape was no miracle. He would be aware that my aunt was a teacher on his staff.

THE NEXT UPDATE FOR THE SCRAPBLOG 

WILL BE ON SATURDAY 6th MAY

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No.5

This is a photo of my sister and me.

A few years ago one of her grand-daughters was given a school project on the subject of World War 2 and how it had affected ordinary people. My sister set down her memories and produced a very interesting article on the subject which of course was written with her grand-daughter in mind. This is it -

GRANDMA’S STORY

I was eleven years old when the Second World War started. Great Britain declared war on Germany on 3rd September 1939. It was a dreadful time but I was too young to fully appreciate that. In due course we were all issued with gas-masks, which we had to carry with us at all times. They were very hot and uncomfortable to wear, even for the short time when we had gas-mask practice in school. Thankfully, we never had any gas attacks. Then, we were issued with ration books, with coupons inside which had to be handed over in the shops when we bought food. This was so that everyone would get their fair share. Finally, we were given Identity Cards, each with our personal number on it. Mine was SJQA614.

Here's a photo of a family wearing their gas masks -

Soon men were having to go into the Army, Air Force or Navy, unless their job at home was important to the war effort, or their health was not good. The men from Kirkintilloch where I lived were away in other parts of the country training for war, while our town was full of soldiers from elsewhere billetted in schools, church halls, etc. Our house over-looked St. Ninian’s School playing-fields, where they had their physical training - it was called "square-bashing" - and designed to make them very fit. All this made our quiet little country town a very different place.

There was fear of German planes coming over and dropping bombs. The town of Clydebank was thought to be in danger because of the ship-yards there, so it was decided to move all the children away to safer places and Kirkintilloch was among the areas chosen. Thousands of children arrived in our town. They were brought to the Town Hall, carrying their bags of clothing, and with labels pinned on their coats showing their names and home addresses. The people of the town had to report to the Town Hall to be allocated a child or children. My mother was given a family of three - Peggy was about twelve , Jack ten, and William five years old. We had no spare beds, so my mother put a mattress in a corner of the living-room, on the floor, and all three slept there. After a week, their parents came to visit, and decided to take them back home. What I remember particularly is they had not lived in a house with a bath before. Gradually, many others went back to Clydebank, as there had been no bombing at that point, though some families stayed in Kirkintilloch permanently.

We lived in the house on the left from 1935 till the 1950s

Ours was one of six houses in a small cul-de-sac. They had all been built by Mr. Fletcher, a local builder. He lived in the largest one, built on a steep hillside, which gave him a big cellar. When war came, he decided to make this cellar into an air-raid shelter, for all the residents in the avenue, and one other lady. He fitted it out with comfortable seats, a couple of bunks, lighting, heating, tea-making facilities and even a toilet.

The air-raid siren was on the roof of the Police Station, in the centre of the town. It made a loud wailing sound, which could be heard for miles, first a warning sound, then the "all-clear" if the danger was past. So, throughout the war, we went to the shelter when the siren sounded, always at night, and having to get out of bed and get dressed.

Our house looked away over to Bishopbriggs, where there were anti-aircraft guns, which would fire at enemy planes. During air-raids it was unsafe to be out because shrapnel from the guns would rain down - great lumps of jagged metal - these would be lying about the streets the next morning. I wish I had kept some, just for interest. I never knew of anyone getting hurt by the shrapnel, but my father’s friend had a pony and trap, and a piece came through the roof of the shed and killed the pony.

In 1941 Clydebank was bombed two nights running, 439 planes came over and dropped 1000 bombs. The town was a ruin, lots of people killed. Our local Fire Brigade went to help put out the fires, some of which still burned after a fortnight. Grandpa Green’s father was a bus-driver at the time driving in that area. One bomb went down the funnel of a ship lying in the Clyde, but didn’t explode. Of course, we were lucky to be safe in our shelter, but no sleep for the noise of gun-fire.

During the war there was the "black-out" - no lights allowed to shine out of windows or doors, everywhere heavy curtains drawn at night, and no street lights. Can you imagine it? Cars had very faint lights that would not be seen from the air.

So that enemy parachutists who landed wouldn't know where they were, the names of streets and roads and signposts were removed.

This was something we didn't know about at that time. Part of the Fletcher home, where we had our shelter, was actually a secret radio station from 1940, and two Polish officers lived there. I remember them, but never seemed to wonder what they were doing there. (John comments - "Perhaps this sounds a very unlikely tale, but I can assure you that it's true.)

During the war years I used to knit scarves and socks for the Red Cross who passed them on to the Forces. Some knitters put their name and address on the finished item but I never did.

This is a photo of me and John probably in 1943. He is in the uniform of the ATC (Air Training Corps) a voluntary organisation for boys not old enough for the armed services.

The war lasted for six years so I was quite grown-up when it was all over. John was in the Royal Air Force for two years. Young men on reaching a certain age had to do National Service.

This was Grandma’s war. Nothing bad happened to our family. Sadly my mother’s Canadian cousin, who was a Spitfire pilot, was killed in action.

And life would never be the same for lots of people . . .

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This final picture gives us some idea of what was happening all over the country on Evacuation Day. The photo was taken at Lime Street Station in Liverpool.

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THE NEXT POST HERE WILL BE ON SATURDAY APRIL 22nd