My Granddad is Keeping Busy

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.

Wednesday 7th March 1962

A strong east wind colder than ever. No. 2 burner on red first thing. Got a new jet. 80° spread. Finished the fence round the new office. Cleared silage bins again.

(More from my mum on Roy Allen, my mum’s cousin. “When I was about 3 he shot me in the stomach with an air gun. Then they went to live in Crosby and when my Grandma died they all fell out about who should have what she left, particularly a piano. So Grandad walked out but not before punching Uncle John, so they didn’t speak until good old Aunty Girlie turned up at Mum’s about 40 years later.”)

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