Year: 2019

  • I do not know why WOODY love me? No big reason to do so.


    I DO NOT KNOW WHY WOODY LOVES ME

    alan skeoch
    July 2019



    I do not know why WOODY love me, but he does.

    He has no special reason to love me unless being taken for 
    granted is a reason.
    I do not spend a lot of time petting him as others do.
    Even strangers  give him more attention than I do.
    But he love me.
    How Do I know that he loves me?
    He waits at the bottom of the stairs each morning for me to descend, his  tail thumping
    the floor or the wall.
    And then as my foot touches the bottom step he leans into me…body tight and tipped,
    tail whistling in its own created wind.
    Ah, I know you think I feed him and that food is the love  trigger.
    But I only feed him occasionally, maybe four times a  month.
    Every other day Marjorie feeds him.
    She also brushes him, walks him, doctors him when he has a sore paw
    or an oozing coyote tear.
    But he loves me.
    Loves Marjorie as  well but she has earned his love.
    I have not.
    Yet he waits beside my truck lying prone on the green grass
    anticipating a ride to nowhere in particular as long as it is with me.
    And when I drive in the lane alone, Woody rushes out to
    the drivers  side with his nose tight to the crack where the door will open.
    He does this  every time I come home alone.
    I might rub his  forehead  a bit but otherwise do not go crazy with affection.
    But I know he loves  me.
    Sometimes  he goes crazy when I pull in and he starts to run around
    in big circles, all four feet in the air such is his  speed…he runs in great loops
    around trees and buildings always  arriving back close to me.
    He wears his joy in ways such as this
    And when he disappears  and I call him with frustration in my voice
    I always find he is just behind me…silently padding along as I search
    for him with impatience in my voice.
    Woody does  not like to be bad but he can be bad at times,
    especially when we fail to keep the garbage high off the ground
    or when a pound  of  butter is  left tantalizingly balanced on the edge
    of the kitchen island.
    He  will steal…temptation becomes just too great.
    And when he steals and I get angry Woody drops to the floor
    Rolls over on his back 
    Offers his life
    And rolls his eyes
    Which makes discipline seem an invitation
    For me to raise my voice in anger.
    But he loves me still.
    Why?
    On two occasions I have forgotten he is with me at the farm
    And driven part way home before reaching my hand behind me 
    in search of his paw on the bench seat.
    Most times that paw is present.
    But twice, maybe more, it has not been there
    And I have stopped, cursed, turned around and retraced my way.
    Only to find Woody waiting for my return curled up on the farm porch.
    He loves me…trusts me…with little reason to do so.
    Love is one of the great mysteries of life on this earth.
    The decision to Love is  a force more powerful than any other…stronger than greed,
    anger, pride, self-obsession…
    Love is irrational I think
    For Woody has no earthly reason to love me so much.
    I have given him no reason to do so.
    And yet he loves me.
    He does not expect me to change.
    He does not want me to change.
    He loves me as I am.
    Why?



    alan skeoch
    July 2019
  • “COYOTE IS AFTER WODDY, DO SOMETHING.”. June 31 2919



    Begin forwarded message:


    From: ALAN SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
    Subject: Coyote wall. June 31 2919
    Date: June 29, 2019 at 3:53:22 PM EDT


    “COYOTE IS AFTER WOODY, DO SOMETHING!!”

    alan skeoch
    June 2019

    “Alan, the coyote was back last night at dusk…I think he wants to get Woody”
    “Forget about it…Woody is too big and does  not wander.”
    “Sure, sure…don’t you remember the slash on his bum from a coyote Woody thought was friendly.”
    “Scared hell out of him…came running up to me and leaned  against my leg.”
    “Well, surely that would teach you that coyotes are dangerous.”
    “Damn beautiful animals as long as  the mange doesn’t get them.”
    “Alan, we have a pack of coyotes  living in the bush back of our house…that is scary.”
    “Live and let live, Marjorie.”
    “Do you want Woody killed?”
    “Never happen, our dog run is fenced.”
    “Not any more…coyote has been digging under the chain link.”
    “Imagination.”
    “Sometimes  Alan I find you irritating…maddening…far too laid back.”
    “Show me the hole.”



    So that little incident started our Canada Day week end.  Fence repairs to keep the coyotes out.
    I am not proud.  I admit that the repairs were done by the female crew living with us.  They had
    seen the coyotes and  Woody nose to nose with wire mesh in between.  I had not seen this contact
    so I was  a little less enthused about fence repairs.




