My Ration Books

It is a well known fact that a smell will send you back to an event in your childhood when you first smelled that smell. Whether it is good or bad it makes a lasting impression, and the wonderful aroma of baking bread whisks me back to the last years of rationing in England, and as the years go by I love it every time it wafts through the house.

It’s hard to believe in these days of vast factory bakeries that a small bakery would supply a few streets with bread, but that’s how it was, and we lived 3 houses away from ours. In it’s small way it became the centre of our universe as the Coronation party was held there in 1953,  birthday celebrations were held there, tragedies were discussed there and politics was debated there, as we queued for our warm bread, only slightly cooled from what seemed to a small child, huge ovens.

Some of us would have loved to make our own bread, but fats were rationed. Bread had stopped being rationed by July 1948, and so we bought our daily bread!

The National Loaf

The ‘National Loaf’ was rolled out by a government intent on keeping it’s dwindling population healthy. It was classified as wheatmeal and contained all of the wheat, making for a cardboard constituency with gritty bits. Hard to swallow when Britain was used to eating white refined bread, however the propaganda machine went into operation and came up with this rhyme:

“Pat-a-loaf, pat-a-loaf
Baker’s Man
Bake me some Wheatmeal
As fast as you can:
It builds up my health
And its taste is good,
I find that I like
Eating just what I should.”

1943
Just to make sure that you realised that eating all of your bread was important, fines were imposed for wasting bread, waste including feeding the birds throughout the harsh winters of the war.

“Miss XYZ of Herts was fined a total of £10 with £2 costs at Barnet today for permitting bread to be wasted. Her servant was fined 5 shillings for wasting bread. It was stated that the servant was twice seen throwing bread to the birds in the garden and when Miss XYZ was interviewed she admitted that bread was put out every day. “I cannot see the birds starve”, she said.”

From the ‘Bristol Evening Post’ (January 1943)

1956
The National Loaf was abolished. Laws were introduced whereby all flour other than wholemeal had to be fortified with minimum amounts of calcium, iron, Vitamin B1 (thiamin) and nicotinic acid.

1961: The Decline of Good Bread
The Chorleywood Bread Process, came into general use. This substantially reduced the long fermentation period by introducing high energy mixing for just a few minutes, dramatically reducing the time taken to produce a loaf. The process also permitted a much greater proportion of home grown wheat to be used in the grist.

The Birth of the Conglomerate

As the process become widespread, and coupled with an increase in the scale of bread production as bakers consolidated, merged with larger bakeries or were taken over, coupled with the continuing growth of the supermarket, the ever increasing demand for sliced and wrapped bread maintained its pace.

A Changing Society

This reflected the changing nature of British society. Women were going out to work in substantial numbers for the first time, there was a substantial uplift in post war affluence, and it was a decade of technological advancement – sliced and wrapped bread fitted neatly into this cultural shift by providing above all convenience.

The Complete Anihilation of Our Bread

More than 30 different chemicals are approved for addition to bread, including:

• ethylated mono and triglycerides,
• potassium bromate,
• potassium iodide,
• calcium proprionate,
• benzoyl peroxide,
•  tricalcium phosphate,
•  calcium sulfate,
• ammonium chloride
• magnesium carbonate.

I Still Bought Bread

But, like everyone else I bought supermarket bread for years. Consistancy got worse and the chemicals got more and I retired from work. This gave me time to experiment with making our own bread, and as soon as I did, bought bread wasn’t worth eating.

Three Cheers for the Roman Soldier

Fresh from the oven

The ingredients are very basic and the method is quick. I read that Roman soldiers made their own bread using Spelt flour, and as they didn’t want to spend hours waiting for their bread to prove, the yeast was allowed only one time period for rising. This sounded good to me, and so I bought the best Spelt wholemeal flour that I could find, and it has always performed well.

Spelt also has less gluten making it useful for people who find themselves to be gluten intolerant.

I take:
Spelt Wholemeal Flour
Spelt White Flour
Tablespoon oil (usually Hemp but any will do)
Pinch Raw Sea Salt
Dried Yeast
Filtered Water

Cooled and ready to eat

The usual Bread making method (with only one proving) produces the most tasty, aromatic, satisfying loaf. It can be rounded or put into a tin for easier slicing, and while it’s baking the whole house is permeated with nostalgia, an incense which wafts me back to my wartime childhood days.

