Another Place And Another Time

Another Place And Another Time

by Paul McCann

Sometimes I tend to drift away back in time and think of my childhood days growing up in a small village in North Belfast . I remember the smiling faces of all those friendly people who went about doing the same things everyday . Like the lamplighter men who came to turn on and off the gas lamps around the streets before they went electric.

‘What about young Angela today . So you’re off to catch the bus for school . “

I remember him saying to the girl passing by underneath  him as he was half way up the lamp with his  bicycle resting to one side . She never replied because she was told never to talk to strangers but he didn’t know that .

 I remember the corner boys who loved to sing for the passers by .

“How is young Rita doing today.“

One of the boys said as she nodded her head and said nothing as she walked down the street . Another of the boys looked at her and said ,

“You’re not talking again Rita ?”

They all noticed how she would blush and the way she would quicken her walking pace into a bit of a skip and run . Some of the boys on the corner then would always give her a whistle as she passed by every day  . They often liked to chant their songs that they make up on the spot . They could all harmonize and as they say what came out was the music of what happens .

Life was just like that where I came from . We said what we meant and we meant what we said and everybody knew where we stood .

The coalmen delivered bags of coal on their back and walk through the house to the back yard where they would dump the coal in the corner and as they walked back through the house they would take off their cap and say then back down the path to their truck out front .

The milkmen carried bottles of milk up to the doors of houses . The same people ordered the same things everyday and for as long as they had lived there nothing ever changed

The priest who would visit the elderly and sick would be seen walking through the streets with the holy communion tucked away inside a little silver box that he kept there close to his heart in the inside pocket of his overcoat  . Some people would almost genuflect as he passed them by .

Then there was the man with the horse and cart who would come around the streets with a grinding stone to sharpen up their kitchen knives , scissors and hedge clippers for a small fee . He also had on his cart an urn of buttermilk that he would gladly fill into empty bottles for a penny a pint.

Then there was the man with his hobby horse roundabout who sometimes came around and set up in one of the streets or in some spare ground . His roundabout could play music for the children as they would sit there on top of the little horses that went around and around .

Then the was the doctors would come with their bag to visit people in their homes .

A cup ot tea was always offered and accepted .

“Where’s all the children Mary ?

He might ask the mother or Father  .

But they had no idea where they were because they were hiding up the coal hole and in with the shoes under the sink or underneath the bed upstairs for they all had  seen the doctor coming up the path and had to run away in fear just in case they would be getting a jab with a needle . Most of the times all he wanted to do was to check out their temperature and listen to their breathing but those crafty little kids  weren’t taking any chances . As soon as the doctor left the house out they would all come out from their little hidey holes .

The breadman also drove through the streets delivering freshly baked bread and scones to those who had placed their order . In those days the produce people came to your door and no one needed to go to supermarkets for their groceries but that was in another place and another time .

The End

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