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Delia Alexander, who now resides in Canada, was brought up in Britain and recalls the particularly harsh English winter of 1947. She was born at Silverton Crescent, (off Tenby Road), Moseley, Birmingham.
I remember the overnight snowstorms, when more dumped snow only added to the already towering snow banks, in many cases stretching halfway up the sides of the houses; their militant-like building being the result of numerous shovels lifted daily in an attempt to keep the sidewalks cleared!
People everywhere lined up in their Wellington boots, sloshing about in well-trodden paths for whatever few fresh groceries were available. Memories of men crying out 'Logs for sale' from the back of any kind of truck they could lay their hands on.
Many of the older generation whose memories were far too recent from the 'make do and mend' war days arose to the occasion, as with good humour they fell into shovelling and mopping up operations! Needless to say there were plenty of others, although suffering as much, were not prepared to do so in silence and set about throwing the blame on anyone or anything, even God and the British Government for the foul weather condition!
Not so was the case for us kids, who of course wished it would go on snowing forever! A simple trip to the nearest grocery store for bread and milk became a major expedition, such journey being nonetheless vital since the milkman with his horse drawn buggy had long since given up trekking, fearful of the icy slopes leading up to the housing estate where I lived!
I recall one time when my mother thought it a good idea to put the money plus shopping list in my Wellington boots, thus leaving my hands free to push aside any wayward clumps of ice or snow falling into my path from heavily snow laden rooftops. The plan proved to be all in vain since the elusive money, probably due to my fast gait, somehow worked its way out through the top of my boots. I returned home minus the few grocery items I'd been sent for and, even though my mother practically ripped apart the Wellington boots, nothing was found!
I was not, however, whipped soundly and put straight to bed since we had a very kind neighbour who came to the rescue when told of our plight. A familiar tap on the adjoining wall of our semi-detached houses, no less effective than the most thought out Morse coded message, brought Nelly from next door to our aid lending us both bread and milk until the next day.
Needless to say such was the blessings of those times that neighbours were of the utmost help to each other!
There didn't appear to be any sort of regular pattern to the wild weather conditions experienced at that time and every so often, quite unexpected, a mysteriously dark velvet-like evening as dark and deep as any unexplored lagoon would present itself. I seem to remember that most kids, around by where I lived anyway, were allowed to stay out playing until quite late in the evening. Much laughing would ensue and, as we talked and played under the lamplight's glow, we would watch in wonder as the frosty whiteness magically turned our plain winter 'things' into dazzling garments as though speckled with sequins!
If we stayed still long enough we might hear other youths' excitable voices in the distance as they sledded on newly created icy slides. In the light of the street lamp we might sight snow flurries, more often than not being blown from rooftops by the wind. But childlike, never doubting for one minute that this was a sign of more snow to come, with eager anticipation we returned home to our beds to dream about our next day's fun in the snow!
I recall waking up to the chilly feeling of a snowy morning (no central heating then!) when we could hear fretful sounds coming from mother, who would be sorting through the shoe closet directly on course to match five pairs of feet with ten matching Wellington boots! I recall the heavenly smells of tea and toast or, if the milk supply was plenty, a choice of porridge oats drizzled with Tate and Lyle Syrup; we ate with reverence as more often than not we watched a new batch of snow falling outside.
All this, and in the hearth would be a previously lit morning's log fire now burning brightly. All thanks to the efforts of a caring father before he went to work and made his 'Good King Wenceslas' footprints in the virginal snow!
Before venturing outside, warm hand-knitted scarves would be wrapped around our heads and ears, and unwrapped almost immediately we were out of earshot from our mother protector. Far too restricting when using our full throwing power to aim freshly made snowballs at our previous or more previous enemies!
Into the classroom and there would be midget size bottles of milk lined up on the school pipes. Eager 'hot achy' fingers just waiting to get our hands on one! You had to be quick to grab one that had cream filled two thirds up the bottle! More fun to look forward to in the school yard as numerous snow balls battalion-like were lined up, as now with a time limit our very lives depended on getting as many snowballs thrown as was possible.
The blowing of the whistle by a rosy-faced Mrs. Higgins meant that playtime was over and we had to wait another hour before we could dash homewards again, looking forward to another snowballing session!
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