Thought for today:
"We all get tired every now and then with the chores of life, but unless we have the money to pay house maids and servants, the only way that one's house will be cleaned, the washing and ironing done and the family fed is invariably for someone in the family to knuckle down and do it. Unfortunately for many families during the past thousand years and even today, it is often the woman of the house upon whom the heaviest burden falls.
In years gone by, many Christians were brought up with the belief that there was no sanctification without sweat and most Victorians believed that the devil finds work for idle hands. It was generally accepted that contentment is the accumulation of a good day's work and a job well done. One of the few pieces of advice I can remember my dad giving me was, 'Billy, there is no work that is below a man's dignity. Whatever work you do, do it well and you will feel better for it at the end of the day.'
I grew up the eldest of seven children in a household poor in material wealth, but rich in emotional abundance and family love. In the whole of my parent's life, I can never recall either mum or dad sitting down in a chair doing nothing but relax until all of the children had grown up and left home. I recall my father working long hours in both the mines and the foundry. Often in his mid life years, he would come home so tired that after washing and having something modest to eat, he would go to bed early to rest up for tomorrow's work. As he slept, my mother would still be doing the washing, ironing and darning and preparing for the next day before she retired for the night. Seeing her tired, I would frequently urge her that she'd done enough for one day and remind her she would be up and at it again in another six hours. One of her sayings was, 'Billy, if it wasn't for the last minute, nothing would ever get done.'
This was the time of day, between 8pm and midnight, when I did the most talking and laughing with mum. These were some of my most treasured moments with her, but it often pained me to see her physically struggle to be both wife and mother to seven children. Coming from a large family, food largely consisted of bread and jam, potatoes, then more potatoes, and if we were still hungry they'd always be a few more potatoes to eat. Doing the shopping from the grocer, Harry Hodgson, was my daily task and I recall that we would buy dozens of loaves of bread and stones of potatoes weekly as the mainstay of the family food intake. I wasn't surprised to learn therefore, that during the Potato Famine of 1845, that over one million of my Irish comrades died when there were no spuds to eat!
Like many folk born during the Second World War years, hard work was simply a natural way of life. Even as a child growing up, if you wanted to to contribute to your family, you worked hard. If you wanted to save up to get married you worked harder and worked extra hours overtime; and when you got married and had children of your own, you then worked harder still until they were all reared, schooled and had flown the nest.
The strangest of things though was that few moaned and complained about their lot in life; they simply made the most of it, considered themselves lucky they could work at all and got on with it! All of my life I have carried this working ethos with me that I grew up with.
Between getting my first job at the age of 15 years and the age of 45 years, I never had one day off work due to illness; a record of which I was naturally proud. Even when I fell and broke an arm, after getting the limb placed in a plaster of paris cast, I still returned to work to complete the remaining five hours work of my shift.
One morning during my 45th year of life, despite coming down with a very bad cold and feeling under the weather, I still went into work as normal. My duty that morning involved visited a South Yorkshire Prison in my capacity as a Probation Officer, to do a report on an inmate there. As I queued at the gate to gain admission, the prison guard remarked that I had a nasty cough. I responded by proudly boasting that during my thirty years of work to press, I'd never once had a day off, even when I was feeling ill. Instead of receiving a pat on the back that I expected from the guard, he just looked at me and replied, 'Silly pillock!'
As I left the prison later that morning, I thought hard upon the prison guard's response. By the time I got back to the Probation Office in Huddersfield, I'd concluded that the guard had probably been correct in his observation of my work record. I immediately went home ill in the afternoon and during my remaining seven years of work with the Probation Service, on those few days that I was genuinely ill, I abandoned my road to martyrdom and took time off work.
By the time I had retired early on ill-health grounds at the age of 52 years, the world of work and the employee's attitude to it had greatly changed. That was twenty years ago, during which time the attitude towards work has continued to change so much that my parents would turn in their graves to learn of it. I am glad that my parents never learned that so many able-bodied British people today, refuse to undertake certain work that they consider beneath them, yet still object to migrants who are prepared to do such work instead. I am also pleased that they are not around to discover that many able-bodied of the unemployed refuse to work in any job which paid less than the larger amount of benefits they weekly receive. At times such as these, I am glad that my parents are not around to see how large parts of society perceive their responsibility towards employment.
I know that my parent's attitude towards work that they and their generation instilled in mine has served me well for most of my life. I cannot believe though that today's attitude towards work is something that is worthy of passing on to the children of tomorrow. Until the day I breathe my last, I'll continue to believe that a fallow field is wasteful and that a half finished job a sin.
All one has to do is to watch a happy worker toil at their labour and witness love made visible." William Forde: July 13th, 2016.
