best of breed: SEQUJEL TO THE AMISH SCHOOL AUCTION: july 20,2019

AMISH SCHOOL  FUND AUCTION

JULY 20, 2019  MILVERTON, ONTARIO

BIG TIN BOOT WAS BEST OF’BREED’

Just for fun look at these pictures  with a sharp eye.  Look for what you think is
the best of breed…i.e. what you would want in your living room.

Lighten up!


Now this is just my opinion but if I  was  asked to choose the best of  breed in this 
auction I think the big tin cowboy boot would fill the bill.  it sold  for around $200
to a man of course.  I tried to catch up to him to get a picture but he was moving
as fast a Clint Eastwood in a shoot em up movie.  Maybe he was embarrassed.


Then I could be wrong.  This huge ‘man trap’ must have been used to trap bears long ago
when farmers were clearing the land.  These traps  are illegal I am told.  Bidding was
feverish.   I think a Democrat from the US House of Representative was the winning
bidder.  He hustled south.  No, I have no idea why he wanted the trap.   Fun to guess though.


THIRTY YEARS AGO we were  buying these dinosaurs of the harvest….thrashing  machines.  We even had a Lobsinger like this one.  Sadly the tarpaulin
we used to cover it from rain,  sleet and  snow was not up to the job.  Water slipped in and the wood rotted.   Eventually we hd to set it on  fire but there is
an upside to the story as a local farmer borrowed our Lobsinger for one last harvest.   That made us feel a little better.  Since then we have shrunk our tastes
to fanning mills, turnip pulpier, corn shellers, apple pulpers and  cutting boxes.


Hats tell a story.  The woman in black  is not Amish or Mennonite.  The boys clearly are.   The hats tell the one from the other.


This is my friend  Tom Schell whis is  an avid collector of hay carts…the kind that ran on track high up
in most Ontario barns.  They were used in the days when horses drew  wagons loaded with cured  hay
right into the barn threshing floors.  Then a massive hay force was dropped like a twin harpoon into
the hay load and by a  series of  ropes  and pulleys and hay cars  the loose hay was piled in hay mows.
Tom has done that….

Now Tom was also a collector  of fanning mills  which, when he downsized his tastes, he delivered the mills
to our farm.

Tom is a contented man.  Witness the smile.

 the Amish farms are neat and orderly….neat as a pin might be  the term although I don’t know the origin 
of the term.  How can a  pin be neat?


These pin up girl posters were a little out of place at the auction….too much leg showing.








We bought this elevated  water tough.   Single board  construction.  Tight as a drum.  
Of course it could also have been a feed bin.


alan skeoch
July 20, 2019


JACK IS A LAID BACK KIND OF GRANDSON: YOU BOUGHT WHAT?

YOU BOUGHT WHAT?

(JACK is a laid back kind of person)

alan skeoch
July 20, 2019

My grandmother regularly,  in the 1950’s, sent me poems by Edna Jacques that she
carefully cut out of the Toronto Star in spite of her advanced Parkisons’s
disease.   Today, july 20, 2019, I thought of her and was reminded of a snippet
from one of those poems

“If you put your nose to the grindstone rough
And hold it down there long enough
In time you’ll say there’s no such thing
as tails that wage or birds that sing.”

(I imposed the ‘tails that wag’ as I forget what Edna wrote but
the meaning is the same”

The reminder came from Jackson Skeoch, our grandson, who is  best described
by the expression ‘laid back’ but also he is unpredictable at times.  Today was 
one of those occasions.

Andrew, Jack and I were attending the massive Amish School Auction sale near Milverton,
Ontario.   Piles and piles of things.  Long lines of items  laid out on a recently threshed  grain
field.   Thousands of people.


“Jack, look at all the horses and buggies….”






“Seems everyone is out for a good time, Jack.”




“Lots of people here grandpa…all after the same kind of ancient junk you like so much.”

“Take a really close look, Jack…there is more going on here than just the auction…more
than the bidding wars for hay ladders, crocks, wagon wheels, roosters, horses, picks and shovels.”

“What else?”

“Look around…you will see.”