    Women are better at this kind of thing anyway.  Moving cement blocks from place

    to place to frustrate the coyote.  They were good at the job.



    “While you are doing repairs, I am going coyote hunting.”

    “Alan, come back here.”

    “Just hunting with my camera.”



    Our house lot is long and wild…50 get by 400 feet.  Part of the ancient Mississauga

    First Nations territory.  Last part they held.   So it is nice and verdant…wild.




    Works was progressing well


    About half way down our lot, we had built a fence to keep our  dogs from irritating

    neighbours.  We have had lots of dogs…Shadow, Sunny, Molly, etc, etc…and now
    Woody who is about as laid back as his owner except when the coyote comes calling
    at dusk every night.  Then Woody barks.  Very brave barking since he is protected
    by the chain link fence.
    “Alan … the fence has been compromised,,,where are you going?”
    “See if I can  get a picture of the coyotes family…back in the bush.”



    And so I used the camouflage of greenery to escape the fence building…just like

    the coyote…I was hidden.




    At the back of the lot we keep this old dump rake as a reminder of the days long

    ago when this was a hay field.













    I know the coyotes were watching me but I could not see them…lots of places 

    to hide and slink about.







    “Alan, you did  nothing to hep the girls…nothing.  As  usual.”

    “I was on point…the point man in the defence of our fort…doing recon”






    “The least you could is fix the gate…handle not working…enough of a gap for

    coyote to get through if we are not careful.”

    “Get Gabriela on that…she is  right handed.”
    “I wish you would stop using that left handed  excuse.”
    “That excuse has worked for 80 years so I have not intention of
    giving up a good thing.”






    “OK wise guy…we are going to lock you out there with the coyotes…right now.”




    “So here I am … inspecting fence repairs from the outside.”

    “Quite amazing work…lifting cement blocks…placing them…now let me back in!”




      “

    Somewhere behind you Alan, a coyotes is salivating…slobbering…anticipating a good meal.”


    alan skeoch
    June 2019


    Sent from my iPhone


  • “What lovely trees?”…”THERE IS A PRICE TO PAY!”



    Begin forwarded message:


    From: ALAN SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
    Subject: Trees cut power June 2019
    Date: June 25, 2019 at 3:19:33 PM EDT



    “WHAT LOVELY TREES!” … “THERE IS  A PRICE TO PAY.”

    alan sketch
    June 2019

    “WHAM!   SSSST>>>SSSST”
    “What was that…something through the trees…shower of sparks…then silence”

    I was  just sitting on the pave stone front porch reading The Bishop’s Boy by Lindon Macintyre when
    the BAM and SSSSST happened.   We live in  a  forest…southern Mississauga where once the native
    peoples lived.   A big green space so  obvious from the air.  Huge trees that overhand and hide the houses.
    Trees that suck in the carbon and push out put oxygen.  A kind of Shangri-La.  Were it not for the astronomic
    taxes.   There is  a  price to pay for green space.



    “Power is gone…tree fell across  the power lines…must be hanging there after severing

    the main line.  Hung up.  Dead birch.  Big one and others  ready to fall.”

    Neighbours began to assemble…comments  both comforting and angry.  Some
    knew  the cost of keeping all these trees.  When we bought our lot there were 114
    trees and shrubs…counted them to justify the mortgage.  House cost $28,000.  Did not think about the cost
    should one tree die.  Now, after half a century living here, we know that cost.  Cutting 
    down a dead tree costs $1,000 and upwards.  Green space costs money.  Some neighbours
    know that.  Some fear that.  Some curse that and try to surreptitiously cut down trees.
    Most of  us love the trees …  consider the costs just part of doing business.

    Climate change!  Yow…will it affect our trees?  That mean our oxygen.  Not only losing

    insects, little creatures, fish and bumblebees but also could we lose our trees as the

    planet heats up.  Got to do something but what?  Try to save the trees, I guess is
    a small step.  “But the trees  give shelter to that pack of coyotes…they slip around
    looking for cats and little dogs…are the coyotes part of the ecology of our neighbourhood?
    If the trees  go, then so go lots of things…maybe even ourselves.”



    “Call 911…must be a live power line in the branches…dangerous…lethal.”

    “Get a police car here.”
    “the 911operator made me wait nearly 10 minutes…so many panic calls for all
    kinds of  reasons.   Wonder how high up the crisis ladder is  a dead tree?”




