Easington Lad

Although I moved away from Easington Colliery over forty years ago I still regard it as where I belong. Born in Glebe Terrace, I spent my early schooling attending the infant and junior departments in the colliery. I had to walk to school, no school run back then, and that also provides me with a sad memory of those days. Aged about seven years, the first tune I learnt to whistle was Chopin’s “Funeral March”, picked up listening to the colliery’s own brass band escorting the funerals of men lost in the terrible mine disaster in 1951. My dad, a miner for his entire working life, was a member of the rescue team. My mam, Nancy, was adopted by the family of Mary Robson, who eventually spent her working life serving the people of Easington as the doctors' practice nurse. My parents eventually moved into Boston Street where they lived and were friends with other contributors to these memories. I still make nostalgic trips back to my birthplace, often saddened by its present state of decline compared to its former days, a consequence of the Thatcher government’s distressing effect on such communities. However I always have, and always will, be proud to call myself an Easington lad.