So Jack disappeared while Andrew and I were bidding and buying wood water trough, 
fireman’s reeled  hose cart from the 19th century, ancient anchors rescued from the
bottom of the St Lawrence river, barrels, pumps, a boat, boxes of plumbing fittings…etc.”

“Where is jack?”

“No idea.”



“I hope he notices those Amish girls…there is a reason they are all dressed up
in their brightest dresses.  This is a meeting ground.”

“Jack will notice.  He’s seventeen with a keen eye.”




“Where have you been jack?”

“Over with the rabbits…bought four of them.”

“You bought four rabbits?”

“Yep,  waved  my hand at a fly and the guy yelled  ‘Sold’…no cage…cost
me $12.  Nearly had a box full of pigeons as well. What can we put them in?”


“Did you say no cage?”

“Yep, what can we put them in…you must have something grandpa…how about
that $2 chicken crate?”

“Jack you make me laugh…all the time…maybe you can wheel one of my purchases…wicker
baby carriage and two old  saddles to the truck.  I will give you the cage.”

“Sure.”

“Did you notice the girls?”

“What girls?”

(He made that comment with the usual twinkle in his eye.  He saw them…and they
must have seen him.  Both sexes were dressed to be seen.)





“Grandma, there are four rabbits in this crate…see the shining eye of one?”



“Jack, you bought four rabbits?”  said Marjorie with hooping  laughter.

“Dad had to wait hours to get those cages.  Cost more than the rabbits.”

“Males or females?”

“How would I know, Grandma.”  And Marjorie proceeded  to determine the
sex of the rabbits…a very tricky thing to do…three males and one female…enough for a brood to come
along.

“What will Julie think when you get home with these rabbits.”

“Remains to be seen, Grandma….they will be company for the dogs.”




“Got them with the swat of fly, Grandma.”

alan skeoch
July 20, 2019


COYOTES ARE HERE TO STAY


COYOTES ARE HERE TO STAY

alan skeoch
july 2019

“Marjorie, the coyote is  here…right behind  you.”

“How do you know?”
“Saw him dance down the street as if he was Prince Harry”
“When?”
“Right now, 8.15 a.m. on July 16…Glenburnie Road, Mississauga…got a picture
quick…here he is…”



“Woody was barking his head off just behind my ear as we looked out the truck window.”
“What was  the coyote doing?”
“Eating what was  left of a dead squirrel that a car squashed.”
“Did  he hear Woody?”
“Sure…but did not give a damn.”
“Where did he go?”
“Ducked into the Lack place…(next door to us)…he was about 10 feet from
you as you came out our lane.”
“I think he knows me…loves me or hates  me.”
“Where did  you get that crazy, off the wall, idea?”



“Alan, do you  know what happened earlier this morning…while you were asleep?”
“Nope.”
“Well there was  quite a fuss on the street.  A man came jogging down Glenburnie with two full
grown Labradors…and right behind them came the coyote…almost at their heels.”
“A  coyote could  not pull  down a  Labrador.”
Alan, you were not there.  The man was scared…running.  He stopped to throw
two rocks at the coyote but the stones  did not phase the coyote one bit. He loped
along right behind them.”
“What did  you do?”
“I got in the truck and tried to put it between the coyote and the man.  The coyote
just circled the truck which drove Woody wild.  Barking like there is no tomorrow.”
Woody  probably remembers the coyote that tore a strip off his ass.”

“Don’t make light of it Alan.  The lady next door said  three coyotes  surrounded her
when she took the baby for a walk.”
“The only coyote I have seen lately was the cute animal sleeping in the tangle of
weeds at the back of our lot.”
“He sleeps  there all day long…drives Woody mad…Lucky that half our lot is fenced.”
“No matter what you say Marjorie, I like the coyotes…beautiful animals…great dancers…
intelligent …survivors.”
“”Alan, they are predators.”


“Predators…Shmeditors…they are fascinating.  And they were here before we were here.   They have
a right of residency.”
“Dr. Hawrluk (local  dentist) opened his  front door yesterday and a coyote was standing there.”
“Maybe the coyote had a toothache.”
“Don’t be silly…”
“Coyotes do not have dental plans…rely on charity…but they have good teeth
normally…gnawing on squirrels, rabbits, raccoons and, if they are lucky, wayward cats…the 
gnawing keeps their teeth in good  shape.”
“Alan, stop that drivel…this is serious business.”
“Sorry.  Just trying to make the point that coyotes have become part of our 
urban landscape.”


