Month: July 2023

  • Live From The Field

    EPISODE    863  song of the shirt  SONG OF THE SHIRT   BY THOMAS HOOD



    With fingers weary and worn,     With eyelids heavy and red,  A woman sat in unwomanly rags,     Plying her needle and thread—        Stitch! stitch! stitch!  In poverty, hunger, and dirt,     And still with a voice of dolorous pitch  She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”       “Work! work! work!  While the cock is crowing aloof!                  And work—work—work,  Till the stars shine through the roof!  It’s O! to be a slave     Along with the barbarous Turk,  Where woman has never a soul to save,     If this is Christian work!       “Work—work—work,  Till the brain begins to swim;     Work—work—work,  Till the eyes are heavy and dim!  Seam, and gusset, and band,                         Band, and gusset, and seam,  Till over the buttons I fall asleep,     And sew them on in a dream!       “O, men, with sisters dear!     O, men, with mothers and wives!  It is not linen you’re wearing out,      But human creatures’ lives!        Stitch—stitch—stitch,     In poverty, hunger and dirt,        Sewing at once, with a double thread,     A Shroud as well as a Shirt.       “But why do I talk of death?     That phantom of grisly bone,  I hardly fear his terrible shape,     It seems so like my own—  It seems so like my own,      Because of the fasts I keep;  Oh, God! that bread should be so dear.     And flesh and blood so cheap!                     “Work—work—work!     My labour never flags;  And what are its wages? A bed of straw,     A crust of bread—and rags.  That shattered roof—this naked floor—     A table—a broken chair—  And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank     For sometimes falling there!       “Work—work—work!     From weary chime to chime,     Work—work—work,     As prisoners work for crime!  Band, and gusset, and seam,     Seam, and gusset, and band,  Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,     As well as the weary hand.       “Work—work—work,  In the dull December light,     And work—work—work,  When the weather is warm and bright—           While underneath the eaves     The brooding swallows cling  As if to show me their sunny backs     And twit me with the spring.       “O! but to breathe the breath  Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—     With the sky above my head,  And the grass beneath my feet;  For only one short hour     To feel as I used to feel,              Before I knew the woes of want     And the walk that costs a meal!       “O! but for one short hour!     A respite however brief!  No blessed leisure for Love or hope,     But only time for grief!  A little weeping would ease my heart,     But in their briny bed  My tears must stop, for every drop     Hinders needle and thread!”    With fingers weary and worn,     With eyelids heavy and red,  A woman sat in unwomanly rags,     Plying her needle and thread—        Stitch! stitch! stitch!     In poverty, hunger, and dirt,  And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—  Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—     She sang this “Song of the Shirt!”

    This poem is in the public domain.

  • EPISODE 863 SONG OF THE SHIRT…PUTTING OUT SYSTEM


    Note….just read the poem….post script is to long for an email.  Sorry


    EPISODE 863   “THE SONG OF THE SHIRT”  by THOMS HOOD, 1843 and  THE PUTTING OUR STYTEM


    alan skeoch
    July 28, 2023







    ‘song of the shirt’ painting by Anna Blunden, FineArte Museum



    My mother was a seamstress.She supposed our family by her skillful work with needle and thread
    using a treadle sewing machine at first and then electric sewing machines..  She was good at her trade
    ….creative,,fast,.  When Eric and I were small mom, Elsie Freeman Skeoch, made our clothes from 
    scraps such as  old overcoats and other heavy and light textiles. .    Life was not easy but she never complained
    even when her husband Arnold ‘Red’ Skeoch wasted his income on betting slips at racetracks.

    We never gave mom much credit for her skill when she was alive  We took her for granted
    and she seemed to like it that way.   Our home was not a pit of despair. Quitethe  reverse, our
    lives were full of joy and achievement..  After she died Eric and I wondered how she did it. 
    We still do.

    In 1843, the poet Tjhomas Hood wrote ‘The Song of the Shirt’ which lamented the fate of
    women who had to support their families in what is called the ‘putting out system’ of the
    industrial production.

    More about the putting out system will follow this Episode   First read The Song of the Shirt
    and try to imagine how you could support  family with a needle and thread.  Then, next episode
    I will try to answer that question.

    alan



    1With fingers weary and worn,

    2With eyelids heavy and red,

    3A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

    4Plying her needle and thread—

    5Stitch! stitch! stitch!

