Galloping to Space

© 2011 by Stewart McCaw. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 08/26/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9363-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9364-7 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

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Contents

PREFACE

Chapter 1 Anywhere But Here

Chapter 2 Living By The Seaside

Chapter 3 Four-Legged Friends

Chapter 4 Wed Locked

Chapter 5 Norfolk’s Up and Downs

Chapter 6 The Bright Lights

Chapter 7 The Prince of Wales

Chapter 8 Who Knows Best

Chapter 9 The Long Return Flight

Chapter 10 The Nuts & Bolts (family)

Chapter 11 Something I Must Share

Chapter 12 Our Growing Addiction

LIST OF GRAPHICS

Graphic 1—Lawn Meet

Graphic 2—Cubbing at Roxton Woods 1974

Graphic 3—Charlie Ploughing on the Farm

Graphic 4—Charlie competing in the World Ploughing

Match in Armoy 1959

Graphic 5—Dick Dale, Blacksmith

Graphic 6—Cleveland Bay Lincolnshire Show

Graphic 7—Painting of White Park Bay and Family Farm

Graphic 8—Horse Whisperer

PREFACE

Horses aren’t the only things that gallop. In my case, it has been—and still is—a set of circumstances, events, and new people. It started when my father gave me our family history on his side that he had picked up in 1996 when he went to a family reunion in Ontario, Canada. The book had been compiled by Hilda Pauline (Moorcroft) Cathcart and contained the six branches of the sons and daughters of Duncan McCaw (1780-1857) of Ballintoy Parish, County Antrim, Ireland. My branch came from Duncan’s son Charles (b. 1823).

The family history was interesting reading, but I was a working man and didn’t have a lot of time to spend digging into it. Then came an event that would set other events in motion—slowly at first, then gathering speed, culminating in this memoir. I was told by my doctor that I had four years to live and to get my house in order. I remembered the family history and the wonderful stories that were included and began to think that I might have something to contribute to future generations as well. But first, I wanted to see if there were any other McCaws out there, so I searched on Ancestry.com and got some hits and contacts.

One person who contacted me was Sharon Daniels, whose branch was from Duncan McCaw’s son James. Sharon lived in Alberta, Canada and was a Family History Consultant and had been adopted and now was researching her birth family, the McCaws. Together, we discovered new things about our ancestors and exchanged information. Then someone got the bright idea of doing an internet blog. Neither one of us had done one before, but we learned and www.mccawscometolife.blogspot.com was born. Then we got interested in the historical background: emigration and immigration, famines in both Scotland and Ireland, our family clan and crest, etc.

A few extra tabbed pages on the blog later, and another idea hit us: why not write something for a magazine? So, two articles were sent out and, at time of this writing, they have been accepted, but not yet published. Actually, my article was the last chapter of a set of stories that I had been writing; the ones that culminated in this Memoir.

If that doctor had not told me I had four years to live, I wouldn’t have thought of adding to our family history and I would never have met Sharon and none of this would have happened. I have since changed doctors and have been given a clean slate of health. I am thinking of going back to work after this book is published (you can see how I would want to, since some of the stories included here have to do with the enjoyment I got out of it).

I owe many thanks to Hilda Moorcroft, who passed on our family’s history, and to all those people with whom I came in contact in my life, including three wives. Also thanks to the people from all walks of life who gave me these experiences: Billy Baker, hairdresser, with whom I served my apprenticeship; Dick Dale, blacksmith, who taught me to shoe horses, and all my friends in Norfolk, Lincolnshire, Surrey, and London, and, of course, my family. There are too many colleagues and workmates to mention by name. And finally, to Sharon Daniels for editing this memoir.

I have been around horses a good deal of my life, hence the galloping analogy. The word Space in the title refers to what has happened during my lifetime, from the horse and buggy to buying a ticket on a rocket to space. From here, there is nowhere to go but up for me. Happy reading to you all.

Chapter 1

Anywhere But Here

I was born in Downham et, in Norfolk, UK, on 16 August 1948. My mother was a war widow. I had a sister 18 months older than me, and a stepbrother four years older. My father was from Northern Ireland and worked for Kier’s Construction and we lived in a prefabricated home in Setchey, Norfolk. The only thing I can remember is my mother taking me on her bike strawberry picking.