“They move so fast…so delicatlely.   Look at the pictures I took…almost seem like mirages…like there
was no coyote present…just blurred images.”

(Marjorie, talking to Woody our dog, as she often does)_
“Alan would not say that Woody if that coyote tore a strip off his bum, would he?”

“Woody cannot speak our language Marjorie.”

“His tail is wagging…he agrees with me.”

“Woody can spot a coyote before we can…maybe the smell.”

“He does  not love those creatures  as you seem to do…proving
he has  a higher level of intelligence than you, Alan.”

“Probably true…”

alan skeoch
July 2019

FIRST SUNDAY IN JULY: OUR LIFE IS FULL OF LEAVES…ETC. JULY 6, 2019

AHH! THE FIRST SUNDAY IN JULY.

(Of all the Sundays of the year…52 of them…the first Sunday in July is the most dazzling to Marjorie and me.)

alan  skeoch
July 7, 2019

So let’s make a  game of it.  SEE IF YOU CAN FIND

1) Our farm attic  gothic window with stained glass and top hat boxes.  (easy…first p;icture0
2) Our front lawn in Toronto
3) Our big swam with water lilies
4) Our new crop of flax
5) Our other family farm with stone silo
6) Our wilderness trails
7) Our trip through Limehouse…cross RR bridge, up escarpment road
8) Our peculiar collection of shapes stuffed in the old green house
9) Our living room in the old  Freeman farm house
10) Our effort to grow milk weed for the Monarch butterflies
11) Our days of glory on the football field … yes, both Marjorie and i …she was
an SPS cheerleader but no picture
12) Our stuffed porcupine (on a beam, high above the guy in plaid shirt)
13) Our walnut trees
14) Our water trough vegetable gardens
15) Our favourite game on a board made by hand
16)Our  version of “The Tangled Garden”
17) Our almost forgotten International W6 tractor
18) Our abandoned  threshing machine hidden on a tree clad hill
(once belonged to Angus McEchern on farm next to ours)
19)  Our fanning mill, our pump organ, our wood wheeled wagon
20) Our recently refurbished cream separator
21) Our poppies that appeared without our knowledge but are welcome
22) Our gravel clad bridge between the two big ponds
23) Our old  three furrow drag plough 
24) Ourselves
25) Our old farmhouse beside our ancient walnut tree

IF YOU CANNOT BE BOTHERED…THEN JUST FLIP THROUGH THE PICS…THEY ARE RELAXING.

alan and marjorie









RAVENS…ARE VERY SMART THEN WHY ARE THEY NOT HOUSEBROKEN? JULY 5, 2019


IF  RAVENS  ARE SO SMART…THEN WHY ARE THEY NOT HOUSEBROKEN?

alan  skeoch
July 5, 2019

A pair of ravens have assumed they have the right to raise their young in our barn.   This year they chose
a portion high above our prop storage shed.  The nest is  huge, maybe 3 feet in diameter made of sticks  
so large it is a wonder the ravens could lift and weave them into a nest.

They are smart birds.  They know who we are … recognize our faces …and make raucous greeting sounds
when we have the nerve to peek into the drive shed  which they have claimed as theirs.

I wish they did not feed their young  baby birds plundered and  murdered from other birds but we, as humans,
do the same.  Seems that chicken has become a main course for all of us.

But the ravens are a problem.   How do I put this delicately?


Notice how perfectly they keep their feathered bodies.  Very neat.  Like tuxedo class of humans.  Right

But they are not perfect.


“Listen, bud,” quoth the raven, “Mind your own business.  We live here now.”

“Well, Mr. and  Mrs. Raven, your chosen home could do  with a toilet.  Instead you have used
all my prize rental goods as if it was a place to slather with your excrement.”


The farm is  quite pretty…complete with a hand made field stone silo dating back to 1870



Yet look what the ravens have done….


Could be worse, I guess, as the Ravens could have chosen the farm house for their summer home.


This has become their rearing shed…sadly.


Seems they also use their own nest as a toilet.


Now I must face the clean up…Yuck!


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