    “Then the big emergency trucks began assemble.  Huge dinosaurs of the 21s century.













    Neighbours  and dogs admired  and commiserated…”The owners of the dead

    birch doesn’t even know what has a happened.  Too dangerous to go down their
    lane.  Are they well? Some think not.”










    “Men no longer climb threes…they have long articulated buckets that reach higher

    than any tree…huge things.



    “Hubert, how much does one of those trucks cost?”

    “Between 250,000 and 500,000 dollars.”

    “Hydro rates  are high…going higher and  higher with each truck.”
    “Why do  we need  two trucks? “
    “Something could go wrong I guess.”






    “No power for blocks and blocks…”

    “Interferes with the BlueJay game…can you get it fixed fast?”
    “It will take six hours or more.”










    Reminds  me of two praying mantis creatures sparring for food.

    “Somewhat larger though.”
















    Then the next day new trucks arrived…tree specials.

    “How much is that truck worth?”

    “$180,000”
    “Trees cost big money when they die…going higher and higher.”
    “Is it necessary to slice up all those healthy trees…like that beautiful oak
    that is only aquaria century old.”
    “It will grow back…got to clear the power lines….Trees  on city land do not need
    permission to slice up.”

    “What about my oxygen supply?”
    “Oxygen?  Are you daft?”






    Then something odd  happened.  One whole house came down the street

    on a huge flatbed truck.   A whole house…about 70 feet long…wood from

    someone’s  forest has been butchered.  Now dead.

    “Ripping down a house on the next street…chomping it up with an excavator…
    then building a new house.  Happends all the time around here.  Makes no
    sense.









    Cowboys riding high…”Yippee Yay Ay, Yi Ay”











    “Do  not worry, the trees will grow back…I guarantee you that.”

    “Hope you are right.  Reminds me of something I read long ago and
    would earnestly like to believe.  ‘WE CAN BUT HOPE THAT SOMEHOW GOOD WILL
    BE THE FINAL GOAL OF ILL.”







    Sent from my iPhone


  • Fwd: BOBBIN FACTORY CIRCA 1890: LAKE WINDERMERE, ENGLAND JUNE 2019



    Begin forwarded message:


    From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
    Subject: Fwd: BOBBIN FACTORY CIRCA 1890: LAKE WINDERMERE, ENGLAND JUNE 2019
    Date: June 15, 2019 at 7:04:22 PM EDT
    To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>




    Begin forwarded message:


    From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
    Subject: Fwd: BOBBIN FACTORY CIRCA 1890: LAKE WINDERMERE, ENGLAND JUNE 2019
    Date: June 15, 2019 at 6:57:11 PM EDT
    To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>



    NOTE…I AM  RESENDING THIS  STORY BECAUSE SOME PEOPLE GOT PICS UPSIDE DOWN

    Begin forwarded message:


    From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
    Subject: BOBBIN FACTORY CIRCA 1890: LAKE WINDERMERE, ENGLAND JUNE 2019
    Date: June 14, 2019 at 9:11:01 PM EDT
    To: Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>




    BOBBIN FACTORY CIRCA 1890


    alan skeoch
    June 2019

    “Marjorie, what is a BOBBIN?”
    “A bobbin is a spool”
    “What’s that?”
    “A spool,,,bobbin if you will…is used to hold thread or yarn.”
    “Why would anyone want a bobbin full of wool?”
    “Bobbins feed threads to the machines that make cloth…big bobbins do that.
    “Small bobbins feed thread to machines that sew cloth…hold  pieces of cloth together.”
    “Suppose there were no bobbins, then what?”
    “Then we would be walking around naked or covered with the hairy skins of animals.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “Not really meaning to … just exaggerating a bit..”

    I bet some readers do not even know what a BOBBIN is!  I bet there are even some readers
    who do  not care a  whit about BOBBINS. Too Bad.  Why?  Because those readers will miss
    out on what to us was a wonderful surprise…and experience almost beyond words.




    “I just love these English country roads…narrow and twisty with a new and sometimes startling
    thing to see at every twist and turn.”
    “Fine for you, Alan, you have the front seat.”
    “As things should be.”
    “Why?”
    “I am the senior person on this excursion….have a little respect.”
    “Too bad about the rain, Alan.”
    “Not so bad…”
    “Why?”
    “Rain and fog lend  an air of mystery to the road…”
    ‘Like a  time machine”
    “Yeah…better idea…like driving into the past…time travelling….good  idea.”