    6In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

    7And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

    8She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”

    9“Work! work! work!

    10While the cock is crowing aloof!

    11And work—work—work,

    12Till the stars shine through the roof!

    13It’s O! to be a slave

    14Along with the barbarous Turk,

    15Where woman has never a soul to save,

    16If this is Christian work!

    17“Work—work—work

    18Till the brain begins to swim;

    19Work—work—work

    20Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

    21Seam, and gusset, and band,

    22Band, and gusset, and seam,

    23Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

    24And sew them on in a dream!

    25“O, Men, with Sisters dear!

    26O, Men! with Mothers and Wives!

    27It is not linen you’re wearing out,

    28But human creatures’ lives!

    29Stitch—stitch—stitch,

    30In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

    31Sewing at once with a double thread,

    32A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

    33“But why do I talk of Death?

    34That Phantom of grisly bone,

    35I hardly fear its terrible shape,

    36It seems so like my own—

    37It seems so like my own,

    38Because of the fasts I keep;

    39Oh! God! that bread should be so dear,

    40And flesh and blood so cheap!

    41“Work—work—work!

    42My Labour never flags;

    43And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

    44A crust of bread—and rags.

    45That shatter’d roof—and this naked floor—

    46A table—a broken chair—

    47And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

    48For sometimes falling there!

    49“Work—work—work!

    50From weary chime to chime,

    51Work—work—work!

    52As prisoners work for crime!

    53Band, and gusset, and seam,

    54Seam, and gusset, and band,

    55Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,

    56As well as the weary hand.

    57“Work—work—work,

    58In the dull December light,

    59And work—work—work,

    60When the weather is warm and bright—

    61While underneath the eaves

    62The brooding swallows cling

    63As if to show me their sunny backs

    64And twit me with the spring.

    65“O! but to breathe the breath

    66Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—

    67With the sky above my head,

    68And the grass beneath my feet

    69For only one short hour

    70To feel as I used to feel,

    71Before I knew the woes of want

    72And the walk that costs a meal!

    73“O! but for one short hour!

    74A respite however brief!

    75No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,

    76But only time for Grief!

    77A little weeping would ease my heart,

    78But in their briny bed

    79My tears must stop, for every drop

    80Hinders needle and thread!”

    81With fingers weary and worn,

    82With eyelids heavy and red,

    83A woman sat in unwomanly rags,

    84Plying her needle and thread—

    85Stitch! stitch! stitch!

    86In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

    87And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—

    88Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—

    89She sang this “Song of the Shirt!”

    ” data-focused-section=”themes” data-focused-category=”themes” style=”box-sizing: border-box; position: relative; padding: 0px 25px 0px 68px; overflow-y: auto; height: 829px;”>



    SONG OF SHIRT painting by Frank Holi

    The Song of the Shirt

    With fingers weary and worn,
          With eyelids heavy and red,
        A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
          Plying her needle and thread—
            Stitch! stitch! stitch!
        In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
        And still with the voice of dolorous pitch
        She sang the “Song of the Shirt!”

        “Work! Work! Work!
      While the cock is crowing aloof!
        And work—work—work,
      Till the stars shine through the roof!
      It’s O! to be a slave
        Along with the barbarous Turk,
      Where woman has never a soul to save
      If this is Christian work!

        “Work—work—work
      Till the brain begins to swim,
        Work—work—work
      Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
      Seam, and gusset, and band,
        Band, and gusset, and seam,
      Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
        And sew them on in a dream!

        “O, Men with Sisters dear!
        O, Men! with Mothers and Wives!
      It is not linen you’re wearing out,
        But human creatures’ lives!
          Stitch—stitch—stitch,
      In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
      Sewing at once, with a double thread,
      A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

        “But why do I talk of Death!
        That Phantom of grisly bone,
      I hardly fear his terrible shape,
        It seems so like my own—
        It seems so like my own,
        Because of the fasts I keep;
      O God! that bread should be so dear,
        And flesh and blood so cheap!

        “Work—work—work!
        My labour never flags;
      And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
        A crust of bread—and rags.
      That shatter’d roof,—and this naked floor—
        A table—a broken chair—
      And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
        For sometimes falling there!

