Introducing our correspondent…
I am nearly 56 years old and I have been married for the last 34 years to Bryan who I met 40 years ago this weekend. I have two grown-up children and work as a secretary in a local law firm. I love reading, my garden, my home - dare I say it I’m about as boring as it gets.
I was born in the Vale of Belvoir from parents born within a couple of miles of each other, who in their turn were came from people born within a few miles of each other. The gene pool was slightly deepened by my maternal grandfather who settled in the Vale when he was posted there as Signalman in WWI and he originated in Yorkshire.
Dad farmed, not in a grand way, no one did in those days. He followed on from his father with no one ever even hinting that he might quite like to have a go a something else. My uncles and cousins farmed in the same low key mixed farming way of what is now a bygone era and my wonderful mother was a nurse. I forgot to say, I love to write! Jill Dewey, 2011
Jill writes:
Rather like the Royal family, we have a calendar which finds us doing certain things at certain times. Apart from the more obvious public holidays, sure as the stars rotate in the heavens so we, at the beginning of July, find ourselves outside an ice-cream van eating something huge made of air and milk and tasting all the more wonderful for being produced is less than aseptic circumstances (the best I ever had was scooped out of a congregated cardboard box lined with a thin layer of plastic) at Rempstone Steam Rally.
My son-in-law (my most favourite expression in the English Language, Mrs Bennett’s got nothing on me), has a trade stand for his lawn mowers and we feel we must give moral support and buy ice-creams. This year he thoughtfully set his pitch actually opposite Mr Whippy, or did Mr Whippy set up opposite Paul. Doesn’t matter, the result is the same and saved both legwork and precious time.
One thing I love about the whole event is the rather nuanced approach to the modern world. There are signs warning of possible danger from the beautifully maintained, but one has to admit, superannuated equipment containing boiling water but we all seem to live the tell the tale and the mention of carbon footprints and cholesterol issues are as the buzzing of flies as we all blow smuts from our doughnuts.
My husband loves the vintage tractor part and I become white noise to him in much the same way as he becomes white noise to me with his talk of spade glugs (?), six cylinders and diplocks. Haven’t a clue but I always look interested and mutter darkly about “bearings” to cover my ignorance.
To me, the tractors are a poignant reminder of my childhood. Each Grey Fergie or David Brown or majestic Fordson Major represents a memory of someone wonderful who is no longer around: my Dad, Brian Wilford, Noel Furmidge, Uncle Les, my cousin Nork from the days when Harby boasted nine farms (we are now down to one) and as I call these marvellous countrymen to mind, most, including Dad, died of lung related problems.
Life before safety cabs wasn’t so great: hot in the summer and cold in the winter and just plain dangerous. I have to admit it: Health and Safety does have its place, especially when you remember a world without it.
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