My Misspent Youth

Memory can be a funny thing.  Often I find it easier to recall what I was up to 80 years ago than yesterday.

While I know my childhood years were during tough times, to my recollection I enjoyed a happy boyhood growing up in Carshalton, Surrey.

Although the Great Depression was in full swing, Dad always managed to find work in his trade as a bricklayer. 

It helped that Mum had been a cook before marriage and was able to rustle up a good meal for our large family out of anything that was on hand.

I particularly remember some good times spent with Dad.  Although I'd eventually become a diehard Palace supporter, I considered it great luck indeed if he took me along when he was able to scrounge tickets to see Chelsea, his favourite football club.

He'd bring along a pocketful of walnuts to munch on during the game and would make sure to save the shells.

On the way home we'd stop off at the markets to visit the working man's shoe store on High Street, where all the Wellington boots would be lined up outside.

Dad would carefully drop the walnut shells into the toe of all the left boots and when some poor soul came by to try on a pair, we'd watch as he'd put his right foot in first, stand up to test the fit, then pull on the left boot.

We'd stand across the road waiting for the howl as their tender tootsies hit the broken walnut shells. That's when I learned the meaning of the phrase "hopping mad".

Unfortunately, we didn't get away with this joke for long since Dad's loud guffaws gave him away to the shopkeeper.

Although funds were tight, I managed to find ways to scrape up enough pocket money to partake in all my favourite activities.

At the age of ten I began chopping up the wood ends that Dad brought home from building sites and then selling it to neighbours as kindling to start the fires in their kitchen or  living room.

Another means of procuring some cash was to scour the streets for horse dung, which wasn't too difficult as there was very little motor delivery and horse drawn vans were used for all the back streets in those days.

I'd scrape up the manure and carry it in a canvas bag around to various neighbours for use in their gardens.  I could get up to a sixpence depending on the size of the dung patties.

My school chums, cousins and I would dress up in costume come November to petition residents and shopkeepers for "a penny for the Guy" so we could have a rousing Guy Fawkes night bonfire.

This same bedraggled group would raise a few coppers during Christmastime by warbling Carols outside the more well to do homes. I'm not sure if we were thrown a penny or two in praise of our efforts or in an attempt to make us stop singing.

Sometimes we'd try serenading churchgoers coming out of All Saints Anglican, but didn't find that so profitable as we were usually run off by the Reverend. 

I was eleven when I got a steady after-school job in Wallington delivering fish and chips.  This was a treat because the shop owner supplied the dandiest bicycle with a large basket at the front.

While the pay wasn't great, it was a worthwhile venture due to the tips I managed to get, along with a few pats on the head from grateful customers for my quick service.

Best of all, if there was unsold fish and chips at the end of the day, I was allowed to devour my share.  Oh happy days!

All this hard work meant I was able to afford admission to the Carshalton Cinema.

One of my favourite film heroes was airman Tailspin Tommy.  I never could have imagined that I'd eventually meet Jackie Coogan, one of the stars of those films, while we were both serving in the Far East during the war.

Another favourite was American cowboy Buck Jones, who apparently hailed from Indiana, though I think he must have had a Welsh father, since every "Jones" I've ever known was from Wales.

The cinema was always full of shouting kids throwing things at the screen and each other.  It may have been complete bedlam, yet we were always able to follow what was happening on the screen.

I was in my early teens when World War II was declared and that was the end of my childhood, school years and endeavours to earn pocket money.

Pity – I felt sure I was on my way to becoming a millionaire!

Ed Pearson

The Name Game

It's finally that time of year when the bulbs in the garden start to force themselves to the surface and roses begin to bloom. 

Likewise, our gallant womenfolk also blossom during the process of producing beautiful babies.

During this wait, loving parents ponder the names they'll bestow upon their precious charges, but I'm afraid many slip up in this all too sensitive task.  

Too often, the poor little mites wind up saddled with awkward names, such as Bartholomew, Gaylord and Hortense. These unfortunate youngsters spend the rest of their lives trying to escape from these burdensome monikers.

Boys are more often faced with this dilemma and are accepting of nicknames at an early age.  However, this can also backfire when the nickname may be even worse.

I give you the case of "Pickle" Hunt.  Mr. Hunt senior was an industrious plumber who wasn't willing to spend his hard earned money on taking his son to a professional for haircuts.  However, not being an accomplished barber himself, by the time Mr. Hunt had finished a short back and sides, his poor son's head resembled a pickled onion. Let's just say Pickle was not proud.

Then there was "Jammy" O'Neil, who was a late riser.  Jammy could be seen most mornings racing through the streets munching on his breakfast of a slice of bread and jam in an attempt to avoid a caning for being late to school.  Problem was, when he'd sit down at his desk there would be a residue of jam around his lips and chops, so he'd end up getting the cane for his slovenly appearance.

Jammy was not alone in his quest for speed, which brings me to "Roller" Turner.  He was the proud owner of a pair of roller skates and used to roll around the streets to the threat of the general public.

Our gang was a sporting bunch.  Most streets in our neighborhood were cul-de-sacs and we'd play cricket, field hockey and footy in the middle of the road.  Local mothers would use our "pitch" to walk their babies around in their prams.

These considerate mothers would do their utmost not to interfere with our games. Then Roller would come careening by on his wheels.  If he got too close to the protective mums, they would pull an umbrella out from under the pram and give him a mighty whack.

When I first came to Canada in the early 1950s, I used to watch television expecting to see Roller on the ice in a hockey game.  Alas, he seems to have missed his chance and since he'd be about 92 now I doubt he'll be taking up ice hockey any time soon.


Lastly, there was "Comic" Friend.  He was a nice lad, but kids can be cruel and we had good fun at his expense due to his problem with the pronunciation of even the simplest words.

Still, we let him be part of the gang even though his dad bought him a large, very cheap, pocket watch for his birthday. You see, while the watch kept good time, it had a very loud tick.  In fact, if you were traveling on a double-decker bus you'd always know if Comic was onboard, even if you were sitting upstairs and him down, because you could hear that god-awful ticking.

Attending school was hazardous just before World War II broke out, being that teachers were not as kindly as they are nowadays.  Apart from caning youngsters for the most minor of offenses, some teachers were just downright mean.

It was a mixed class of boys and girls, with boys on the right hand side and girls on the left.  Our teacher ran a strict ship.  If a lad offended, Sir would creep up behind the boy, grab his ear tightly, pull him out of his seat and drag him across the room to be plunked down at a girl's desk.

While the teacher thought he was handing out a punishment, it was actually a pleasure.  Sometimes you'd find yourself sitting beside the lovely, albeit unfortunately named, Sybil Grit.  Not only would Sybil help us with grammar and division, but she'd happily slip us a couple of sweets from her mother's candy store upon our arrival.

It was almost worth a sore ear!

Ed Pearson