Tom Jones was part of the story

Posted on 10th January 2021 by Ian

If it was possible to write an autobiography by reference to pop songs, then Tom Jones’ It’s not unusual would find a place in the early pages of the story.  It comes from those days when there were shops at every corner and heading from the village of Long Sutton towards the garage on the main road to Huish Episcopi, just before the corner where the Quakers had their meeting house, there was a shop on the left hand side.

It was the 21st birthday of an uncle or an aunt and preparations were being made for the party and something must have been forgotten from the Co-Op store in the village, for the car stopped at the shop.  Who was driving and what was bought is long since forgotten, but in every recalling of that moment, Tom Jones singing It’s not unusual provides the background music. Maybe it was being played on the car radio, maybe it was played on the record player that evening; the tune still evokes a sense of childhood excitement  at a forthcoming event.

Why would a 21st birthday party have prompted such a sense of anticipation in a small boy who was maybe five years old, at the most seven?  Why does the playing of the tune more than forty years later still serve as a memento of that innocent expectation?

Perhaps Tom Jones belongs to a time when anything seemed possible.  The 1960s were years with grimness to match any other decade, yet there was a mood amongst adults that changes were happening, that the world was not going to be the same again. Maybe Tom Jones was more subversive than the groups that attracted a following only amongst younger generations – while The Beatles and the Rolling Stones were rooted in the youth culture of the time, Tom Jones crossed the generations, if he had not, memories of him would not have been tied to sitting outside a village shop and the preparations for a party on the home farm.

When I listen to the song more than fifty years later, there are images from the day of the birthday party which are as strong as anything from decades later, yet there is no sustained context for them, no memory of really what was going on for us to stopped outside of that shop.  The power of music to remind does not match the capacity of the mind to forget.

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What did we do in winter?

Posted on 9th January 2021 by Ian

When I ask the boys at school how they spent their evening or their weekend, the most common answer is, “played games.” Even before the pandemic eliminated almost every possibility of outdoor activity, the majority of their leisure time seemed to be spent on electronic devices. Phones, tablets, X-boxes, Play Stations, the platforms vary but the activities are similar.

“I have twenty-five games of FIFA to catch up on,” said one student, “and only one evening to complete them.”

“How long does a game take?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Eight hours twenty minutes, you don’t have time.”

“What?”

“Eight hours twenty minutes.”

“How did you do that?”

“Three twenty minutes in an hour. Divide twenty-five by three. You could do it if you spent more time on things other than playing FIFA.”

He smiled. He had no intention of giving up his electronic football games.

What, I wondered, did I do with winter evenings when I was young?

I have clear memories of spring and summer and autumn. They are memories of being outside at every opportunity.

In all three seasons, there are memories of playing football in Henry Vigar’s field at the side of the house, with jumpers for goalposts and with arguments about shoulder barges and crunching tackles and handballs.

In summer, there are memories of playing cricket in Henry Vigar’s field at the front of the house. (Henry Vigar must have been most indulgent farmer of boys’ games in the county, if not the country). Cricket demanded more participants than football. There was need for a batsman, a bowler, a wicket keeper and at least two fielders. Sometimes girls would be drafted into the number, but they soon grew tired of boys’ bickering. If football could produce disagreements, then cricket could be the occasion of twice or three times as many arguments about the rules of the game. Imagine trying to settle an argument about whether or not the batsman was run out when you are playing in a meadow with no crease to show where he is out and where he is in, and when there would only have been a single stump at the bowler’s end.

Spring, summer and autumn are clear, but as for winter, there is a blank. What did we do when the evenings were dark and when the rain poured down and when the roads were as muddy as the fields beyond the hedges? Reading? Television? There is no recall.

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Writing down family history

Posted on 8th January 2021 by Ian

“Ron is only about the same age as the Queen,” commented my mother. “He was younger than Guy.” Guy had died just short of his hundredth birthday, but what were a hundred years in a community of such long memories?

Perhaps it is important to document such memories while those who remember are still with us to tell of them. The life of my great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother is recorded in a four page leaflet. Her story belongs to countless numbers of descendants.

The story of Harriett, recounted by a distant cousin in the 1980s, tells of a woman living in the parish that is still home to the Crossmans. Family life through the years has been characterised by having just enough to hold on and never enough to move on; it was certainly the case for Harriett.

