Especially Bob of course, as he was constantly listened to by my brothers and I on that old Grundig reel to reel tape recorder we had. It was not bought for us to listen to Dylan but was almost exclusively used for Bob appreciation purposes. It died with a Dylan tape in it's jaws I believe. Which is the best way to go I think we can agree.
She was of course a secret Dylan admirer; how else could she have put up with him all these years droning on day and night? I think my father in the end became a fan too and preferred Dylan to Calvin. Well almost. He never said that he didn't so that's proof enough for me. I think if he thought otherwise he would have told us before the end. Plus he never complained about God being on our side, so what more proof is required.
Friday was mother's day for making butter in the summer months, which were always hot and sunny as I recall. She had a big wooden butter churn which she used to thump away on, holding it firmly in place with her legs, the cream oozing out from the top of it to be deliciously tasted as it turned into butter. She made crowdie at the same time. All stored in her own invented cold store as we had no fridge in those days. Luxuries like fridges came a lot later.
Monday was her washing day as it was for all, or most, of the women of Tong. It was a bit of a race to see who got the washing out first, as I recall. I can still see her with the clothes pegs in her mouth hanging out the sheets in a howling gale. In the early days all the washing was done by hand, it took some persuading to get her to accept that a washing machine would be a good idea. And then getting her to switch from the old twin tub to an automatic was an almighty struggle too. She never made it to an automatic dryer.
She had many favorite phrases, all in Gaelic needless to say. My big brother Coinneach, when he was in primary school came home for lunch for the first time, our school dinners being even worse than they are now. He was none too pleased to discover that she was having such a quality fare while he had to eat school rubbish. He demanded to know, "do you always have such good food yourself everyday? "Am bidh biadh math mu seo agu fhein a h'uile latha?" Excuse my Gaelic those of you who can read it. But you get the drift I'm sure. This kept her amused on and off, for fifty or more years and was used in many situations, as the occasion required. And you may be asking what it was that Coinneach liked so much. Left over potatoes nicely fried on her old frying pan and maybe a fried egg. Haute cuisine.
If I reminded her of this story she would often tell me, again, about the time it snowed so heavily the snow was drifting and she was determined that Coinneach should not miss school, so she gave him a piggy back, a distance of nearly a mile. I don't know what she did with myself and my wee brother Neil. Maybe she tied us up and left us. I wonder if Coinneach remembers the trip. I guess he must have made it to school as he's still around now.
She kept hens and we often had chicks in the summer and a vicious big cockerel wondering around. It was always good to have a broody hen around to keep the cockerel calm, and stop it from biting Neil, who was as I recall the victim of a vicious cockerel attack one time. Attacked for no reason he claims to this day. Mother dressed his wounds and he survived. Traumatised for ever though.
One time I was sent me off to meet my father after he finished work. She was worried as to my safety as she was sending me with our cow, for an altercation with a big bad bull. I forget how old I was exactly, mid teens I guess, but obviously old enough to be trusted with walking this cow to meet it's lover.
I couldn't understand why she was so worried. It was an uneventful walk with the cow, who was called either Tiny or Daisy, and I met my father as arranged at the farm where the bull resided. Once the bull had done it's naughty business with our poor wee cow and we were half way down the field heading for the gate and the bull came thundering down the field after us I soon understood why my mother was so worried for my safety. We made it to the gate, just in time. I managed to open it to let my father and the cow through and shut it as the bull screeched to a halt on the other side. Obviously a sex starved bull.
She used to bake scones, bannocks and pancakes of the highest quality, and make pastry for her steak and kidney pies. I never did like kidneys though. She made rhubarb jam. She wore big black wellies when it rained. She had an old coat which she insisted on wearing long past it's sell by date. It took some persuasion to get her to throw it out and move on. She used to light oil lamps when the lights went out, as they often did back then. I can still smell the oil lamps burning away in the window.
She read the bible for us every day before we went to school. I don't think my brothers paid enough attention or even listened at times. I found it difficult to concentrate or even listen too, if not all the time a lot of the time. She would read it from beginning to end and then start again. She even did the begats and begots in the old testament.
She used to knit socks for us to wear in our wellington boots and very warm they were too. Made from wool left over from Harris tweed weaving by one of the neighbours. She moved on to knitting jumpers, though not from Harris tweed wool, but not with a huge degree of success. They were certainly not fashion items, though warm, but better than the ones my late aunt used to knit. Bless her.
I could go on about her. She was the best mother in the world, just like all mothers are, despite their faults. I wouldn't wish any mothers reading this to feel jealous obviously. She's probably surprised that I'm posting on my blog about her. She never wanted to be the centre of attraction, just the centre of her family. I don't know if they have blogger in heaven, but if they do all we can say is thank you mother for all the years.
She was buckets
and water flouncing into them.
She was winds pouring wetly
round house-ends.
She was brown eggs,black shirts
and a keeper of threepennybits
in a teapot.
Norman MacCaig
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