"We all get tired every now and then with the chores of life, but unless we have the money to pay house maids and servants, the only way that one's house will be cleaned, the washing and ironing done and the family fed is invariably for someone in the family to knuckle down and do it. Unfortunately for many families during the past thousand years and even today, it is often the woman of the house upon whom the heaviest burden falls.
In years gone by, many Christians were brought up with the belief that there was no sanctification without sweat and most Victorians believed that the devil finds work for idle hands. It was generally accepted that contentment is the accumulation of a good day's work and a job well done. One of the few pieces of advice I can remember my dad giving me was, 'Billy, there is no work that is below a man's dignity. Whatever work you do, do it well and you will feel better for it at the end of the day.'
I grew up the eldest of seven children in a household poor in material wealth, but rich in emotional abundance and family love. In the whole of my parent's life, I can never recall either mum or dad sitting down in a chair doing nothing but relax until all of the children had grown up and left home. I recall my father working long hours in both the mines and the foundry. Often in his mid life years, he would come home so tired that after washing and having something modest to eat, he would go to bed early to rest up for tomorrow's work. As he slept, my mother would still be doing the washing, ironing and darning and preparing for the next day before she retired for the night. Seeing her tired, I would frequently urge her that she'd done enough for one day and remind her she would be up and at it again in another six hours. One of her sayings was, 'Billy, if it wasn't for the last minute, nothing would ever get done.'
This was the time of day, between 8pm and midnight, when I did the most talking and laughing with mum. These were some of my most treasured moments with her, but it often pained me to see her physically struggle to be both wife and mother to seven children. Coming from a large family, food largely consisted of bread and jam, potatoes, then more potatoes, and if we were still hungry they'd always be a few more potatoes to eat. Doing the shopping from the grocer, Harry Hodgson, was my daily task and I recall that we would buy dozens of loaves of bread and stones of potatoes weekly as the mainstay of the family food intake. I wasn't surprised to learn therefore, that during the Potato Famine of 1845, that over one million of my Irish comrades died when there were no spuds to eat!
Like many folk born during the Second World War years, hard work was simply a natural way of life. Even as a child growing up, if you wanted to to contribute to your family, you worked hard. If you wanted to save up to get married you worked harder and worked extra hours overtime; and when you got married and had children of your own, you then worked harder still until they were all reared, schooled and had flown the nest.
The strangest of things though was that few moaned and complained about their lot in life; they simply made the most of it, considered themselves lucky they could work at all and got on with it! All of my life I have carried this working ethos with me that I grew up with.
Between getting my first job at the age of 15 years and the age of 45 years, I never had one day off work due to illness; a record of which I was naturally proud. Even when I fell and broke an arm, after getting the limb placed in a plaster of paris cast, I still returned to work to complete the remaining five hours work of my shift.
One morning during my 45th year of life, despite coming down with a very bad cold and feeling under the weather, I still went into work as normal. My duty that morning involved visited a South Yorkshire Prison in my capacity as a Probation Officer, to do a report on an inmate there. As I queued at the gate to gain admission, the prison guard remarked that I had a nasty cough. I responded by proudly boasting that during my thirty years of work to press, I'd never once had a day off, even when I was feeling ill. Instead of receiving a pat on the back that I expected from the guard, he just looked at me and replied, 'Silly pillock!'
As I left the prison later that morning, I thought hard upon the prison guard's response. By the time I got back to the Probation Office in Huddersfield, I'd concluded that the guard had probably been correct in his observation of my work record. I immediately went home ill in the afternoon and during my remaining seven years of work with the Probation Service, on those few days that I was genuinely ill, I abandoned my road to martyrdom and took time off work.
By the time I had retired early on ill-health grounds at the age of 52 years, the world of work and the employee's attitude to it had greatly changed. That was twenty years ago, during which time the attitude towards work has continued to change so much that my parents would turn in their graves to learn of it. I am glad that my parents never learned that so many able-bodied British people today, refuse to undertake certain work that they consider beneath them, yet still object to migrants who are prepared to do such work instead. I am also pleased that they are not around to discover that many able-bodied of the unemployed refuse to work in any job which paid less than the larger amount of benefits they weekly receive. At times such as these, I am glad that my parents are not around to see how large parts of society perceive their responsibility towards employment.
I know that my parent's attitude towards work that they and their generation instilled in mine has served me well for most of my life. I cannot believe though that today's attitude towards work is something that is worthy of passing on to the children of tomorrow. Until the day I breathe my last, I'll continue to believe that a fallow field is wasteful and that a half finished job a sin.
All one has to do is to watch a happy worker toil at their labour and witness love made visible." William Forde: July 13th, 2016.