A Cake fit for a Princess

The School Party
School party time was always a bad time for me. Every child was asked to bring in some kind of food, and it couldn’t be ordinary everyday food, it had to be special, and my mother didn’t do special. Other mothers seemed to be able to produce groaning tables full of colourful, if in hindsight, sickly food. In any case it was suitable for a dozen seven year olds, and there was always the cake.

Make Me Something Beautiful

The Christmas party was usually graced with a white iced confection complete with a Father Christmas figure, snowman, and a spindly green excuse for a tree, all surrounded with chocolate sweets or jewel coloured jujubes. I would arrive at school bearing a plate of bought mince pies, or a tin of pineapple. Oh the shame! I longed to arrive with something beautiful, something that would bring gasps of pleasure from the other children.

The Bought Twenty First

As I got older the parties became fewer, but the old desire for something home made with love remained the same. Even my lavish twenty first birthday party was catered for by a reputable company, the cake bought, and the overall effect amazing, but I don’t recall any oohs and aahs. All the guests were too old for such childish behaviour.

Freya’s Turn

The years passed and my granddaughter Freya was going to have a party for her fifth birthday, and of course I would make the cake, she wanted a fairy castle. Where to start?

Tiers of Joy

We have a tiny shop just outside town called: ‘Three Tiers’, run by the friendliest shopkeeper I have ever met. I started here. We talked icing, and colours and shapes and sizes and the best way to construct a turret, it might have been a building project, but his interest was such that he lent me a book. He didn’t know me, didn’t know if I would return his very useful book, or in fact if I would ever return to his shop. Of course I did, and showed him a picture of the cake. I’m sure that he was as pleased as I was.

Going to the Party

The cake was duly transported to the party, and did manage to survive the journey in one piece. I was concerned for the tops of the turrets as they were only stuck with icing, but in the event all was well.

My Party Piece

When it was time for the entrance of the cake, candles lit and curtains keeping out the pale Winter light, there was a chorus of oohs and ahhs, and I breathed a sigh of contentment, as I had not made anything so elaborate before, and I had incorporated all the love that I had into its construction. Freya’s eyes told me all that I needed to know She was pleased with her cake.

Blowing out the candles

Chocolate and Ginger

This week, thinking about a craft story for the blog, the love of cake was brought back to memory by our Vicar’s wife delivering a chocolate cake with  luscious stem ginger liberally distributed throughout, and all because she knew that my husband loves ginger, and we both love eating cake. I could taste the love baked into that cake, and long to reciprocate with a jar of her favourite jelly. I don’t have to, and I’m not obliged to, I just want to, because love works best when it is returned.

A cake this good deserves primroses

Crafted with Love

It is a great sadness to me that my mother didn’t understand that a gift made with love doesn’t have to be perfect. If it is crafted using the gifts that are given to us all, then it is the greatest gift of all, unsurpassable.

The irony of this story is that my mother worked all her life as a cook!

Chow Chow Crocheted Scarf

An Aristocrat among dogs

Chester was an aristocrat, and he had all the right papers to prove it. Although he didn’t answer to his fancy name, always preferring plain Chester, he was a golden coated Red Chow Chow with a history. His first home had not been a happy one, but his new home came with understanding and love, and so he gave his heart and devotion.

A Happy Winner

DNA analysis confirms that the Chow Chow is one of the oldest breeds of dog, with recent research showing that it is one of the first primitive breeds to evolve from the wolf, and Chester was well aware of his ancestry. He was however, more than happy to be shown on the dog show circuit, and to be given rosettes and applause, and of course the attention that goes with winning.

Dog and Cat Spat

I was privileged to meet Chester one misty morning as he was taking his owner for a walk, and our relationship grew from there. Felix, my cat, wasn’t so sure about this great bundle of fluff, and positioned himself on the wall which surrounds our garden ready to attack Chester’s nose should he get too near. After a time though, even he fell for Chester’s charms, learning to look on with the disdain that only a cat is capable of showing.