When I was four, we moved to Grainthorpe Lincolnshire. My uncle Don had an industrial painting company with contracts all over the country from the ministry of defence painting army barracks and aerodromes. He was based in North Somercotes and later, we moved there to the Front Street. My father started working for him as a foreman working away from home. My older brother worked for him also. We had not been there long when my uncle sold the pub, as he had a new house built down a lane in the village. He was able to have some offices there also for his business and staff. He turned the lane into a tarmac and have a pavement installed. So he renamed the lane Willerton Road, as it was his father’s name—and mine—a family name, so to speak.

At that time my uncle also owned The Bay Horse public House next door in the village. My father started working for him as a foreman working away from home. My older brother worked with him also. My aunt Gert and Uncle Lewis lived opposite and he was the village butcher. I would ride with him on Thursdays on his round in his Morris 1000 van We would go to the farms, and other villages at set times selling his goods. We would be out all day. I would also spend time with him on a Saturday in his slaughter house and help him; I went with him if he was killing a pig on a farm. The farmer’s wife would always give us a big supper before we went home. My mother would take me potato picking on the bike there; in fact, when I was 10 years old, I got two shillings a day for driving the tractor up and down all day. In those days I would be sent to the shop most lunch times for a quarter of corned beef. It was 1/3d, cheaper than school dinners, which were 5 shillings a week each. We also got a few chips and a quarter of a tomato each. We had to walk home and back each day twice a day for lunch. When Peter my step brother left school, he went to live with an aunt in Southall, Middlesex. He worked at Heathrow airport as a trainee steward for B.O.A.C. Later on he went into the Merchant Navy (but we never got a bigger dinner after he had gone,when there were just two of us kids).

We had an outside toilet with a big wooden seat, and a big bucket underneath it. Peter and I had to carry the bucket down to the bottom garden and dig a hole and bury the contents every Monday morning. In those days the 3 of us kids lived in a two-bedroomed house; consequently we all slept in one bed, and I was the smallest and youngest of the three of us. We were all still wetting the bed, and I would ask my mother if I could go in the shallow end, but I used to lose every time (it as wonder I never drowned). On a Saturday afternoon out would come the tin bath, and you get one guess who got the dirty cold water and the wet towel last.

We had a visitor one day and the lady asked where was the toilet, so I told her it was around the back of the house. She came back and said there wasn’t a lock on the door. I said, "Don’t worry no one has pinched a bucket all the time we had lived there. (It would have been a real treat for me and my brother if someone did now and again).

There was a family in the village called Mr. and Mrs. Murdy and during the winter at home, the window would freeze up on the inside, and all we had was a hot water bottle between the three of us. When I used to stay at the Murdy’s, it was in a feather bed on my own and they had the first type of electric blanket I had seen, which was a light bulb in a big metal frame, and they would put it in the bed about an hour before I went to bed.

I also would walk miles to the farmers in the fields so I could ride on the horses’ backs. Sometimes when they were leading sugar beet, I would stay on the cart all day. They always had a spare sandwich. They used to say, Doesn’t your mother feed you? I would answer, "If we were going to et I would have time to answer your question.

On a Sunday morning we would have to go to church, and we were given a penny each for the collection. When we got home it was Sunday lunch, a cooked dinner, (only one of the week), and the meat from my uncle’s shop. Then we had Sunday school for the afternoon. I used to get the distinct impression mum and dad wanted to be on their own; they used to get mad when we said there wasn’t any Sunday school today. That’s how I found out what a wild goose chase was. There was no way we could find an excuse to stay in. My mother wasn’t half as pushy on Sundays when dad was working away. I think my father thought we all got a penny each every Sunday morning for church while he was away. As a result of all this time-consuming praying twice on a Sunday, we had a little sister.

My uncle Percy and aunt Alice moved back to the village. He worked for uncle Don. He had been living in York for years, running a job there. They never had any kids. Aunt Alice was great—she would not let you go home. She used to bake cakes, and I didn’t need my arm twisted to eat them. Here the only draw back was that she was one of those Lar D Dar De Dar loud Singers, at the church, but I must admit I did get used to it in time. Keep the cakes coming!

My father’s brother came over from the States: Uncle Billy. They lived in Florida and they didn’t have any children, so they wanted to adopt me, and take me back with them. I was getting excited but my Dad said no because I