        “Work—work—work!
      From weary chime to chime,
        Work—work—work—
      As prisoners work for crime!
        Band, and gusset, and seam,
        Seam, and gusset, and band,
      Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,
        As well as the weary hand.

        “Work—work—work,
      In the dull December light,
        And work—work—work,
      When the weather is warm and bright—
      While underneath the eaves
        The brooding swallows cling,
      As if to show me their sunny backs
        And twit me with the spring.

        “O, but to breathe the breath
      Of the cowslip and primrose sweet!—
        With the sky above my head,
      And the grass beneath my feet;
      For only one short hour
        To feel as I used to feel,
      Before I knew the woes of want
        And the walk that costs a meal!

        “O, but for one short hour!
          A respite however brief!
      No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
        But only time for Grief!
      A little weeping would ease my heart,
        But in their briny bed
      My tears must stop, for every drop
        Hinders needle and thread!

        “Seam, and gusset, and band,
      Band, and gusset, and seam,
          Work, work, work,
      Like the Engine that works by Steam!
      A mere machine of iron and wood
        That toils for Mammon’s sake—
      Without a brain to ponder and craze
        Or a heart to feel—and break!”

          —With fingers weary and worn,
        With eyelids heavy and red,
      A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
        Plying her needle and thread—
          Stitch! stitch! stitch!
        In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
      And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—
      Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—
      She sang this “Song of the Shirt!”


    • post script


      Note:  I hesitate ot include this summary of The Song of the Shirt . Why?   Because point has even made.

      Read below if you have time.

      “The Song of the Shirt” Summary

      • 1With fingers weary and worn,

        2With eyelids heavy and red,

        3A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

        4Plying her needle and thread—

        5Stitch! stitch! stitch!

        6In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

        7And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

        8She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”

        9“Work! work! work!

        10While the cock is crowing aloof!

        11And work—work—work,

        12Till the stars shine through the roof!

        13It’s O! to be a slave

        14Along with the barbarous Turk,

        15Where woman has never a soul to save,

        16If this is Christian work!

        17“Work—work—work

        18Till the brain begins to swim;

        19Work—work—work

        20Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

        21Seam, and gusset, and band,

        22Band, and gusset, and seam,

        23Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

        24And sew them on in a dream!

        25“O, Men, with Sisters dear!

        26O, Men! with Mothers and Wives!

        27It is not linen you’re wearing out,

        28But human creatures’ lives!

        29Stitch—stitch—stitch,

        30In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

        31Sewing at once with a double thread,

        32A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

        33“But why do I talk of Death?

        34That Phantom of grisly bone,

        35I hardly fear its terrible shape,

        36It seems so like my own—

        37It seems so like my own,

        38Because of the fasts I keep;

        39Oh! God! that bread should be so dear,

        40And flesh and blood so cheap!

        41“Work—work—work!

        42My Labour never flags;

        43And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

        44A crust of bread—and rags.

        45That shatter’d roof—and this naked floor—

        46A table—a broken chair—

        47And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

        48For sometimes falling there!

        49“Work—work—work!

        50From weary chime to chime,

        51Work—work—work!

        52As prisoners work for crime!

        53Band, and gusset, and seam,

        54Seam, and gusset, and band,

        55Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,

        56As well as the weary hand.

        57“Work—work—work,

        58In the dull December light,

        59And work—work—work,

        60When the weather is warm and bright—

        61While underneath the eaves

        62The brooding swallows cling

        63As if to show me their sunny backs

        64And twit me with the spring.

        65“O! but to breathe the breath

        66Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—

        67With the sky above my head,

        68And the grass beneath my feet

        69For only one short hour

        70To feel as I used to feel,

        71Before I knew the woes of want

        72And the walk that costs a meal!

        73“O! but for one short hour!

        74A respite however brief!

        75No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,

        76But only time for Grief!

        77A little weeping would ease my heart,

        78But in their briny bed

        79My tears must stop, for every drop

        80Hinders needle and thread!”

        81With fingers weary and worn,

        82With eyelids heavy and red,

        83A woman sat in unwomanly rags,

        84Plying her needle and thread—

        85Stitch! stitch! stitch!

        86In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

        87And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—

        88Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—

        89She sang this “Song of the Shirt!”