    “Things pop out at us….and then they are gone.”
    “Click…click…click.”







    “Descending from Kirkston Pass to Lake Windermeere now”
    “Rhododendrons along the road now.”


    “Jam on the brakes, Gabriela…something unusual over there on the left.”
    “Barn…stone barn?”
    “More than that…something weird…really old…strange.”
    “A barn full of tent poles…why save long poles…piles of them.”
    “Do a quick turn into the driveway…careful…”





    “Turn now.”
    “A factory…in a rural setting…”
    “Sign  says STOTT PARK BOBBIN MILL…open to the public”


    “Wonder why there are pipes and  piles of sticks and  poles all over the place.?”



    “Let’s cut to the quick before we go any farther…this place made bobbins…all kinds of them…
    millions of them.  The big textile mills  in Lancashire needed millions of bobbins.  At one time
    in the 19th century there were 300 factories like this making bobbins by the millions.  The
    Stott Park Bobbin Mill is the only one left.”
    “What happened to all the others?”
    “Plastics…$%^%& plastic bobbins drove all mills like this  to the wall.:
    :How come this mill survived?”
    “Just saved in nick of time by English Heritage people…it had closed in 1979 and  was
    about to enter the scrap yard when one man  alerted  the government people about
    the mill…THIS PLACE IS WORTH SAVING?”
    “Why worth saving?”
    “Because this mill had  never been modernized…no electruc machines.   All the lathes
    ran from one gigantic  line shaft powered by an ancient steam  engine.  In the early years
    the factory was powered by a water wheel but became ‘modernized’ with a steam engine.”




    “Pardon me, do you sell any of these bobbins?”
    “Sure do…visit the gift shop.”
    (Marjorie bought a suitcase full of bobbins.”
    “Best sale  we’ve had this year.” said the gift shop lady.



    “I was more intrigued  by the tour guide.”
    “Why?”
    “Couple of reasons.  She was an excellent guide.  Here she hold one of the sticks that I mentioned earlier were strewn around the outside of the factory.
    These sticks would be cut into short pieces and then shaved into rough bobbins.”

    “She did not like me.  At least, I felt she did not like me…for a couple of good reasons.”
    “That’s because you are precocious, Alan…bold and self-obsessed…just too enthusiastic  at times.”
    “Guilty as  charged.”

    “She really knew the factory…every machine….every bobbin…she even knew
    how the flyable governor on the steam engine maintained speed of the hug drive wheel
    that powered the whole place.





    “What is missing in all these pictures?”  Think about it.  There is something missing that led to
    the early death of many Bobbin factory workers.  What is it?  Answer at end but
    you can figure it out.  Many died of consumption and the lung diseases. What caused
    these deaths?  What is missing from the pictures?






    “Normally, back  in he 19rh century, this floor was covered as much as waste deep in Bobbin shavings…so
    much so that sometimes  the machines had to be shut down to clear the shavings. “
    “Wasn’t there a danger of fire?”
    “Definitely…anything that gave off sparks had to be removed…such as the tool grinders.”
    “Any use for all those shavings?”
    “The shavings and waste wood chunks were used to fire up the steam engine.  “
    “So everything made sense…even the scrap.”








    High up above the lathes … the mighty line shaft with a drive pulley for each lathe.   

    “Aren’t those drive belts dangerous…could  kill.”
    “Yes, they are shielded by wood cribbing close to the lathes…and there is a severe to slide the belt on to an idling pulley.”
    “My dad worked in factory like this.  He told me about a fellow worker who decided to push the drive belt towards the idling pulley by hand.”
    “Dangerous.”
    “You bet.  the poor guy got his hand caught and his body was thrown around and around until he was dead.  I had an image from that
    story that I cannot forget.  The fellows limbs came apart.   Nothing could be done.  Other workers  ran down the factory to shut down
    the drive engine but by then all was mayhem.  Did that happen here?”
    “Yes, there were injuries…many…a lot of the workers were children.”
    “Any accidents recorded?”
    “In 1860, at Crooklands Bobbin mill,Thomas Fox, aged14, got caught in a drive belt by his head  and shoulders…carried to the ceiling line shaft
    where his head was crushed…supposed to have died instantly.”
    “So my dad’s story was  likely accurate?”



