Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end

Do you remember that song? I still sing it in my head. Often.

Have you been watching the new PBS series, Call the Midwife?

The first week, I forgot it was starting. I think we had a houseful of progeny, which wipes my brain of all coherent thought. I tuned in the second week and then watched the first episode on pbs.com. 

I am in love. 

The story takes place in the East End of London in 1957. It was a period and area of great destitution, and the show highlights the plight of working families. It also puts in frequent plugs for the glories of the National Health Service, a fairly new institution in England at that time. I will not debate the pros and cons of that topic here, because that is not the story I wish to tell. Just let me say that, while I am opposed to a health care system that is run by the government, the plight of the working man and his family in early 20th century England was hard indeed, and heavens knows they needed a break. If government health care made their lives a little easier, hallelujah!

I was born in 1956 in an area of Birmingham that was not unlike the East End. My heartstrings strum a little when I see those babies sitting outside, all strapped into their prams.

Why, you ask?

My little self, alongside a friend.

I'm pretty sure my doting, overprotective mother would never have left me alone in the pram for one second, but the pram was probably the one essential piece of baby equipment for every new mother.

Oh, ha, I just noticed that Anne has the straps on! 

While I was looking for photos of the pram, I ran across a bag of photos and letters that I brought back from New Zealand last year. When Anne and I were going through Mum's house, we ran across lots of photos that we had never seen before, including several of Mum when she was a girl. 

We knew about this one. Mum, or "Elsie", as she was known back then, is the little one in front.

Then, we found some treasures.

Elsie, who must have been a bridesmaid at her Aunty Vi's wedding, front and right.

Again, with her Aunty Vi and a friend.

I don't know anything about this next one, except I'm assuming the girls were dressed in some kind of costume. Mum is on the left.

That's all we have of our Mum as a girl.

Four blurry snapshots.

Then, she met my Dad.

Oops, this is with little brother Dick, who often tagged along on their dates.

Although, how they worked that out when a motorbike was their form of transportation, I do not know.

And then they got married.

And life was beautiful and Mum was always in style.

She designed her own clothes and had them made by a seamstress.

She used to tell us that her best friend often copied her designs.

I think it annoyed and secretly delighted her.

These were the good old days.

Yes, that's our lovely cousin Lynne in the front.

I must be getting old, because my mind often wanders back to those times of innocence and simplicity. I love my life now, but it is so darn complicated. And I miss my Mum as she used to be. It has been a long time since she was really happy.
I miss my Dad, more and more, it seems, as the years go by. I was reading a letter aloud to Jeff tonight, words written about Dad by a man who knew him, and I ended up reading most of it through my tears. He died too young, for someone who had such a zest for living.

This memento is proof positive of Dad's dreams.
The passport that opened the way for our family to move to New Zealand.

And this one just for a laugh. I think one of my aunties was the instigator. A hairnet, big glasses, and my knitting.

Almost prophetic, isn't it?

Thanks for walking down memory lane with me. 

Hope I didn't bore your socks off.

P.S. I learned how to use our scanner, can you tell?