        ” data-highlight-when-focused=”true” data-toggle-drawer=”” style=”box-sizing: border-box; border-top-left-radius: 3px; border-top-right-radius: 3px; border-bottom-right-radius: 3px; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; padding-bottom: 2em;”>

        “The Song of the Shirt” Themes

        • 1With fingers weary and worn,

          2With eyelids heavy and red,

          3A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

          4Plying her needle and thread—

          5Stitch! stitch! stitch!

          6In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

          7And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

          8She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”

          9“Work! work! work!

          10While the cock is crowing aloof!

          11And work—work—work,

          12Till the stars shine through the roof!

          13It’s O! to be a slave

          14Along with the barbarous Turk,

          15Where woman has never a soul to save,

          16If this is Christian work!

          17“Work—work—work

          18Till the brain begins to swim;

          19Work—work—work

          20Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

          21Seam, and gusset, and band,

          22Band, and gusset, and seam,

          23Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

          24And sew them on in a dream!

          25“O, Men, with Sisters dear!

          26O, Men! with Mothers and Wives!

          27It is not linen you’re wearing out,

          28But human creatures’ lives!

          29Stitch—stitch—stitch,

          30In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

          31Sewing at once with a double thread,

          32A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

          33“But why do I talk of Death?

          34That Phantom of grisly bone,

          35I hardly fear its terrible shape,

          36It seems so like my own—

          37It seems so like my own,

          38Because of the fasts I keep;

          39Oh! God! that bread should be so dear,

          40And flesh and blood so cheap!

          41“Work—work—work!

          42My Labour never flags;

          43And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

          44A crust of bread—and rags.

          45That shatter’d roof—and this naked floor—

          46A table—a broken chair—

          47And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

          48For sometimes falling there!

          49“Work—work—work!

          50From weary chime to chime,

          51Work—work—work!

          52As prisoners work for crime!

          53Band, and gusset, and seam,

          54Seam, and gusset, and band,

          55Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,

          56As well as the weary hand.

          57“Work—work—work,

          58In the dull December light,

          59And work—work—work,

          60When the weather is warm and bright—

          61While underneath the eaves

          62The brooding swallows cling

          63As if to show me their sunny backs

          64And twit me with the spring.

          65“O! but to breathe the breath

          66Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—

          67With the sky above my head,

          68And the grass beneath my feet

          69For only one short hour

          70To feel as I used to feel,

          71Before I knew the woes of want

          72And the walk that costs a meal!

          73“O! but for one short hour!

          74A respite however brief!

          75No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,

          76But only time for Grief!

          77A little weeping would ease my heart,

          78But in their briny bed

          79My tears must stop, for every drop

          80Hinders needle and thread!”

          81With fingers weary and worn,

          82With eyelids heavy and red,

          83A woman sat in unwomanly rags,

          84Plying her needle and thread—

          85Stitch! stitch! stitch!

          86In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

          87And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—

          88Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—

          89She sang this “Song of the Shirt!”

          ” data-highlight-when-focused=”true” data-modal-title=”Theme” data-position=”1″ data-title=”Poverty and Labor in Victorian England” style=”box-sizing: border-box; border-radius: 3px 3px 3px 0px; padding-bottom: 1em;”>

          Poverty and Labor in Victorian England

          “The Song of the Shirt” spotlights the experiences of Victorian England’s working poor. The subject of the poem is a seamstress who works ceaselessly in inhumane, even torturous conditions simply to get by. This unending labor fills her with deep despair and hopelessness, even as “the Rich” remain oblivious to these struggles of the working class. Through the woman’s song, the poem seeks to expose the burdens of poverty and the dehumanizing labor conditions faced by poor workers in 19th-century England.

          The seamstress’s song emphasizes the repetitive, monotonous, and utterly exhausting nature of her labor. She complains that she works from morning, when the rooster crows, to night, when the stars shine, and that all day she can’t take even “one short hour” of rest. She doesn’t even have time to cry, she sings, because crying will slow her work. Ultimately, the seamstress works so long that she falls asleep over the buttons she sews, only to then keep on working “in a dream.”

          All this work takes an immense physical and mental toll on the seamstress. Her fingers are “weary and worn” while her “eyelids [are] heavy and red.” She feels like the “brooding swallows” outside taunt her, singing that they “twit me with the spring”—mocking her while she’s trapped inside her “blank” and unpleasant room. Her heart and mind, meanwhile, have grown “sick” and numb. Working to survive is, ironically, draining the seamstress of her very life: she says that she’s “Sewing at once, with a double thread, / A Shroud as well as a Shirt”—in other words, preparing for her own funeral—and beginning to look like the “terrible shape” of death itself.