HARRIETT (CULLIFORD) CROSSMAN

Harriett’s great-grandfather Thomas Culliford, married his second wife, Mary Larcombe, in 1753. There had been no children of his first marriage and there was to be only one child of the second, a son James, baptised in 1756. Like so many of the Cullifords, James grew up to be a butcher and at the age of 22 he married a local girl, Mary Keirle, whose family had lived in Othery for many generations. James and Mary had three children, Charlotte (1779) Ann (1782) and James (1785). Some time between the births of the latter two children, James senior was involved in a scandal. A local girl had an illegitimate son and claimed parish relief. As was customary, the parish council demanded to know the name of the father of the child so that the money could be reclaimed from him, and the girl gave the name of William Lowman, a local farmer. However, when Mr Lowman was approached he was so adamant that he was in no way responsible that the council recalled the girl for further questioning. Thoroughly frightened by this time, the girl admitted that she had lied and that she had been bribed to do so by the child’s true father, James Culliford. No action seems to have been taken against James over the bribery charge but no doubt he had to refund the relief money to the council. Before two more years had passed, James had died of tuberculosis at the age of 29.

Ann Culliford, second child of James and Mary, was four years old when her father died and within ten years she was working as a servant, ‘living in’ at the many and various houses where she worked.

When Ann was about 20 years old she gave birth to the first of her four illegitimate daughters. The child was baptised Harriett at Muchelney on 24th March 1805, but I believe she was born two years earlier in 1803. Ann was to have three more daughters all at different places and of different fathers, but she was a good mother and never claimed parish relief for any of the children. This was because she was able to keep working, helped by the young Harriett who took on her mother’s duties during the confinements. In 1819, Ann married Robert Crossman and took her three surviving daughters to live with him. She and Robert had a daughter in 1822 and named her Elizabeth, Robert died a few years later. That Ann was a good mother there is little doubt her girls grew up to marry well and stayed a close-knit family all of their lives. When Ann died in March 1855, the vicar with a marked lack of Christian charity entered the following in the parish register: “Ann Crossman (78) This old woman whose name before marriage was Culliford had several illegitimate children, the wife of William Case (i.e.Elizabeth) being the only one born in wedlock.”

This, then,was Harriett’s start in life, illegitimate, poor and with no formal education. In 1822, Harriett married Thomas Crossman, farm labourer of Wagg hamlet. They were both about 9 years old and shared a capacity for hard work.Thomas desperately wanted to own land and farm for himself. Like all of his family, he was a regular church-goer, a chorister and bell-ringer at St.Mary’s, Huish Episcopi and it was he who brought Harriett into the church, beginning a way of life that was to vary little over the years. Between 1823 and 1851, Thomas and Harriett had twelve children, two of whom died young Thomas gradually bought up various plots of land in the neighbourhood as they became available and was successful with his farming. The Crossman sons followed their family tradition by becoming choristers and bell-ringers, while the girls followed their mother with involvement in church work.

Around Christmastime 1851, Thomas became ill and pneumonia quickly developed. He made out his Will on 3rd January 1852 and died the following day. He was 48 years old. Everything he had was left to his dear Harriett, to be held in trust for the children. There was the farm at Wagg, six acres at Higher Bowdens, land at Aller and Wearne Witch as well as withy beds at Combe and other properties. Harriett could sell any of the property, but the proceeds of the sale had to go into trust for the children, while Harriett had rents and the interest on the money to live on. While not wealthy, she at least had no money worries. Thomas was buried on a cold grey day in January. The church choir carried his coffin from the house to the church singing all the way, as was the custom for a former chorister.

There were still seven children living at home, ranging from the 21 year old Winford to 6-month old Thirza, so there was little time for Harriett to indulge in griefs. With the help of her sons (and later, her grandsons) she managed for a long time, but as the boys left home to be married the workload became too much. Harriett was reluctant to let any of the land be sold.She felt that Thomas would have wanted it kept for the children and this gave her the idea of selling the land to her own children, the money going into trust for them (with interest) on her death. She retained the withy-beds and in 1884, when Harriett was about 81, Kelly’s Directory shows her as a grower and seller of withies. At that time she was living alone at Wagg but later took in a lodger, an elderly lady from Muchelney.

Harriett died on 16th November, 1897, the cause of death given as “senile decay.” Her daughter Harriett Burrows registered the death and gave her mother’s age as 97, but I believe it is more likely to have been 94. On the afternoon of Saturday, 20th November,1897 Harriett was buried in St. Mary’s churchyard and the following day the vicar made special reference to her during the service. He said that as far as he could ascertain, Harriett had 12 children, 96 grandchildren, 38 great-grandchildren, 56 great-great-grandchildren and 7 great-great-great-grandchildren, proof of the remarkable vitality of the family which he thought was without parallel. During the whole of her life, Harriett had set a noble example of piety and earnest religious conviction to her numerous descendants and to all who knew her and with the exception of failing eyesight had retained all of her faculties until the day of her death.

Life had never been easy for Harriett but from what was in those days a shameful beginning, she had become a much-loved and respected lady in the community. A woman without education but shrewd enough to successfully manage a farm and withy business alone while bringing up a young family. A truly remarkable lady.

