healthy diet, with all natural produce and no insecticides or chemical sprays used during the growing. There was no such evil as cancer in those times, so we were better off in that respect. We were rarely ill.
My father used to go over to the mainland in March and April and pull a weed called bogbine out of a lake. It was big, with long stalks, and heâd bring it back over to the island. My mother would boil it, put treacle on it and bottle it. We were forced to drink a glass of that every morning before we went to school. It was disgusting to taste, but you had to take it. They said it purified the blood and thatâs why people werenât getting sick.
No one went hungry on the island, despite the poverty, although food was always dished out sparingly. It was shared among the little community, so there was comfort in knowing that your family, neighbours and friends would rally round when the going got tough. If a neighbourâs cow was in calf and had gone dry, youâd share your milk with that family. We all looked out for each other. We always had that security. Everyone made sure to take care of the old people who lived alone in their houses. When the weather was good, family members would go out once or twice a week to shop on the mainland. Whoever was going out for the groceries would always call to the old people to see if they needed anything. Sure all theyâd be asking for was a dozen of soft biscuits, which youâd get for a penny. When Iâd go out, Iâd take back seven or eight dozen biscuits for all the old folk, and that would make them so happy. Weâd also do chores for them, like bringing in their turf and lighting their home fires for baking and warmth. Youâd take them milk after the cows were milked.
I had an aunt living on the island, a small but hardy little woman dressed all in black, who was 90 years old and still living on her own. I took milk to her every night after we milked our cow. Sheâd always be sitting alone by the turf fire when I called with the milk. Thereâd be a pan hanging on the crook over the fire and a cake of bread baking in it. A little enamel mug would be sitting among the hot coals and tea brewing in it. Then sheâd have her tea and the hot bread straight from the pan while I sat and chatted with her for company. No old person ever had to worry about being left to fend for themselves. They were all loved and treated with respect.
My paternal granny was one of the old people. She lived till she was very, very old. Her little cottage was a good distance from our home, and when she reached old age she wasnât able to walk down to see us. Granny loved to visit us, so weâd be sent to fetch her in a wheelbarrow. Weâd gather round and lift her into it. Then sheâd lie back with her legs sticking out over the end and hold on to the sides for dear life as we wheeled her down the path in full view of everyone. It wasnât a very dignified mode of transport for a lady, but she didnât seem to mind. Thatâs just the way it was in those times. You had to be inventive and use whatever tool was available to get the job done.
Granny would stay for the day, eat with us and enjoy every mouthful of fish on her plate. The fish was boiled, or if it was herring it would be roasted on a grill suspended over the open fire in the kitchen. It was accompanied by a big, black pot of potatoes, which were also boiled over the fire and set aside until the herring was ready to be eaten. When her belly was full and her time was up, Granny would be put back in the wheelbarrow and taken home again. Sheâd have a smile on her face as the barrow rolled along the stony path. Weâd take turns to wheel it, and there was always someone walking each side in case it toppled over. You wouldnât want your granny falling out of a wheelbarrow.
My mother always prepared lovely meals for us. In her young days, before she got married,