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.
A fairly decent day. Mucked about. Dot and Ron came for tea. Went to see Cyril at the Coach. Saw Billy and Dora. Left him at 9. Walked back.
(Cyril was one of Granddad’s brothers. Bill was Cyril’s son, my mum;’s cousin. Dora, Bill’s wife, was the most glamorous person I knew growing up. She painted her nails different colours.)
My Granddad is Keeping Busy 