Harriett’s descendants still walk along the same streets, travel the same roads, look at the same medieval buildings, as did her own ancestors. In eight generations’ time, there might be further descendants living in the same parishes.

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It’s not Twelfth Night in Somerset

Posted on 5th January 2021 by Ian

Always a sceptical people, suspicious of innovation and resentful about change, it took the English one hundred and seventy years to accept the Gregorian calendar. Introduced by Pope Gregory in 1582, it was not introduced in England until 1752.

The New Year until then then began on Lady Day, 25th March and a twelve day shift in the dates was not going to be allowed to change the real start of the New Year. (If anyone is confused as to why the financial and tax year begins on 6th April, it is because the calendar had advanced by twelve days).

Rural England is the most conservative part of a conservative country and the change in the calendar seems to have brought a determination to continue to observe the old dates.

Wassailing is a very ancient tradition that took place on Twelfth Night, 5th January, the eve of Epiphany and last night of Christmas. The ritual predated the adoption of the Gregorian calendar so it continues to be observed twelve days later in some communities, thus it is that tonight is not Twelfth Night in parts of Somerset, it does not come until twelve days’ time (although some communities would have shifted their celebration of the wassails to the weekend, had the pandemic not struck) .

The wassail was a ritual asking God for a good apple harvest. Of course, the primary concern was to ensure there was a plentiful supply of apples for cider making. 

William Holland, an irascible priest of the Church of England who ministered in the county seemed to have been displeased by local priorities. Around 1797, he wrote, “The Somersetshire people are of large size and strong, but in my opinion are very slow and lazy and are very much given to eating and drinking.” Holland was obviously a man who would have disapproved of much that happened in the county on Twelfth Night each year.

The wassailing tradition is strong around the Langport area.  The local tradition is to fire shotguns up through the branches of the apple trees to ensure a good harvest, along, of course with much eating and drinking. In some places slices of toast soaked in cider, on which the robins can feed, are hung from the branches of the trees. It seems that robins represent the good spirits of the tree.

William Holland would have disapproved of such customs because they were, of course, pagan, but such objections would have excluded most of what is now assumed to be part of the Christmas celebration, including the tree.  When American traditions of Santa are embraced without question, to the extent that it would be a 21st Century heresy to go on radio or television and express doubt concerning his existence,  a bit of home grown Twelfth Night paganism seems very inoffensive.

And this is the night of our jolly wassail;
Vor tis our wassail,
And tis your wassial,
And joy be to you, vor tis our wassail.

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Ads for things like fizzy Corona

Posted on 3rd January 2021 by Ian

Being an age when I can remember TWW, the predecessor of Harlech, which became known as HTV, which was subsumed into the monochrome ITV network, I can remember decades of television advertising. Worse than remembering the ads, I can also remember the slogans and the jingles. Perhaps it is a measure of the success of the advertisement makers that their work is remembered five decades after it was aired.

When the same programme was being screened across the ITV network, it was the ads which could tell us whether we were watching HTV or Westward. Local businesses would have simple slots, often just an image with a voiceover, if it was an outlet in Plymouth, it was Westward; if it was in Bristol, it was HTV.

The local ads were generally instantly forgettable, those which linger in the memory are those which had a quirkiness about them.

In times when Corona was a fizzy drink that came in a bottle with a large capital C on the label, the drink was promoted by large bouncing cartoon bubble figures. But they are not nearly so memorable as the R. White’s Lemonade advertisement with its song, “I’m a secret lemonade drinker.” The song was written and performed by Ross McManus, and his son Declan, an unlikely start for young Declan’s recording career.

Chocolate companies seemed to spend a lot on advertising. Milk Tray would be delivered to the lady by a James Bond-like figure. Black Magic had a secret that no-one knew. Others were more prosaic in their claims. Treets would melt in your mouth, not in your hand, making them a wise choice for the cinema. Milky Way was the sweet you could eat between meals without ruining your appetite (my perception was that this was possible because they were so small). A Mars a day would help you work rest and play, although how it achieved these things was unclear. Then there was the strong and tough Milky Bar kid, who seemed a bit of a wimp.

Sweets were marketed heavily. Opal Fruits, went the jingle, “made to make your mouth water.” Polos were sold on the basis of having a hole in the middle. Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum made you look sophisticated, or so I thought.

Going to the Co-op, I never go through the door without reciting, in my head, “your sharing, caring Co-op” or “it’s all at the Co-op – Now!”

Perhaps the ads remain because there was only one commercial channel, because there were years of exposure to them. Perhaps they were made with big budgets for the time. Perhaps the memory lingers because everything then was something new.

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