          The seamstress’s misery, the poem implies, is the product of a society that values human life less than material goods—that treats “flesh and blood” as “cheap.” Those who buy her clothes pay no heed to the fact that it’s “not linen” they’re “wearing out” but rather “human creatures’ lives”—in other words, they don’t know or care that they’re benefitting from the torturous, endless labor of people in poverty. The seamstress even compares herself to a “slave,” indicating that she feels like society treats her as sub-human. Instead, she is a “creature” or a “prisoner” without “a soul to save.”

          By recording the seamstress’s song, the speaker of “The Song of the Shirt” thus exposes how miserable, dirty, and inhumane life can be for the working poor. Writing at the end, “Would that its tone could reach the Rich,” the speaker suggests that if others only listened to and cared about the seamstress, they might realize that people like her need—and indeed deserve—relief from the torments of poverty.

        • 1With fingers weary and worn,

          2With eyelids heavy and red,

          3A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

          4Plying her needle and thread—

          5Stitch! stitch! stitch!

          6In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

          7And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

          8She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”

          9“Work! work! work!

          10While the cock is crowing aloof!

          11And work—work—work,

          12Till the stars shine through the roof!

          13It’s O! to be a slave

          14Along with the barbarous Turk,

          15Where woman has never a soul to save,

          16If this is Christian work!

          17“Work—work—work

          18Till the brain begins to swim;

          19Work—work—work

          20Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

          21Seam, and gusset, and band,

          22Band, and gusset, and seam,

          23Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

          24And sew them on in a dream!

          25“O, Men, with Sisters dear!

          26O, Men! with Mothers and Wives!

          27It is not linen you’re wearing out,

          28But human creatures’ lives!

          29Stitch—stitch—stitch,

          30In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

          31Sewing at once with a double thread,

          32A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

          33“But why do I talk of Death?

          34That Phantom of grisly bone,

          35I hardly fear its terrible shape,

          36It seems so like my own—

          37It seems so like my own,

          38Because of the fasts I keep;

          39Oh! God! that bread should be so dear,

          40And flesh and blood so cheap!

          41“Work—work—work!

          42My Labour never flags;

          43And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

          44A crust of bread—and rags.

          45That shatter’d roof—and this naked floor—

          46A table—a broken chair—

          47And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

          48For sometimes falling there!

          49“Work—work—work!

          50From weary chime to chime,

          51Work—work—work!

          52As prisoners work for crime!

          53Band, and gusset, and seam,

          54Seam, and gusset, and band,

          55Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,

          56As well as the weary hand.

          57“Work—work—work,

          58In the dull December light,

          59And work—work—work,

          60When the weather is warm and bright—

          61While underneath the eaves

          62The brooding swallows cling

          63As if to show me their sunny backs

          64And twit me with the spring.

          65“O! but to breathe the breath

          66Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—

          67With the sky above my head,

          68And the grass beneath my feet

          69For only one short hour

          70To feel as I used to feel,

          71Before I knew the woes of want

          72And the walk that costs a meal!

          73“O! but for one short hour!

          74A respite however brief!

          75No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,

          76But only time for Grief!

          77A little weeping would ease my heart,

          78But in their briny bed

          79My tears must stop, for every drop

          80Hinders needle and thread!”

          81With fingers weary and worn,

          82With eyelids heavy and red,

          83A woman sat in unwomanly rags,

          84Plying her needle and thread—

          85Stitch! stitch! stitch!

          86In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

          87And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—

          88Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—

          89She sang this “Song of the Shirt!”

          ” data-highlight-when-focused=”true” data-modal-title=”Theme” data-position=”2″ data-title=”Gender Inequality in Victorian England” style=”box-sizing: border-box; border-radius: 3px 3px 3px 0px; padding-bottom: 2em;”>

          Gender Inequality in Victorian England

          The poor seamstress at the heart of “The Song of the Shirt” believes that her life is all the more difficult because she is a woman struggling to provide for herself in a society that devalues women’s labor. While the poem predominantly focuses on the burdens of poverty in general, Hood also suggests that those burdens are distributed unequally; Victorian society placed a premium on traditional femininity (especially physical beauty, grace, and obedience) and granted women fewer opportunities to become independent or self-sufficient—making it all the more difficult for those women who had to work to support themselves and their families.