Loving Bonds

Most Chows are extremely loyal to their own family and will bond tightly to their master or mistress, showing affection only with those it has bonds to, so new visitors to their house need to be careful not to press their physical attention upon the resident Chow as it will not immediately accept strangers in the same manner as it does members of its own pack. And so it was with some trepidation that I plucked up the courage to knock on their front door when I noticed their continued absence from their usual routine.

Remembered

I needn’t have worried. Chester immediately launched himself in my direction as I followed his owner into their house.

Death By Licking

I hugged his thick mane and sank my fingers into his voluptuous coat, and was soon in great danger of being licked to death with his huge black tongue, before coming up for air to hear the devastating news that Chester had cancer in his foreleg, and that the only treatment that the vet had to offer was amputation. No-one had the heart to do that to this great hearted dog, and I couldn’t have agreed more. His pride in himself would have been reduced to tatters, and he might die from the treatment. The risk was too great.

Search for a Memory

I wanted to find a way of remembering Chester, and as his coat was his glory, then I would use that to create something that would always mean he was here, and he loved, and was loved.

The Coat was Saved

As you might imagine Chow Chow grooming is a routine that cannot be missed, and when he moulted there was vast amounts of hair, and to my surprise it had all been preserved in paper bags. Some of it was knotted and couldn’t be used, and neither could the coarse over coat as it was too spiky, but the woolly undercoat was a dream to spin producing a beautiful fibre.

To Honour his Ancestry

To honour Chester’s Chinese blood I decided to make a Chinese Knot, using French knitting to make a long length of ‘rope’, and then forming a four leaf clover knot. A rustic wooden frame keeps it clean, and it now hangs in pride of place in memory of a champion.

Keeps me Warm

You will understand why I can’t show you that particular knot, but he also left me enough fibre to make a crocheted scarf which is incredibly warm, and which I wear with gratitude on cold winter days.

Chester Began it All

There have been other Chow Chows and woolly cats whose owners have been happy to have an everlasting memory of their beloved pet, and I have posted pictures of them here, but Chester started it all, and I thank him for that.

Main Coon Cat Clover Knot

Chow Chow Good Fortune Knot

Icelandic wool cell 'phone case

To ‘Phone or not Cell ‘Phone

I have been dragged into the cell ‘phone fraternity kicking and screaming.

Took a computer course

The computer didn’t cause me any pain once I had taken a course and been initiated into the whys and wherefores of buttons and switches, but the mobile ‘phone sent shivers down my spine. Not being fluent in textspeak felt like an insurmountable problem, and my mature eyes would strain to read the letters and numbers.The next step, of actually being able to make a call worried me too.

A lightbulb moment

Having decided that it would be better to be able to make a call in case of emergency was forced rudely into my conciousness one balmy day in Summer as we were coerced into a pleasant walk beside an inner city stream. We, that is my partner and I, bravely or foolishly, allowed ourselves to be referees at a driving lesson that one of my cousins was to give to his partner in the dry water meadow, some miles from where they lived so that no-one would see and criticise her lack of progress.

A nasty lesson

She was desperate to be able to drive and couldn’t afford lessons, and we responded to the cry that: “He shouts at me all the time, and he wouldn’t if you were watching.” Oh what a lesson that turned out to be!

Nothing can go wrong!

Someone had erected temporary goal posts, the wood stood without a net, and after some discussion it was agreed that she would drive around the field in a figure of eight steering through the goal posts. There would be plenty of room as the car was a well loved, but old Mini, and there wasn’t anything to impede her view or way. We forgot that a water meadow is there to catch the overflow from a flooding river, and having done that in the Spring, there might just be ruts that long juicy grass was covering, and that those old Mini wheels would sink into those ruts and act like tram lines.

Getting into a rut

You’re probably ahead of me here. All went well until the wheels embedded themselves into those ruts, and all that we were able to see was my cousin gesticulating madly, swearing vociferously and yanking on the handbrake as the car slid very slowly towards the river.

A stream with attitude

Thankfully the water was little more than a fast stream with the usual detritus of supermarket trolley, car tyres, tin cans and plastic bags for decoration. It was slightly worrying, but we thought, not life threatening. However, something must have worked because the car stopped before reaching tipping point, from whence erupted an angry woman and red faced cousin, and I don’t think I’d heard half of those expletives before, it was an education.

