Tea times, hops and memories

Rain, rain, rain... Four more days we are told... sigh... Perhaps it will change with Memorial weekend...
This is the kind of weather we sit around with a nice cuppa tea (let's not forget a little sweet or two...) and we talk of anything that comes to mind, most often than not the past. Oops! Perhaps we are getting older...

One of the many memories my husband has is of summer time spent helping to harvest hops. Many city people in England hired themselves to work in the fields. Each year vast numbers of men, women together with their children would travel by train from the Black Country (Note: The Black Country is a loosely defined area of the English West Midlands conurbation, to the north and west of Birmingham, and to the south and east of Wolverhampton) to spend a month or so "hop-picking".

It made a pleasant break from the grimy industrial towns where they lived and gave the children a much-needed holiday. Each family would bring its possessions in a large tin trunk or hamper, and the trains would be met at local stations by horse-drawn wagons. On their return the wagons would again convey them to the station.

And so it seems Mum and Dad engage their family to help out, thus enabling them to save a few pounds for a real vacation and everyone had to pitch in, even the little ones. It meant long days in the fields, sandwiches and hot thermos of tea shared in the sun...

That particular summer after a long day's work, Dad hanged his jacket on the back of the door next to the bed. In his pocket was their only cash.
Afraid of the dark, my husband's youngest brother had a candle on the night table and yes, it was lit. A short time later, he reached out and opened the door still feeling insecure thus exposing the jacket to the flame...

Now, when you are 6 years old and you see flames where you should not and just know you are guilty, you do not say anything at first. However soon after Dad smelled smoke and looked to inquire as to the source and found his jacket aflame. The fire was quickly extinguished but part of the money had burned...

After applying his hand to his youngest son's backside Dad resolved to check with the bank to see if they would honour the monetary value. Luckily for him, the serial numbers had not been damaged thus enabling him to replace the money.

This story always seems to come up. It is a most memorable one for sure, not the least for the youngest one in the family!