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.
Heavy frost again this morning. Too hard for digging. Clocks on an hour last night. Ron made a supervisor. Him and Dot came to tea. I went to the Sheaf at night.
(You may have noticed yesterday’s entry made reference to Nell, Lee’s wife and my grandma. Spoiler alert, she recovers from her German measles. This is a picture of Nell from much earlier, when she was in service at Gayton Hall, on the Wirral. She is second along from the chair.)
My Granddad is Keeping Busy 