Broken wire

They were still haranguing about whose fault it was, and how she was never going to get into any vehicle with him, ever again, when with a loud ‘ping’ the handbrake cable broke and the Mini moved forward under it’s own weight. Slowly at first, and then gathering speed as it found it’s own level, in the middle of the stream bed. The pair didn’t stop to draw breath, they just continued flinging insults at each other. We believed at this point that we would have to transport this quarrelling pair to a garage or something to get their car towed from its watery grave.

Summoning the cavalry

Without stopping to think my cousin reached into his inside pocket and flipped open a very smart cell ‘phone, summoning all the help needed in a matter of minutes. So sanguine was he that the cavalry were on their way to rescue his favourite toy that we weren’t required to wait, thankfully creeping away to the sound of their insults and admonitions. It was at this point that I decided to bite the bullet and get one of those ‘phones.

The big decision

I looked at all the flip lid models, and at the astronomic cost of deals and agreements, with so many free calls and thousands of free texts, I couldn’t even text message, so what would I want with those. An advertisement came to my attention which promised a ‘phone for under a pound, and I could pay as I went. Which reminds me, I must find out how to top up the call money, as so far I have made several call from upstairs to downstairs.

Modest on the inside stylish on the outside

It’s a sweet little thing, with pretty ring tones, a radio and a torch, and I have been able to programme three numbers into it. But to give it some stature I have made it a cover from Icelandic sheep’s wool, very tough and hard wearing, and big enough to keep the ear piece in so that I won’t lose it. A cable pattern gives it texture and a silver decorative pin gives it style.

Now all I have to do is to remember to charge it, and put it in my bag, when we go off on one of our jaunts into the wastes of Middle England.

My Clover Pendant Pin

Auld Lang Syne

As the years go by New Year celebrations are becoming increasingly bitter sweet. Yes, I look forward to what the New Year will bring, but I also remember those that I have known and are now gone. It was keeping a memory alive that inspired the design of my Clover Pin.

Next to the gas works

In the 1950s everyone seemed to be blessed with an Aunt Flo., and mine was a dear soul who lived in a street of tiny Georgian workers cottages, next to the gasworks.

An unknown boot-scraper

The only redeeming feature of her house was an ornate boot scraper next to the step and the tiny wooden front door. I was facinated with this scraper, as I hadn’t seen one before. However no-one ever used it, and so it remains only as a memory of the long ago demolished cottage.

A truly Great Aunt

She was in truth my Great Aunt, the sister of my Grandmother, and so it was usually the Christmas pilgrimage of making the rounds of the relatives which gave me an insight into another way of living. Her husband, who had worked as a miner for most of his life sat next to the range and I don’t remember him ever addressing me at all, but Aunt Flo was always interested in what I was doing. At this time in my life this mostly consisted of reading, as I used books as an escape from everyday dreary life, even then.

‘What Katy Did’

This particular Christmas found me living with Katy Carr and her siblings along with their kind doctor father in America. I didn’t really know where America was, but I informed Aunt Flo that I would go there as soon as possible because it sounded wonderful. The book was ‘What Katy Did’, and I knew that Clover Carr was my friend. She was the sensible one that everyone loved, and never got into trouble in the way that Katy did. I regaled Aunt Flo with my love of Clover, and she listened and smiled. While all the other adults couldn’t wait for me to shut up. I was generally considered to be ‘bookish’ and different!

Strong tea and condensed milk

While I was helping with the obligatory cups of strong tea strengthened with condensed milk, she opened the tiny weathered back door which led to the yard. and showed me a few stems of a wintering plant, of which she seemed inordinately proud. It seemed to be growing between the bricks which stopped the drain from getting blocked by leaves, and during the summer months must have got just enough sunshine to survive. She assured me that this was a Clover plant which always grew with four leaves.

The ‘Good Luck’ plant

It was the plant that gave her all the good luck in her life, for she had been blessed with a man who didn’t hit her, and he’d always bought his money home, and they’d never gone really hungry. None of which I understood, after all I was still residing in America with Clover Carr. I didn’t really think about how hard it was for working folks to survive after long years of war and austerity.

The secret child

Many years layer I was told the family secret. Aunty Flo had born an illigitimate child, a child out of wedlock, an absolute sin in those days, and Uncle Gilbert had married her anyway and looked after her. Mother said: “He was a saint, as not many men would have done that!”