    “You said children.”
    “Child labour laws were non existent for decades and when they did come into affect they only applied to children under ten.”
    “Why would parents let their kids near these machines?”
    “Poverty…and some children had  no parents…”
    “No parents?”
    “Liverpool is not far away from here.  Orphanages collected street children…a lot of them were sent here…some stayed…some 
    ran away.  Others were always available.”
    “Did any get hurt that you know about.”
    “There is a  record of one boy working here with his hand bound up because the hole filling lathe pierced  his hand…like taking
    an electric drill through your hand.”
    “Long hours…doing repetitive tasks like boring holes in bobbins…pushed hard by overseers….fatigue spells trouble.”
    “And  this is a remote rural factory…surrounded by wilderness.  One boy, Kit Cloudsdale, 13 years old, was sent on a five 
    mile errand.   He froze to death.”

    “Where do these stairs go?”
    “Tool grinding room…lots of sparks…”


    “The line shaft powered the large grindstone but a thick stone
    wall  separated the grinding room from the factory floor. Fires in
    19th century factories were common.   Imagine someone stupid
    enough to light pipe on the factory floor?  There must have been rules here.


    “There are holes in the stone interior walls to let the drive belts through.  This hole
    has no purpose other than a site line…perhaps so the overseer could be sure
    the tool grinding was  being done right.


    Polished bobbins were shipped in sacks to the cotton mills  in Lancashire and to textile mills elsewhere in the world.
    Not just in the thousands but in the millions.  Weighed on this scale.



    “Hey look here…do not look away…do not day dream…do not look over at your friend on the next machine.”
    “Why not?”
    “Look at that drive belt…now imagine your hand or our hair getting caught…instantly maimed or killed.  These factories
    were dangerous.”
    ‘Why work in places like this?”
    “No choice really…food and a place to live…many workers at Stott Park spent their entire working life on one of these machines…doing the
    same thing thousands  of times  per day…boring, shaping, polishing, grinding, …some felt lucky to have a steady job.



    Only pauper boys were allowed to work at the Stott Park Bobbin Mill.   Girls, however, were allowed work in the cotton 
    factories as  above.  Note the long lines of bobbins wound with cotton thread.


    Pauper children around  1900.




    Another young boy at work in a Lancashire cotton mill.  Pilesof bobbins in front and behind him.



    Young boy at work in the Stott Parkin Bobbin factory about 1900.   Sometimes the wood  chips got two feet deep.



    This is a picture of Marjorie in the Stott Park Bobbin Mill shop buying more Bobbins than they sold  all month.
    “Why did she buy them?”
    “Movies may use them in some period  motion picture someday…”
    “Someday?”
    “My thoughts precisely.”

    “Look in the top right corner of this picture.”
    “What am I looking at?”
    “That little platform up near the driveshaft is where the factory foreman could look down on his
    workers…make sure they were doing a good job.”



    “See that round trim that looks like a whiskey barrel?”
    “Looks like a whisky barrel for sure,”
    “That is  a whisky barrel made into a polishing drum…dump in 
    a pile of bobbins, bounce them around and they come out polished.”
    “Do they smell like good scotch whisky?”
    “Not sure.”


    “Now  here is a mathematics  challenge to you.”
    “pick one of these two bobbin pictures ..  count the bobbins…then
    multiply times  10…i.e.  100 x 10 equals 1,000 British pounds or $2,000 Canadian dollars.
    Fortunately Marjorie did  not see this bobbin pile.   She only bought 7 big bobbins which cost a pretty penn anyway.”
    “Is that what they were worth long ago?”
    “Nope…a new bobbin sold for a penny or so I think…those were days  when a penny was worth something though.”

    Quote from John Gibson,1878, letter to Ulverston Board of Guardians concerning CHILD LABOUR

    “WE send them at 12 or 14 for seven years without remuneration…When their time is up they are discharged…and we send
    other boys to fill their places  at the mills.  They are in many cases…over-worked, half clothed and fed and  in many ways very
    unfairly used.”

    Caring for the poor has been a social  problem for a long time.  When England was largely rural poor relief was  provided by parishes…money
    collected  to cover food, shelter, food and clothing.  Such relief was  spotty so in 1834 the Poor Law was  amended.  Each parish was expected
    to build workhouses where poor families were expected to do  work for their relief.  Families were separated.  Many pauper children became a
    problem and  the workhouse guardians tried to find work for these children in local industries  like Stott Park Bobbin Mill.  The only way we know
    much  about these children is through the reports  of the Relieving Officers of the workhouses.  Charles  Dickens novel Oliver Twist made many
    middle class citizens aware that abuse was  common.



