This is a view of Norton High Street on a postcard courtesy of Dorothy Barclay. 
Picture Stockton Archive
A Pictorial History of Stockton-on-Tees
This is a view of Norton High Street on a postcard courtesy of Dorothy Barclay.
Frank Mee says that last Sunday was ‘Pudding Sunday’.
Also known in the past as Stir up Sunday. In the Anglican Church (as in C of E) the special prayer for the Sunday before Advent, the Collect, begins: Stir up O Lord the wills of thy faithful people that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
This was associated then with the preperation of the Christmas Puddings for the household.
Never had giblet pie Cliff, they always got roasted then made into gravy. We had Goose at Christmas and Cock bird for New Year, every year, always our own but ate very little chicken the rest of the year, it was always special back then to eat fowl. Having our own animals meant meat was plentiful and when we killed a pig absolutely nothing was wasted, we ate everything that came out apart from brains, I could never stomach those. The blood went for black pudding and the head for brawn.
I am still trying bacon from different places trying to get the mouth watering taste of the bacon we had then but none of it comes up to scratch.
Frank Mee’s culinary memories of Christmas are an excellent reminder of how things were. And he prompted the recollection of a traditional dish that was always eaten on Christmas Eve in our house. “Giblet Pie” containing the giblets, neck, etc of our turkey – and anybody elses!
Does anybody else remember this “delicacy”?
This picture brought back a memory of Sparks having Christmas cakes and puddings for sale. Last Sunday was pudding day when traditionally the mothers made the puddings to store for Christmas and New Year. We always had this get together for the big day.
In our family we were the only ones with a car (pre-war) so we picked up members of the family on our way to my Grandmothers house in North Ormesby all loaded with pudding things.
The Sunday roast would go in the oven (from the farm) then all the ingredients laid out on a huge scrubbed white kitchen table, then for us kids the fun began. Grandma, Aunt Mabel, Aunt Lizzy, my Mother were all cooks, Aunt Lizzy head cook for Lord Craythorne, so began the argument as to what went in the fruit mix. Mother would have had dried fruit in Brandy for a day and some were none drinkers, so ensued the “heat burns the alcohol off” and the “it has to have alcohol to preserve it” argument every year.
Eventually all the fruit, spices, flour and eggs plus the secret ingredients (dont ask, I never found out) went into a huge mixing bowl and the stirring began. First it was all the men and kids because it took strong arms to do it (well not us kids, we had to stir for luck and not slaver whilst we did it), the women prepared the veg and other things for our Sunday lunch which was always followed by a steamed pudding that had been in the yard boiler for hours. After the mix the women filled pudding basins and covered the tops with various covers including the last cloth cover all neatly tied on with string and they were ready for home. We would have a massive lunch, everyone round that big scrubbed table, I always remember a huge cartwheel of a plate filled with Yorkshire, meat and many veg being put in front of me and Granddad saying, “come on son get it all down and you will be a big chap like me”. He got that right, he was five feet six and thin as a lath working in the Steel Mills, I grew to six feet and weighed in when I boxed at 11 stone for years. Then it was games for us kids and family talk until Dad said “right let us get home before dark”, car headlights were not much better than candles back then, and we would load up all carrying pudding basins and away home. Once home a large iron pot was swung over the fire on the huge range and brought to the boil then edged off the fire until it was a simmer and in would go the puddings, one for Christmas and one for New Year and they would be there overnight until Mother removed them, cooled them then put them in the deep pantry until the time came.
Christmas day the pudding went into the big boiler (we used the water for the big washing up after) which dad kept stoked and the Goose, (always our own Goose) went into the oven. Various family would start to arrive and help, we kids looking eagerly for presents and then the morning Church and later the main meal. We would have the usual singsong round our piano, all the carols, the miners dream of home was a favourite and usually got more than one airing. Dad loved Alice Blue Gown so I had to play that while they all sang usually followed by Uncle Peter, a pub pianist pounding the piano into matchwood. Dad would whisper “I will get the piano tuner here next week”. Memorable Christmas’s which I never forgot. We had the same at New year, our own Chicken this time and no presents but the same party, we were allowed to see the midnight in. My own children say they never forgot their happy Christmas times either so Mum and I got something right.
Some while back I submitted a picture of this area before the shops were built. It was 15b High Street Norton with an alley to the back of the houses (t9601). My wife was born there and slept in the bedroom over the alley for her first seven years. The premises were J.H.Wiley Joiners next door to J.W.Court cycle agent My wife’s father T.Wiley was brother to Harry and lived in with them as it was a large house with garden at the back and very small orchard. Tommy Wiley served his time at Blares (not sure of that spelling)as a fitter then went to ICI. All the families living in that block of houses which were demolished for the shops went to Somerset road area of the then very nice estate of Blue Hall. All apart from Courts who moved into the first house built in Bradbury Road.
The links with the High Street as I remember it before the war are fast disappearing and I can see the trees and grass area’s going if the parking in the High Street gets any worse.
The chimney pots you see just above the single story shops is where Dorothy Barclay once lived.