How could anybody no be able to read?

I was never shocked by her sin, the shock came when I found out that she couldn’t read, she was illiterate. She couldn’t have understood my obsessive book reading, and yet she never condemned, she accepted me in the same way that my own Grandmother did, and must have been planning to leave me something to remember her by when she was gone.

The end always comes

The day of her funeral eventually dawned and I was made to wear a beret to go into church. Women were required to cover their head in Church of England churches in those days, but all the black clothes and black hats did make it an occasion to remember! It usually rained and the vicar was whipped by a biting wind which took his words away as he attempted to recite the burial service, but this was to be expected.

Aunt Flo owned nothing

There wasn’t a will to be read as she didn’t own anything, but Great Uncle Gilbert pressed something cool and smooth into my hand, mumbling: “Flo wanted you to have this.”

A know it all teenager

I was by now a grown up thirteen year old, who had forgotten all about my longing to be Clover Carr and live in America. I’d moved on to lurid historical novels populated with heaving bosoms and dashing men who rode white horses. She however had not forgotten.

The precious clover leaf

I had been presented with a celluloid pendant encasing one leaf from her precious clover plant, probably a shamrock, it’s hard to tell. I don’t know how old it is or how it was done, but I have kept it and ignored it for many a long year.

This year is different. This year my husband retired from his job and found that he loves making jewellery, and I found the pendant in a forgotten bag of trinkets.

Designer memories

Between us we designed a pin that I would be happy to wear, and as we did this together, the past arrived along with the bitter sweet memories of all those who once loved me and are gone. I now rejoice in those who care enough to create a tangible memory for me, and who love me still.

Pass them on

If you read this story, and you have a keepsake that can be crafted into a memory, then I urge you to create something that you can weave a story around and pass on. Your loved ones will be glad that you did.

The colours of Autumn

Nature’s gifts

The colours of Autumn are a welcome gift from nature, or Gaia, if you see the world through spiritual eyes.

Gaia is getting ready to sleep, and sleep frequently brings to mind those loved ones who have gone back to nature, and so are no longer with us.

Derbyshire oaks

Delighted by the glorious colours of an oak tree in the Derbyshire Peak District of England last week brought back memories of the first dog that I was allowed to have as a pet.

A ball of black wool

He arrived in a cardboard box, a tiny ball of black wool, that with hindsight, was far too young to have left its mother. He was half poodle and so wouldn’t shed hair. This was an important asset to a house proud mother.

Loving what you have

I believe now that he wasn’t the dog that my father would have chosen. He didn’t like yappy dogs, and this fluff ball was good at yapping!  The dog was given the name ‘Sooty’ by my mother, both my father and I loathed that name, but we lived with it, and we did our best.

I was allowed to give love

I don’t remember how we fed the dog, but it must have been well nourished because it grew to normal poodle size, needing to have his black wool shorn to keep it from becoming tangled and unmanageable, and needed walking twice a day. My mother dutifully performed these tasks, and I was allowed to cuddle him while he grew.

The depression years – no time for pets

My parents had no knowledge of pets, the 1930s were depression times, there was never food to spare for feeding animals, and so were shocked when Sooty became jealous of his territory. Anyone visiting the house was greeted with low growling and barred teeth, and should a hand stray from a chair into his space he bit it.

Excuses, excuses

Excuses were made and Sooty lived on.

Attack to the jugular

One day as my mother bent down to fix his lead ready for a walk, he attacked her, jumping up to bite her throat. She disowned Sooty, he was to be ‘put to sleep’, and my father and I must see to it.

Great oaks

The following day was a sunny Autumn day, and the oak tree which grew by the bus stop was dressed in its glorious finery. Although I was old enough to know that we were taking Sooty for his last walk, I wasn’t prepared for the heartache to follow, and which I have felt many times since.

The vet concluded that Sooty was healthy but vicious, and there was only hope if he was castrated. My father wouldn’t hear of that, something I never understood and wasn’t allowed to question, and so my ball of fluff was given a lethal injection and went to sleep in my arms. My heart broke.

The long way home

We travelled home using a slightly different route, which meant that we must walk past a pond surrounded by old oak trees.  As I kicked up the leaves there were acorns dropped and ready to grow.