    Answer to question:  What is not shown in these pictures is THE DUST THAT FILLED THE AIR and promoted lung diseases that killed
    workers as  young as  37.

    Conclusion:   It took ten years to rebuild the Stott Park Bobbin Mill.  But credit for the saving of the bobbin mill must go to one man, Jack Ivison who began working 
    as the mill in 1927 and was  the mill maser when it closed in 1971.   Jack Ivison then  urged English  Heritage to accept the mill as  an  important part of English industrial history.



    Touring the mill in June 2019 made me think of the lyrics to DIRTY OLD TOWN by the Pogues.

    POGUES


    Dirty Old Town Lyrics


    I met my love by the gas works wall
    Dreamed a dream by the old canal
    Kissed my girl by the factory wall

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    Clouds a drifting across the moon
    Cats a prowling on their beat
    Spring’s a girl from the streets at night

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    I heard a siren from the docks
    Saw a train set the night on fire
    Smelled the spring on the smoky wind

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    I’m going to make me a good sharp axe
    Shining steel tempered in the fire
    Will chop you down like an old dead tree

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    I met my love by the gas works wall
    Dreamed a dream by the old canal
    Kissed my girl by the factory wall

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town






  • Fwd: BOBBIN FACTORY CIRCA 1890: LAKE WINDERMERE, ENGLAND JUNE 2019


    NOTE…I AM  RESENDING THIS  STORY BECAUSE SOME PEOPLE GOT PICS UPSIDE DOWN

    Begin forwarded message:


    From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
    Subject: BOBBIN FACTORY CIRCA 1890: LAKE WINDERMERE, ENGLAND JUNE 2019
    Date: June 14, 2019 at 9:11:01 PM EDT
    To: Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>




    BOBBIN FACTORY CIRCA 1890


    alan skeoch
    June 2019

    “Marjorie, what is a BOBBIN?”
    “A bobbin is a spool”
    “What’s that?”
    “A spool,,,bobbin if you will…is used to hold thread or yarn.”
    “Why would anyone want a bobbin full of wool?”
    “Bobbins feed threads to the machines that make cloth…big bobbins do that.
    “Small bobbins feed thread to machines that sew cloth…hold  pieces of cloth together.”
    “Suppose there were no bobbins, then what?”
    “Then we would be walking around naked or covered with the hairy skins of animals.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “Not really meaning to … just exaggerating a bit..”

    I bet some readers do not even know what a BOBBIN is!  I bet there are even some readers
    who do  not care a  whit about BOBBINS. Too Bad.  Why?  Because those readers will miss
    out on what to us was a wonderful surprise…and experience almost beyond words.




    “I just love these English country roads…narrow and twisty with a new and sometimes startling
    thing to see at every twist and turn.”
    “Fine for you, Alan, you have the front seat.”
    “As things should be.”
    “Why?”
    “I am the senior person on this excursion….have a little respect.”
    “Too bad about the rain, Alan.”
    “Not so bad…”
    “Why?”
    “Rain and fog lend  an air of mystery to the road…”
    ‘Like a  time machine”
    “Yeah…better idea…like driving into the past…time travelling….good  idea.”






    “Things pop out at us….and then they are gone.”
    “Click…click…click.”







    “Descending from Kirkston Pass to Lake Windermeere now”
    “Rhododendrons along the road now.”


    “Jam on the brakes, Gabriela…something unusual over there on the left.”
    “Barn…stone barn?”
    “More than that…something weird…really old…strange.”
    “A barn full of tent poles…why save long poles…piles of them.”
    “Do a quick turn into the driveway…careful…”





    “Turn now.”
    “A factory…in a rural setting…”
    “Sign  says STOTT PARK BOBBIN MILL…open to the public”


    “Wonder why there are pipes and  piles of sticks and  poles all over the place.?”



    “Let’s cut to the quick before we go any farther…this place made bobbins…all kinds of them…
    millions of them.  The big textile mills  in Lancashire needed millions of bobbins.  At one time
    in the 19th century there were 300 factories like this making bobbins by the millions.  The
    Stott Park Bobbin Mill is the only one left.”
    “What happened to all the others?”
    “Plastics…$%^%& plastic bobbins drove all mills like this  to the wall.:
    :How come this mill survived?”
    “Just saved in nick of time by English Heritage people…it had closed in 1979 and  was
    about to enter the scrap yard when one man  alerted  the government people about
    the mill…THIS PLACE IS WORTH SAVING?”
    “Why worth saving?”
    “Because this mill had  never been modernized…no electruc machines.   All the lathes
    ran from one gigantic  line shaft powered by an ancient steam  engine.  In the early years
    the factory was powered by a water wheel but became ‘modernized’ with a steam engine.”




