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I came across your website quite by
chance- though I am in a bit of a maudling-had a few to drink-mood,
and I feel hugely nostalgic.
I grew up in Ripley, but Mum's dad, Bill Brown, was a miner at Loscoe
pit. {My other grandfather, Albert Dean mined at Codnor, but I was
not so close to him).
I spent many hours as a child, talking to my grandad about his years
down the pit and, of course, his experiences on the Somme. He ran
away to join up at 15, and I think he probably, in his naivety,
saw the war as a welcome escape from the hard work underground.
Miraculously, he returned, and by the time war broke out again,
Mum says he refused, like most other miners, to cower in an air-raid
shelter! Said he spent enough time underground, and if the worst
happened he'd rather die in his own bed!
As I child, I used to accompany him to get his pit pension, and
just seeing your website reminded me of those days- the magic comradery,
all the old men in their flat caps greeting one another, "Ey-oop,
'ow t'er gooin' on?" (I brought a university friend from the
south to meet my family, and she didn't understand a word my grandad
said!) It was like coming home- which seems a bit pretentious I
know, but who cares?! I live in the south myself now, and have-
heaven forbid- two southern children!
Grandad only had one lung when he died. What wasn't damaged by the
coal dust was destroyed by the Senior Service fags and, eventually,
a continuous pipe! My enduring memory now is of Grandad climbing
the hill to the betting shop- conveniently close to the pub- and
stopping every few minutes to lean on his stick, gasping to catch
his breath. Mum gave me his pipe when he died, at the grand old
age of 84, and the smell of it can still reduce us both to tears.
He was a fabulous old man, and I still miss him!
Karen Dean-Arshadi
Hertford
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