Tar Bubble Trouble
I occasionally get given your magazine, especially upon meeting up with Stella MacDonald in Morrisons, Poplar St. She always stops with a smile and a chat to us, and leaves us with a couple of your magazines to enjoy. Enjoy them we most certainly do! Delighted and thrilled to see letters of neighbours and friends I have known and still remember 74 years on. I am 77 years of age, was born at Crumpsall Hospital on 9th Feb 1930.
At that time my family lived in a little street (opposite the butler cinema) called Flower Street. When I was 2 years old I can just about remember my uncle Jim Carey (who was a rag and bone man) he had a little handcart, and on occasion took me on his rounds. He had a wooden right leg; this leg had a sliding catch at the knee area to enable him to sit down in a normal manner. Well! The fun I had pushing the slide up to see his leg swing up, and then pushing it down to see it go back down again. I spent some time doing this until I got fed up. Uncle Jim, as you will gather was a very patient and loving man who adored children. So he always let me indulge my silly game.
At 2½ years my parents (James (Jim) and Nellie Coverley) moved to Mayor Street, a funny little street, with a brew each side of the centre of the street. I lived at No. 23, bang in the middle and at the bottom of the brews. My grandparents lived No. 21 their names were John Parker and Mary Jane Parker. They had 2 sons John and Joseph, and 2 daughters, my mother Nellie and her sister Mary. Joseph at 86 years is still going strong, but the rest of the family have passed away, sad to say.
At one end of the street was a grocer shop; at the other end was a greengrocer. The lady, who owned this greengrocery shop, was called Mrs Butts, she was a very kind lady, whenever she had fruit of any kind that wasn't up to standard, she gave it away to any child or several children that were in her shop at the time. Immediately round the corner from this shop was George Street, where Mrs Butts husband (called Freddie) owned a coal yard.
Freddie would hire out for 6 pence, a small wooden cart with cast iron wheels. (The cart was just big enough for a sack of coal.) When you took the cart back he returned your 6 pence. Once I went to Mrs. Butts for a sack of coal for my mum. I was only about 5 years old, and not as strong as a boy may have been. I started off with the little cart with the bag of coat in it, what happened? The cart of course gained momentum and dragged me to the bottom of the brew, tipping me with the coal out, right in front of my mum's front door. Mother had to put all the coal back in the bag, and me in the wash!
During the hot summer months Council workmen (for some reason we did not know why) dug up part of the pavement at the top end of the brew. Where the men had dug up they left lots of lovely clear clay. (Our plasticine in them days). We had many happy hours moulding this clay into whatever we decided we would make that day. For example: furniture for a dolls house, or fruit and vegetable for a greengrocers shop, or animals for a zoo. Best part was that when we had had enough, we went home quite clean. The 'we' that I mentioned were - Harold and Sheila Stewart, Margaret Moores, Sadie Gormley and a girl with the surname of Hanlon, (I don't recall her first name) and myself of course Doreen Coverley. The opposite was true when I went to play popping tar bubbles, in the street, great fun, but sometimes with disastrous results, i.e. getting it stuck on your shoes, socks and clothes. Which I found to my horror once was on my new emerald green coat. Mother gave me a good shouting at and I was sent to bed. You can imagine how upset my mother was, for we were very poor and she had to pay for the coat on a weekly basis. I had to continue wearing that coat, but being a child it didn't bother me too much. Mum had cooled down somewhat after a while.
We never saw grass, or a garden a nywhere (except by going to a park) and we certainly didn't see animals (other than cats and dogs). So imagine the excitement we had when occasionally down the street came 20 or 30 sheep being herded to the very small abattoir at the brew. In the door of the abattoir was a knothole, as big as a 50 pence piece, through which I used to watch the men pick up the sheep and lay it on a very stout wooden trestle table.
They would then shear it of its wool. What happened next, I don't know, I didn't stay long enough to find out.
This is an account of my life from 1932 until 1937 at this date my family moved again and we moved to 55 Sandal Street. Any further stories, from this time on will come from me at a later date. Always providing you would find them of interest to your readers.
P.S. Thanking you for the most interesting, informative, funniest stories and delightful nostalgia that your magazine contains.