    “Pardon me, do you sell any of these bobbins?”
    “Sure do…visit the gift shop.”
    (Marjorie bought a suitcase full of bobbins.”
    “Best sale  we’ve had this year.” said the gift shop lady.



    “I was more intrigued  by the tour guide.”
    “Why?”
    “Couple of reasons.  She was an excellent guide.  Here she hold one of the sticks that I mentioned earlier were strewn around the outside of the factory.
    These sticks would be cut into short pieces and then shaved into rough bobbins.”

    “She did not like me.  At least, I felt she did not like me…for a couple of good reasons.”
    “That’s because you are precocious, Alan…bold and self-obsessed…just too enthusiastic  at times.”
    “Guilty as  charged.”

    “She really knew the factory…every machine….every bobbin…she even knew
    how the flyable governor on the steam engine maintained speed of the hug drive wheel
    that powered the whole place.





    “What is missing in all these pictures?”  Think about it.  There is something missing that led to
    the early death of many Bobbin factory workers.  What is it?  Answer at end but
    you can figure it out.  Many died of consumption and the lung diseases. What caused
    these deaths?  What is missing from the pictures?






    “Normally, back  in he 19rh century, this floor was covered as much as waste deep in Bobbin shavings…so
    much so that sometimes  the machines had to be shut down to clear the shavings. “
    “Wasn’t there a danger of fire?”
    “Definitely…anything that gave off sparks had to be removed…such as the tool grinders.”
    “Any use for all those shavings?”
    “The shavings and waste wood chunks were used to fire up the steam engine.  “
    “So everything made sense…even the scrap.”








    High up above the lathes … the mighty line shaft with a drive pulley for each lathe.   

    “Aren’t those drive belts dangerous…could  kill.”
    “Yes, they are shielded by wood cribbing close to the lathes…and there is a severe to slide the belt on to an idling pulley.”
    “My dad worked in factory like this.  He told me about a fellow worker who decided to push the drive belt towards the idling pulley by hand.”
    “Dangerous.”
    “You bet.  the poor guy got his hand caught and his body was thrown around and around until he was dead.  I had an image from that
    story that I cannot forget.  The fellows limbs came apart.   Nothing could be done.  Other workers  ran down the factory to shut down
    the drive engine but by then all was mayhem.  Did that happen here?”
    “Yes, there were injuries…many…a lot of the workers were children.”
    “Any accidents recorded?”
    “In 1860, at Crooklands Bobbin mill,Thomas Fox, aged14, got caught in a drive belt by his head  and shoulders…carried to the ceiling line shaft
    where his head was crushed…supposed to have died instantly.”
    “So my dad’s story was  likely accurate?”



    “You said children.”
    “Child labour laws were non existent for decades and when they did come into affect they only applied to children under ten.”
    “Why would parents let their kids near these machines?”
    “Poverty…and some children had  no parents…”
    “No parents?”
    “Liverpool is not far away from here.  Orphanages collected street children…a lot of them were sent here…some stayed…some 
    ran away.  Others were always available.”
    “Did any get hurt that you know about.”
    “There is a  record of one boy working here with his hand bound up because the hole filling lathe pierced  his hand…like taking
    an electric drill through your hand.”
    “Long hours…doing repetitive tasks like boring holes in bobbins…pushed hard by overseers….fatigue spells trouble.”
    “And  this is a remote rural factory…surrounded by wilderness.  One boy, Kit Cloudsdale, 13 years old, was sent on a five 
    mile errand.   He froze to death.”

    “Where do these stairs go?”
    “Tool grinding room…lots of sparks…”


    “The line shaft powered the large grindstone but a thick stone
    wall  separated the grinding room from the factory floor. Fires in
    19th century factories were common.   Imagine someone stupid
    enough to light pipe on the factory floor?  There must have been rules here.


    “There are holes in the stone interior walls to let the drive belts through.  This hole
    has no purpose other than a site line…perhaps so the overseer could be sure
    the tool grinding was  being done right.


    Polished bobbins were shipped in sacks to the cotton mills  in Lancashire and to textile mills elsewhere in the world.
    Not just in the thousands but in the millions.  Weighed on this scale.



