Remember my Grandma making Nettle Champ, this was way back in the early years of the war, or even before that. She would bravely go into the back “garden“ and pluck fresh nettles with her bare hands. Then return to the kitchen with a handful and proceed to make champ. The nettles were chopped finely and somehow cooked with potatoes.

As a young nipper in short pants, I had received many stings from these dreaded weeds, I really hated them and although grandma tried to teach me how to grasp them without being stung, I never got the hang of it.

That wee Ann girl could tell you all about cooking them I f we ever could get her back on here.

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Forty Coats
I learned from my Grandpa how to pluck nettles, he wore socks on his hands and grasped the stem at the bottom and heaved upwards as the stinging needles pointed in that direction. We ate Neetle Champ on the Maundy Thursday before Easter, a day of Absentience in the Catholic Church then.
donald

A fleeting memory of a cure for nettle stings, comes to mind. This was to rub the affected area with a docking leaf.

It would not work, we were told unless you repeated the dirge:

“ Dockin in, Nettle Out “ !
“ Dockin in Nettle Out “ !

At lest we thought we were getting some relief from those nasty stings which I’m told were caused by the formic acid released by the nettle.

Dr 40

Donald, do you remember a guy called Guy Mitchell singing these cute lyrics, to a catchy tune:

Tell it to the preacher and the blessings flow
Tell it to the teacher, but he don’t know)
Tell it to the poor man under the hill,
Tell it to the rich man makin’ his will,
Tell it but you won’t know,
Till the day of Jubilo.

Oh the Devil, he makes it thunder,
Every time he hollers loud
The sun draws up the water
And it rains right through the clouds
The eagle’s wings, they fly so high
They cause the wind to blow
Now the only thing that bogs my mind
I wonder what makes it snow

(Tell it to the preacher and the blessings flow
Tell it to the teacher, but he don’t know)
Tell it to the poor man under the hill,
Tell it to the rich man makin’ his will,
Tell it but you won’t know,
Till the day of Jubilo.

Oh, the sun sits up above me
The Heavens are all aglow
The Devil, he don’t love me,
Got a place that we all know
The closer to the sun you climb
The hotter it’s gonna grow
Now the only thing that bogs my mind
How did it get hot below.

(Tell it to the preacher and the blessings flow
Tell it to the teacher, but he don’t know)
Tell it to the poor man under the hill,
Tell it to the rich man makin’ his will,
Tell it but you won’t know,
Till the day of Jubilo.

I got my share of troubles
Trouble runnin’ everywhere
Blowin’ up like a bubble
Gonna bust itself a fare
Now I’ve got troubles of every kind
Brother that ain’t the half
The only thing that bogs my mind
I wonder what makes me laugh

(Tell it to the preacher, and the blessings flow
Tell it to the teacher, but he don’t know)
Tell it to the poor man under the hill,
Tell it to the rich man makin’ his will,
Tell it but you won’t know,
Till the day of Jubilo.
Till the day..of..Ju..bi..lo

During my late teens I could remember every word, but now........

40 or was that 39......

Forty coats
I remember Guy Mitchell but not msinging that song
donald

How’s abouts:


A crowd stood around you
The night when I found you
They each wanted you
In the old homing waltz

Though you never knew me
You smiled and came to me
And I found you mine
In the old homing waltz

This sweet melody
That brought you to me
Will linger forever
In my memory

I found what I prayed for
The arms I was made for
The night when we danced
To the old homing waltz.

This was sung in the fifties, I believe, by Vera Lynn and also, Frankie Valentine, whoever he was, though I can renpmember his name somehow.

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