Words of wisdom

This father who I had believed so callous picked up a small branch of flaming leaves with some acorns attached, and with tears in his eyes said: ” Nothing in nature really ever dies, new growth is always waiting to take the place of the old, we must always remember that.”

He was passing on the only words of comfort that he knew, and now that he is long dead himself, I cherish his words and I love the old oaks of England as they say to me in their glorious technicolour:

“All is well, after our sleep we will awake and bless the world once more, but while we sleep we will remember with you all your loved ones that have gone before.”

Bowl of acorns

Funky Acorns

The acorns are needle felted with crocheted cups in funky colours to reflect the colours of oak leaves…you can see them all in the trees right now.

Amor est vitae essentia – Love is the essence of life

In memory of those times I will give my bowl of funky acorns pride of place on my dining room table, and each time I pass them I will remember my father’s words and the man that he was.

Acorns on my table

An old Anderson Shelter

The Anderson Shelter

A rusty Anderson shelter lived next to the shed in my Grandparent’s garden, and my curiosity was never ending.

Who, What, When and Why?

What is it, where did it come from, who built it, why is it rusty and why do you keep the bikes in there now? The last question was easily answered, because it was neither fit for storing vegetables, with the condensation running down the walls, and there were too many bikes to fit into the other shed.

Never ending story…

The story of how the Anderson shelter got there, and who built it, and of course why, was frequently repeated to me by my patient and kindly Grandpa. Because he told me its story means that I can tell you, and between us the memories of the Battle of Britain will be kept alive.

The county of Kent is very near to the English Channel, and so within range of  Luftwaffe bombers heading for London, and underneath the R.A.F. fighting arena of the Battle of Britain. Kentish people needed to have somewhere to run and hide when the air raid siren wailed its soulful warning from the council yard across the road from my Grandparent’s house.

The story goes that my mother and uncles would rather gaze at  the battle raging above them than take cover in such miserable conditions, but thankfully all survived.

Build them NOW!

Corrugated Anderson shelters were delivered to every household with instructions to have them built and in place by June 1940. It was extra growing space for victory vegetables, which served a dual purpose of reinforcing the shelter with earth. The earth made the shelters cold and damp and uncomfortable.

Chilled to the bone

It wasn’t too bad in the summer months, but as the weather cooled the damp penetrated through to the very bones, it was warmer outside.

This was when the Blitz spirit surfaced and the knitting needles flew. Every woman knitted as if her life depended on it, and perhaps it did! These are the knickers that were life savers….

Battle of Britain Knickers

This is the pattern that I used to knit them….

A Life Saving Pattern costing 3d..

Stretching the coupons

Yarn was rationed, but 2 ounces of yarn could be obtained with only ration coupon, it was better to be able to knit!

Cami knickers or combinations used 4 coupons, and when you were only allowed 36 per year outer wear took priority. A petticoat used another 4 coupons which meant that if this layer could be done away with you might be able to save enough for a new coat…14 coupons.

The price of a meal

Knitting patterns were around 3 old pence each, which could buy the family a meal, and so they were passed from woman to woman, becoming tattered and torn. They were well used!

Modern media and collectables

This 1940s original pattern was purchased from a collector, but they are sometimes available from thrift stores. I have been fortunate enough to find some, but not underwear.

The patterns knit up better with original needles as the metric ones don’t convert perfectly. I inherited many of these from my mother, but they can be found fairly cheaply in second hand shops.

Whether the weather

I don’t know if it will be another cold winter, but I do know that the cost of heating a house is steadily rising. Crafters could do worse than track down those old 1940s  patterns and know how.

My tribute

These knickers are my tribute to the thousands of women who kept Britain from freezing in those war torn days.

'The Doll' looked like this one...

I was six years old and in my last year of what used to be known as, ‘The Mixed Infants’. Walking to this concrete, glass and asbestos building meant following a winding road lined with council houses. This was a late 1950s estate built to house all those who had come through a soul destroying war, but would never be well off enough to buy their own houses. The working class.

How it was..

My understanding of any social position was just taking life as it came to me. My parents were living with their parents when I was born, and then we moved through a series of rooms, until being presented with my mother’s ultimate goal, a house of her own, which was a two bedroomed, dark and damp flat. A home fit for a hero.

