In my somewhere town

It would be difficult for yesterdays folk to recognise the town never mind the world we have now. What might they make of those who spoke in the air to themselves or the shrill funny ring-tones that stopped their world in a flash.

Rumbling roaring roving, (thank god not revolving)
traffic slices our somewhere town whilst I don't suppose their inhabitants give us a thought as we flee through the gaps and the fumes that circle our windfarm and rubbish dump.

Horace was born in 1915. He started school when he was three; the school was burnt down when he was eleven. He told how he was one of sixteen who passed the eleven plus but didn't go as there was only one place available and that the pretty young girl from the bakery had that.
His music teacher harvested Horaces skills, not singing or playing a musical instrument but working in the teachers vegetable plot where he harvested his efforts completely.

His father worked for a company digging iron stone for a company where he toiled in an open pit. He said how he worked from 6.30am to 4pm and had to walk through garden fields both ways.
Horaces parents worked for a local butcher as cleaners. His dad was responsible for feeding the livestock, kept in three fields, until the gun appeared.
Horaces mind was still quick and memories well lit as he sat in the house where most of his life had been played out. It was the groan of his acheing body and balance that let him down; this lovely man from our yesterday town.
After school he said how he would deliver the meat and visited our neighbouring towns. He took meat to Widows Row for christmas and was given three pence for delivery.

After the First World War, his dad being unable to find work, he cycled to Peterborough as he said there were, of course, no hand-outs then.
Horace told how he would go to the cinema, the tuppeny rush, and how the picture would frequently break down giving ample opportunity to shreak and yell. He said he saw a lot of cowboy and indian films and thought he saw his first talking picture when he was in his teens.
He said how his dad belonged to 'The Friendly Society' which covered all medical bills.
When Horace started work he was employed in the Finishing room of a shoe factory and employed as a 'bottom scourer' and was paid two pounds a week for his time.
He spoke in a limited way about the war but did say he worked a twenty-four hour stint guarding bomb or petrol dumps sunk in the ground. He said they were issued with two blankets. During the winter they used their coats to keep warm.
When he married some years later he paid eight shillings for a house that was later condemned.

A kind,gentle man our Horace whose memories and actions still live on in our somewhere town of today.