Picnic - Special Memories

This is it, that perfect summer picnic weather is here, and what are we doing? Complaining about the heat and how draining it is to feel constantly clammy. Yes, I’m guilty of moaning, too, but I’m trying to be positive and enjoy the sunshine that we spend more than half the year waiting for. Soon, the schools will break up and there will be a promised trip to the zoo for a certain grandson’s birthday treat and that will include a picnic.

I have fond memories of glorious Sunday afternoons as a child, on picnics with my family and their friends. We were all in the licenced trade and pubs closed on Sundays between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days. Most of us lived around the Morecambe and Lancaster area. Heysham was a popular place for us, or Crook ‘o Lune, Littledale, Glasson Dock. We would all meet up, men comparing cars while women set the food out. Sandwiches galore, potted meat, chicken paste, tinned salmon or cheese. Cake, biscuits and what we still call picky bits. Everyone brought something to share, and Nanna’s tablecloth would be used for the food. We sat on tartan car rugs, spread out round the tablecloth. Flasks of tea were poured into cups that were also lids. 

I had a bottle of diluted squash or cordial. Living in a pub, you’d expect me to have the choice of any soft drink, but that isn’t how it worked. I was rarely allowed anything fizzy, just the occasional blackcurrant and lemonade in a Babycham glass, with a cherry. I couldn’t have carried that in the car, not that it would last very long. At this point in my life, younger than seven, I was the only child and I’m sure everyone loved me. I’d share my time and affection between grandparents, and relatives. Aunty Beryl allowed me to explore her gold charm bracelet for hours on end – it would take so long to get round all the tiny charms. I would have books with me, colouring things and probably a couple of dolls. I was well-behaved. I don’t remember ever getting told off. Believe me, I would remember if I’d been in trouble. I was brought up with boundaries, and my mother had a look I wouldn’t want to see.

I don’t remember being bored, either. We lived in different times, but very happy ones. Just one thing, though; the horrible smell of tea or coffee in a flask was enough to put me off. A flask of hot water and sachets of ‘2in1’ Nescafe, these days.

Sometimes, I make a buffet on a summer’s day when the grandchildren are here. They call it ‘picnic tea’ which is an excellent description. They gather whatever they want to eat and take it to wherever they’d like to eat it, inside or outside and keep coming back for more. Children tucking into good food. It’s all this nanna needs.

My Haiku poem of long-gone days,

We knew how to spend
A lovely, sunny Sunday
All together, then.

With food a-plenty,
A family gathering,
Sitting on car rugs.

Salmon sandwiches,
Potted meat or chicken paste?
Sausage roll, pork pie?

Let’s see, who would like
An ice-cream at Glasson Dock?
And a look at boats?

The gang is all here,
Fun and laughter fills the air.
Making memories.

PMW 2026

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

For the Record - Put It Straight

 One glorious summer afternoon, a few years ago, my husband and I were on my ancestry trail in Manchester's Southern Cemetery. I had done some groundwork online and had a print-out map of the burial grounds with my family members plot details marking locations.

There can be lots to learn from headstone inscriptions, things not recorded elsewhere. I took time to make notes, take photographs and have a silent word with my dear departed ones. There are some interesting folk in my bloodline and this cemetery has four if not five generations of my paternal line. How handy for me that they are all in the same place. It makes adding branches to the family tree so much easier. All was going well until I couldn't find my four-greats grandfather, Benjamin. The number for his resting place was a multiple burial pauper's grave with a list of names which didn't include him. This couldn't be it. From my genealogy discoveries, I knew Benjamin to be a successful,  wealthy man with no suggestion of hard times at the end of his life. It looked like the end of my journey - until we realised that the cemetery records office was still open. I went to ask for help.

If ever I had a lucky day, this was it. Someone checked online and got the same information I had, which was clearly wrong. Within minutes, I was sitting at a desk with a huge register in front of me, in awe of the beautifully hand-written burial records in magnificent copperplate. With Benjamin's full name, date of birth, date of death and interment, I found his grave number straight away. Online details end with an E, in the register with a K. I could see what must have happened when the details were transferred to digital. The style of writing had a flourish on the capital K which could easily be mistaken for an E. I mentioned my possible discovery to a staff member.

With the revised details, I found Benjamin's resting place, complete with a headstone befitting the gentleman I considered him to be. I went back to thank the office staff and tell them my findings. They thanked me - had I not queried Benjamin's grave, the error might never have come to light.

My poem:

I'm really having fun in here,
Line after line it seems quite clear,
Data input made a mistake.
Let's put it right for all our sakes.

Please can we put the record straight?
It's all gone wrong on column eight
And what's been listed as an E
Is actu'lly a K, you see.

I wish I had all afternoon,
Sadly, I have to go home soon,
But now you know what has gone wrong,
You can put Ks where they belong.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, keep safe, Pam x

Read More