1930s Depression

Both Mother and Father had been brought up during the years of depression. They were fortunate to have full stomachs, toys were an absolute afterthought. They knew nothing about playing, and so neither did I.

Brothers and Sisters had I none

Being an only child meant that there wasn’t anyone to make games up with or for, and so by the time I was six years old I had read a great deal and was secure in my own company.

The well-intentioned Christmas present

Mother did her best, and would produce a present of a bought toy at Christmas, over which I had learned to look appreciative, although it was never what I really wanted.

Oh..the pain

Being an expert in grown-up behaviour was my forte, and I don’t think that she ever knew the disappointments that I went through every year.

A pink doll in a pink cot

This, my sixth Christmas, produced a pretty doll, dressed in pink from head to toe, housed in a frilly pink cot and duly placed with reverence in my bedroom for me to find on Christmas morning.

The pillow case

There was a pillow case filled with useful stuff: clothes, books, food, a jigsaw and a board game which was usually educational.

Ungrateful Child!

It didn’t occur to me to be grateful for what I had because the call of a scooter, or roller skates or bicycle was too strong for my childlike ideals. I watched others riding and skating and scooting with a terrible longing, these things were never going to happen for me. What was I going to do with this doll?

Christmas holiday over…

Worse was yet to come. The day that school resumed after the Christmas break was a play day. Every child was allowed to bring one toy into class and play with it for a whole afternoon. I had to take the doll with the stuck on clothes, but couldn’t take the cot. After all these years I can still feel the shame of being different. I didn’t know how to carry the doll or what I was going to do with it when I got it there.

What to do with myself?

The afternoon was as painful as I thought it would be, all the other children were showing off with roller skates and bikes or brandishing guns and swords.

Ne’er the twain shall meet

This was long before the days of political correctness and the toys were designated boys or girls and girls didn’t play with boys’ toys, so not for me the garage with cars that you could park. I sat looking at this pink doll with its stuck on clothes and wanted the earth to swallow me up.

Charity begins

I always detested that doll in its crib. It stood in my room filling it with its brooding presence until I could safely give it to another deserving child. My charity knew no bounds and was smiled upon by the adults!

How has time changed anything?

It’s now Christmas present time for my grandchildren, two girls, who like to carry dolls around. However they learned to like dolls, I don’t know, but I enjoy giving them what they like, and so I don’t question why. I just do what I can.

Mistakes make good teachers

Remembering the doll with the stuck on clothes I determined not to present anything which wouldn’t allow them to do anything but look. I found just the dolls (they have to come in twos) at Purple Linda Crafts who supplies 5 inch Berenguer dolls, each with a different expression.

I need some clothes…

And then Annie’s Attic provided books of patterns specifically designed for these cute dolls. All available from Purple Linda Crafts.

A good find

I was delighted until I began to dress the dolls and found that the patterns were fastened with bows. Imagining each child running to Mum with a “Tie this bow for me” request every time an outfit was changed, I adapted the finish to elastic pull on, sewing a bow to the front of the garment.

Dressed and ready to go..

Now, how would the children carry their dolls around? They needed a carry cot and a blanket:

Packed and waiting..

More to come

I’ll work my way through the pattern books, adapting as I go and hopefully these little ones will have happier memories.

My first Christmas present (for this year)

Christmas present time

I’ve started to sort out my Christmas presents, and no, it isn’t too early. How many times have you said to yourself, “I would love to knit that cardigan for Christmas, but I haven’t time now that it’s November.”

Start Now

Use magazines for inspiration, make a list and sort out what materials that you can use from your stash, and what you need to buy. In this way you won’t buy too much.

Look for offers

I saw a great offer in a knitting magazine. Free pattern and yarn to complete the project. I duly purchased the magazine and set about making a pretty striped beret. With just a few rows to go the yarn ran out. I undid what was looking like a very nice project, re-wound the yarn and weighed it. Instead of the two 30gm balls promised, one weighed 27gms and the other 29gms. I was very disappointed.

Free paterrn with free yarn

The moral of the story

Don’t assume that the yarn supplied will actually complete the project, weigh it first.

No need to waste anything

The hat was completed very successfully from stash yarn, and so it was a good free pattern. But what to do with the free yarn?

