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.
Day of the Council outing today. Left home 7.30 cold day. Went through the cottage of Shakespeare. Very interesting. Got home at about 12.45 a.m.
(I asked my mum about the council trip. As my granddad didn’t work for the council, it’s not entirely clear how he finagled himself on to this jaunt and as Mum pointed out, there is a big gap between a trip round Shakespeare’s cottage and getting home at 12.45am, mostly likely spent in a Stratford pub.)
My Granddad is Keeping Busy 