My granddad died in 1983. For the previous 20 years, he kept a diary, recording his day as a farm worker and then through his retirement. We are lucky enough to have his notebooks, all the entries in block capitals, often in pencil. He always tells us about the weather, sometimes about what is going well at the allotment. We get updates of how Liverpool are doing and the occasional political thought. He suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, was always in pain, but you would never know from these entries. My mum once described him as a contented man. Who knows, really, but certainly, there is something soothing about these entries. So I thought I would share them with you. We have a few years to cover so buckle up.
Cold wind with rain at times. 1 ton of coke. A.P. washed and polished. S. car. 8 to date. Cleaned out flues No. 1 and No. 2 boiler. Saw Mr Muir for few minutes. Ann went to Clatterbridge.
(There are quite a lot of abbreviations. I don’t know what S. car is or A.P. The Ann mentioned isn’t me but their next door neighbour’s little girl. I am not yet born. Clatterbridge is the local hospital.)
My Granddad is Keeping Busy 