          The subject of the poem toils over the kind of work (sewing clothing by hand) that many poverty-stricken women had to perform to survive in the 19th century. Hood in fact wrote the poem in honor of a widow named Mrs. Biddell, who sewed clothes and pawned the clothing she made in order to feed her starving children. The seamstress in the poem likewise constantly works her “needle and thread,” obsessing over “seam, and gusset, and band,” because this is the only way she can support herself. The seamstress doesn’t mention if she has children, but she does blame men for burdening her and other women with this tedious work, crying, “O, men, with sisters dear! / O, men, with mothers and wives!” She suggests that while women must work to feed their families, men often don’t realize—or care—how much their wives and sisters suffer as a result of these burdens.

          Because she works so hard, slaving over needle and thread, the seamstress seems to lose what makes her a woman. In the first and last stanzas, the speaker describes the seamstress as a “woman” in “unwomanly rags.” The seamstress obviously can’t take care of her physical appearance: she can hardly feed herself, let alone try to look “womanly.” The seamstress also complains that her work makes her feel like less than a woman—indeed, less than a human being. She claims that “human creatures’ lives” get worn out by these horrible, impoverished conditions. Lack of food and rest make the seamstress look like death itself, a “phantom of grisly bone.” Evidently, the physical toll of the seamstress’s work is almost more than she can endure.

          Ultimately, “The Song of the Shirt” demonstrates that very poor women must bear such extreme burdens that they cease to really be women at all (in a Victorian sense of the word, that is), becoming instead “benumbed” and “weary” slaves.


  • EPISODE 862 CONTRAST HOTTEST DAY IN 120,OOO YEARS WITH WNTER DAY 2013

    EPISODE  862   CONTRAST HOTTEST DAY IN 120,OOO YEARS WITH WINTER DAY 2013


    alan skeoch
    Dec/ 13, 2013   A COLD WITER DAY
    JULY 27, 2023   HOTTEST DAY IN 120,000 YEARS


    EPISODE  862   CONTRAST HOTTEST DAY IN 120,OOO YEARS WITH SINTER DAY 2013 

    July 27, 2023
    We are all sweltering today/   Hottest day in 120,000 years apparently.   Made me think. What was the world like 120,000 years ago?
    “The temperature of Greenland had gone up between 5 nd 10 degrees.”   The result?  Huge icebergs were falling into the Atlantic Ocean
    and mean water levels were going up.  Climate change is scary

    So this photo essay is designed to cool all of us down.   What was Toronto like on Dec. 13, 2013?    It was darn cold.
    Molly and Jack were rolling in the snow while Andrew needed to get the snow blower working so we could get to the street.
    The farm was snowed in.   Beautiful but cold.

    We  drove to the heart of Toronto.  To the corner of Gladstome and Sylvan  Avenues where we once rented a cold series of rooms on 
    send floor of a victorian house….inside Dufferin Park but now demolished  and snow covered.

    Why send this  episode?   Maybe some of you do not have air conditioning.  These pictures might cool you down.


    alan



    Our house once stood here…   The house was as close to Duffern racetrack as Dad could get.
    That is aorher story.


  • EPISODE 861 THE HORSE MANURE CRISIS OF 1900…SOLVED BY HENRY FORD

    EPISODE  861     THE HORSE MANURE CRISIS OF 1900…SOLVED BT HENRY FORD 


    alan skeoch’ july 26, 2023

  • EPISODE 850 Do you like kittens? Take look at ‘CHELSEA BUN

    EPISODE  860     Do you like kittens?  Take look at ‘CHELSEA BUN


    alan skeoch
    Buy 23 , 2023

    Elizabeth Porter and Marjorie got into a discussion at the Porter/Kilner farm sale way back in March…that  was the day  CHELSEA BUN became a family member.  

    Today, four months later, Chelsea Bun leapt from the floor to my knee upsetting hot tea on my shirt, pants, underwear and very sensitive 
    flesh.  Why did she do it?  Because Elizabeth Porter installed  springs in her back legs. Why did Chelsea do ir?
    She wants to be loved by us all including Woody.









    TAKE  LOOK AT CHELSEA BUN