    “Hey look here…do not look away…do not day dream…do not look over at your friend on the next machine.”
    “Why not?”
    “Look at that drive belt…now imagine your hand or our hair getting caught…instantly maimed or killed.  These factories
    were dangerous.”
    ‘Why work in places like this?”
    “No choice really…food and a place to live…many workers at Stott Park spent their entire working life on one of these machines…doing the
    same thing thousands  of times  per day…boring, shaping, polishing, grinding, …some felt lucky to have a steady job.



    Only pauper boys were allowed to work at the Stott Park Bobbin Mill.   Girls, however, were allowed work in the cotton 
    factories as  above.  Note the long lines of bobbins wound with cotton thread.


    Pauper children around  1900.




    Another young boy at work in a Lancashire cotton mill.  Pilesof bobbins in front and behind him.



    Young boy at work in the Stott Parkin Bobbin factory about 1900.   Sometimes the wood  chips got two feet deep.



    This is a picture of Marjorie in the Stott Park Bobbin Mill shop buying more Bobbins than they sold  all month.
    “Why did she buy them?”
    “Movies may use them in some period  motion picture someday…”
    “Someday?”
    “My thoughts precisely.”

    “Look in the top right corner of this picture.”
    “What am I looking at?”
    “That little platform up near the driveshaft is where the factory foreman could look down on his
    workers…make sure they were doing a good job.”



    “See that round trim that looks like a whiskey barrel?”
    “Looks like a whisky barrel for sure,”
    “That is  a whisky barrel made into a polishing drum…dump in 
    a pile of bobbins, bounce them around and they come out polished.”
    “Do they smell like good scotch whisky?”
    “Not sure.”


    “Now  here is a mathematics  challenge to you.”
    “pick one of these two bobbin pictures ..  count the bobbins…then
    multiply times  10…i.e.  100 x 10 equals 1,000 British pounds or $2,000 Canadian dollars.
    Fortunately Marjorie did  not see this bobbin pile.   She only bought 7 big bobbins which cost a pretty penn anyway.”
    “Is that what they were worth long ago?”
    “Nope…a new bobbin sold for a penny or so I think…those were days  when a penny was worth something though.”

    Quote from John Gibson,1878, letter to Ulverston Board of Guardians concerning CHILD LABOUR

    “WE send them at 12 or 14 for seven years without remuneration…When their time is up they are discharged…and we send
    other boys to fill their places  at the mills.  They are in many cases…over-worked, half clothed and fed and  in many ways very
    unfairly used.”

    Caring for the poor has been a social  problem for a long time.  When England was largely rural poor relief was  provided by parishes…money
    collected  to cover food, shelter, food and clothing.  Such relief was  spotty so in 1834 the Poor Law was  amended.  Each parish was expected
    to build workhouses where poor families were expected to do  work for their relief.  Families were separated.  Many pauper children became a
    problem and  the workhouse guardians tried to find work for these children in local industries  like Stott Park Bobbin Mill.  The only way we know
    much  about these children is through the reports  of the Relieving Officers of the workhouses.  Charles  Dickens novel Oliver Twist made many
    middle class citizens aware that abuse was  common.



    Answer to question:  What is not shown in these pictures is THE DUST THAT FILLED THE AIR and promoted lung diseases that killed
    workers as  young as  37.

    Conclusion:   It took ten years to rebuild the Stott Park Bobbin Mill.  But credit for the saving of the bobbin mill must go to one man, Jack Ivison who began working 
    as the mill in 1927 and was  the mill maser when it closed in 1971.   Jack Ivison then  urged English  Heritage to accept the mill as  an  important part of English industrial history.



    Touring the mill in June 2019 made me think of the lyrics to DIRTY OLD TOWN by the Pogues.

    POGUES


    Dirty Old Town Lyrics


    I met my love by the gas works wall
    Dreamed a dream by the old canal
    Kissed my girl by the factory wall

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    Clouds a drifting across the moon
    Cats a prowling on their beat
    Spring’s a girl from the streets at night

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    I heard a siren from the docks
    Saw a train set the night on fire
    Smelled the spring on the smoky wind

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    I’m going to make me a good sharp axe
    Shining steel tempered in the fire
    Will chop you down like an old dead tree

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    I met my love by the gas works wall
    Dreamed a dream by the old canal
    Kissed my girl by the factory wall

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town

    Dirty old town
    Dirty old town