Rattigan the aristocratic cat

I made a composite toy cat…we called him Rattigan, although pink, we are sure that he’s male and very aristocratic.

Rattigan

I used the free yarn for head and body using a single crochet stitch, a scrap of tapestry yarn for his nose, two tiny buttons for his eyes and some French knitting that my 4yr old granddaughter had helped me with, and was patiently waiting for a project to come along, as arms and legs. His whiskers were a tiny amount of homespun…nothing wasted.

Rebecca Haynes born 1892 walks in my herb garden..

When I was young

My grandma, Rebecca Haynes, taught me so much, and yet she died when I was very young.

My memories are vague but powerful, and some are tangible in that I have beautifully worked dressing table mats, their stitches fragile, but the crochet pattern still intact and hiding in tissue paper against the light. When I hold them I am touching her and all that she taught me.

The Great Depression

Rebecca lived through the great depression of the late 1920s and early 1930s, and then the war years when it wasn’t easy to be a woman, and through it all she wielded her crochet hook.

It didn’t mean anything to her that:

• Modern tampons have been around since the 1930s.

she had to find another way.

Nothing special used during Menstruation

It is generally believed that working class women from 1700 – 1900 didn’t bother with any menstrual protection, merely bleeding into their clothes, in which case my grandmother had learned to be different. Her lifestyle would, however, have been called ‘working class’ as she was married to a milkman.

• The average woman uses 11,000-17,000 tampons in a lifetime. (Think of the monetary value!)
  

Grandma didn’t know what a tampon was, and had she known she would have been very suspicious of their use. She crocheted her way through menstruation, and when she didn’t need protection for herself she taught others. Sadly my own mother never learned to crochet.

Available materials

Belts were made from a soft silky material (rayon, silk?), although she may have used linen in earlier years, from which to attach a pad with loops. The pads were filled with whatever material was available, it was believed that she used crushed sphagnum moss, but not sawdust. Perhaps it wasn’t available to her, I will never know.

What a waste of time!

It is now considered a waste of time to make menstrual protection as there are so many different kinds available, they all however contain the many chemicals that would be better not to introduce into such a delicate part of the body. (Some Facts)

A Disposable Life

A whole industry has been built around producing tampons and pads which can be thrown away, but what if, like in my Grandma’s day these products became scarce or unaffordable?

The mother of invention

I too have no need of menstrual protection since many years past, however I was asked to devise a way to apply medication to this very area, without contributing to chemical overload. I thought of tampons and researched some that were made with unbleached cotton which cost £5.00 each. Probably a reasonable cost for something imported, but making them for yourself would be so much more cost effective.

A simple pattern

Other crafters have worked on this problem and produced functional tampons and pads, but there is always room for improvement, (and cost) and in this case simplification. Grandma would be proud!

A collection of tampons

These are basically a chain with single crochet rows which can be rolled to form the filling. The tail is secured within a tiny eye which holds the bulk of the tampon beneath a small hood.

They are made using an unbleached cotton yarn which proved easier to insert than a softer bamboo yarn.

After use they can be opened out, rinsed in cold water and soaked in a solution of water and white vinegar or sodium bicarb. or tea tree oil, or even colloidal silver. Any bacteria removing agent that doesn’t contain chlorine bleach.

Ready to wash tampons

One thing leads to another

The same arguments apply to incontinence pads, and the need for an older person to be secure in the face of a very nasty cough. This is my pattern for those occasions :

A three piece pad

The pad itself is unbleached cotton, but for the inserts I used soft bamboo yarn. Very absorbent and gentle on delicate parts. The pad can have as many inserts as needed  i.e. one on top of another. I tested this on myself and it is very comfortable.

I secured the triangle wings with a button, but you could use a pop stud, which means that it doesn’t move around in snug pants.

If you don’t crochet

If you don’t crochet but want to try something different that is made just for you, then I can customise your menstrual protection if you get in touch with your needs. (my email address)

Different sized tampons designed for your body and needs

Difficult times

Even in difficult times women are able to retain pride in their unique bodily functions by becoming self sufficient. It is true that we, as half of the human race, have been taught to believe that our biological functions should never be openly discussed, and mass production is better left to men.

We women know better!

Layered menstrual pad