Thought for today:
"Honest toil begets the sweat of humanity as brave souls dig beneath the earth's crust so that others may stay warm in their homes. After emigrating to West Yorkshire seventy years ago, my father worked as a miner on the coal face in a pit at Birstall for many years. He used to tell me stories as a child about laying on his stomach in a shaft three feet high for seven hours daily while hacking away at a coal seam. He said that the ground where he lay was always cold and damp. His hard work would exhaust him by the time he got home, and after getting bathed in a tin tub he'd go to bed to stock up on energy for an early start next day.
I once remember my mother making up his bread and jam sandwiches one night and putting them in his 'snap-box' for the following day. One of the sandwiches fell to the kitchen floor. My mother picked it up and placed it in his snap-box saying, 'When he opens his sandwiches underground in the dark, he'll never see it, Billy, and by the time he swallows it, it will already be filled with coal dust.'
Of all my father's jobs, being a miner was the one that filled most of my early childhood. I also remember my father's remarks in later years after much improvements had occurred in the working practices of pit men working at the coal face. He'd tell me that the present day miners had life easier than he did, and would refer to the introduction of greater safety features and additions such as underground lighting, mobile trucks on rails that carry the miners to the work face instead of them having to walk a few miles at the start of every shift from pit head towards the centre of the earth. He would remark upon their current practice of being able to work 'stood up' all day long instead of laying in puddles of wet earth as they hacked away with a pickax for the black gold. Whenever my father saw such improvements on the television, he'd tut-tut as he said something uncharitable under his breath about the way modern-day miners were mollycoddled.
I never lost my admiration for the sheer bravery and courage of those miners who worked alongside my father in the 1940's. I also remember dad saying that during winter months when it was dark going to work, dark at work and dark walking back home from work, miners never saw daylight for months on end, with the exception of weekends. That was one of the reasons we went out walking as a family every Sunday and that was why my father remained a fresh air fiend for the rest of his life. Even during the bitter cold of winter, he would always insist upon having the small window vent open full to let in the fresh air, whereas my mother always accused him of letting in the cold.
My recall of dad as a miner vividly remained with me throughout my early upbringing. I was a Probation Officer and dad was retired and terminally ill when Maggie Thatcher started to close down the mines in the North of England. When John Major became Prime Minister he completed the task. Within a few years, a proud industry was mothballed and shut down forever. A way of life was lost to the mining villages of the north and most redundant miners passed the age of 45 years never again secured another job.
While it was no good me trying to petition the Government about destroying the heart of northern communities, it happened that Norma Major invited me and my then wife down to Number 10 during the 1990's after she had read one of my stories to children at a school in her husband's constituency. We were there about two hours and was shown the cabinet room, the famous staircase and even had tea with the Prime Minister and his wife in their upstairs apartment. It was a cold winter and as I drank my tea, John Major (who was the nicest of gentlemen and the poorest of politicians), politely asked, 'Are you and Fiona warm enough, Bill?' This was my opportunity to speak up for the miners and I knew if I didn't, my deceased father would turn in his grave. To my wife's utter disbelief, I politely berated the Prime Minister for closing down the last remaining pits in the North of England and remarked that the vast majority of the miners would never work again. To his credit, he took my criticism like a man although his wife, Norma, was obviously highly displeased.
I remember wanting to do something more to preserve the memory of these proud men who had served the country well since the days of the Industrial Revolution, so I wrote a book about their experiences called, 'Tales from the Allotments' that I dedicated to my father and his workmates. It can be obtained in e-book format or hard copy from www.lulu.com or www.amazon.com with all profits from sales going to charity in perpetuity." William Forde: September 20th, 2017.
"Honest toil begets the sweat of humanity as brave souls dig beneath the earth's crust so that others may stay warm in their homes. After emigrating to West Yorkshire seventy years ago, my father worked as a miner on the coal face in a pit at Birstall for many years. He used to tell me stories as a child about laying on his stomach in a shaft three feet high for seven hours daily while hacking away at a coal seam. He said that the ground where he lay was always cold and damp. His hard work would exhaust him by the time he got home, and after getting bathed in a tin tub he'd go to bed to stock up on energy for an early start next day.
I once remember my mother making up his bread and jam sandwiches one night and putting them in his 'snap-box' for the following day. One of the sandwiches fell to the kitchen floor. My mother picked it up and placed it in his snap-box saying, 'When he opens his sandwiches underground in the dark, he'll never see it, Billy, and by the time he swallows it, it will already be filled with coal dust.'
Of all my father's jobs, being a miner was the one that filled most of my early childhood. I also remember my father's remarks in later years after much improvements had occurred in the working practices of pit men working at the coal face. He'd tell me that the present day miners had life easier than he did, and would refer to the introduction of greater safety features and additions such as underground lighting, mobile trucks on rails that carry the miners to the work face instead of them having to walk a few miles at the start of every shift from pit head towards the centre of the earth. He would remark upon their current practice of being able to work 'stood up' all day long instead of laying in puddles of wet earth as they hacked away with a pickax for the black gold. Whenever my father saw such improvements on the television, he'd tut-tut as he said something uncharitable under his breath about the way modern-day miners were mollycoddled.
I never lost my admiration for the sheer bravery and courage of those miners who worked alongside my father in the 1940's. I also remember dad saying that during winter months when it was dark going to work, dark at work and dark walking back home from work, miners never saw daylight for months on end, with the exception of weekends. That was one of the reasons we went out walking as a family every Sunday and that was why my father remained a fresh air fiend for the rest of his life. Even during the bitter cold of winter, he would always insist upon having the small window vent open full to let in the fresh air, whereas my mother always accused him of letting in the cold.
My recall of dad as a miner vividly remained with me throughout my early upbringing. I was a Probation Officer and dad was retired and terminally ill when Maggie Thatcher started to close down the mines in the North of England. When John Major became Prime Minister he completed the task. Within a few years, a proud industry was mothballed and shut down forever. A way of life was lost to the mining villages of the north and most redundant miners passed the age of 45 years never again secured another job.
While it was no good me trying to petition the Government about destroying the heart of northern communities, it happened that Norma Major invited me and my then wife down to Number 10 during the 1990's after she had read one of my stories to children at a school in her husband's constituency. We were there about two hours and was shown the cabinet room, the famous staircase and even had tea with the Prime Minister and his wife in their upstairs apartment. It was a cold winter and as I drank my tea, John Major (who was the nicest of gentlemen and the poorest of politicians), politely asked, 'Are you and Fiona warm enough, Bill?' This was my opportunity to speak up for the miners and I knew if I didn't, my deceased father would turn in his grave. To my wife's utter disbelief, I politely berated the Prime Minister for closing down the last remaining pits in the North of England and remarked that the vast majority of the miners would never work again. To his credit, he took my criticism like a man although his wife, Norma, was obviously highly displeased.
I remember wanting to do something more to preserve the memory of these proud men who had served the country well since the days of the Industrial Revolution, so I wrote a book about their experiences called, 'Tales from the Allotments' that I dedicated to my father and his workmates. It can be obtained in e-book format or hard copy from www.lulu.com or www.amazon.com with all profits from sales going to charity in perpetuity." William Forde: September 20th, 2017.
