Meddling Lemons by Susan Price

 I suppose I should have known that a blog I wrote back in August, about odd phrases and words, was going to attract comment from writers. I didn’t expect quite as many comments, though.

 Of course, this set me thinking about other old sayings…

 Legging a Lemon

Author Ivar Leidus

If we asked my mother what was doing, she always replied, “I’m legging a lemon.” Or, possibly, “I’m
leg in a lemon.” I never knew which it was, or ever understood what it meant. I still don’t. Which, I suppose, was the point: she answered us but told us nothing.

Did she mean that she had one leg poked through the rind of a lemon? However that would work…

Or did she mean that she was ‘legging’ a lemon, as you would a canal boat?

I was brought up in the Black Country, where the Industrial Revolution got under way, and the place is awash with canals, or ‘cuts’ as we call them. I was born in the town of Oldbury which, famously, you can’t enter or leave without crossing a cut.

Canal boats had to be taken through long tunnels under hills. There were no tow-paths through canal tunnels. I don't know why. Easier and cheaper to build them without, I suppose. This lack meant that the horse pulling the boat had to be unhackled and led over the hill, to meet the boat on the other side.

Narrow boat drawn by horse

The narrow boat was left, horse-less and therefore power-less, at the tunnel's mouth. The family who lived on and worked the boat had to 'leg it' through the tunnel. That is, they lay on their backs on the roof of the boat’s cabin, one on either side, heads to the middle and resting on each other’s shoulders. (The top of the cabin was usually wider than the one shown in the photo.)  If this sounds over-familiar, remember that it would probably be the shoulder of a close family member you rested your head on. Your mother, perhaps, or your aunt.

Anyway, the boat-crew, lying on their backs, lifted up their feet, set them against the tunnel’s roof/wall, then side-stepped and ‘legged’ the boat along.

If you visit the Black Country Museum, you can do this for yourself. I’ve done it several times. (I was a guide at the Museum a long time ago and if none of the visitors volunteered to leg the boat...) It takes a bit of effort to get the boat moving, but once it’s underway, since all its weight is being borne up by water, it’s surprisingly easy to move the boat— at least for the few minutes that my fellow guides and I did it. The tunnel is nearly two miles (three kilometres) long, so if we’d had to leg the whole distance with a boat loaded with coal or wrought iron, the experience might have palled quicker than it did as we legged a boat filled with happy tourists.

But that’s legging a canal barge. How do you leg a lemon? Or, for that matter, how do you get ‘leg in a lemon’? And why would you?

But when my mother had asked her mother (born 1898) what she was doing, she’d been told, “I’m legging a lemon.” Or, 'leg in a lemon.' So, however the feat is performed, this is an heirloom phrase, passed down for generations.

 Lay-Holes for Meddlers

 When my Dad was busy, he had a different line for cutting short our endless questions. He was always, “Making a lay-hole for meddlers.” Or was that, ‘for medlars’?

Other relatives explained that a ‘lay-hole’ or ‘lie-hole’ is a grave and that Dad was threatening to kill and bury us if we didn’t stop meddling, or bothering, him. Well, maybe those relatives believed in that meaning, but I don’t believe it was what my gentle dad thought he was saying to the children he loved (even if they could be pests sometimes). Mostly, he loved answering our questions. In fact, often gave us more answer than we wanted.

The explanation offered by Dad was that the ‘meddlers’ weren’t meddling people, but ‘medlars’, a kind of fruit.

A strange fruit, although cultivated, some historians reckon, for 3,000 years. The Romans were keen on them. But then, they were keen on slavery and actual death as entertainment too, so I’m not sure how great a recommendation that is.

But medlars, the RHS tells me, are good value: easy to grow, do well in pots, have pretty flowers, beautiful autumn colour— and then there’s the fruit.

The main value of medlar fruit was that they ripened (in their fashion) in winter, and were/are very rich in those good old ‘vitamins and minerals.’ They had medicinal use, being both diuretic and astringent. The leather trade found them useful, as they were rich in tannins.

But, but, but… The fruit was known as ‘open arse’, not because of any laxative effect but because its fruit was thought to look like an open arse. It was also known as ‘monkey-arse’ for the same reason. Display a pile of open-arses in a pretty dish the next time you entertain.

Medlars  Photograph © Andrew Dunn, 1 October 2005.

Website: http://www.andrewdunnphoto.com/

Medlars  Photograph © Andrew Dunn, 1 October 2005.

Website: http://www.andrewdunnphoto.com/

 Although ‘ripe’ in winter, the medlar was nevertheless too hard to bite and, even if you managed to drive your teeth into it, unpalatably sharp and acidic.

In order to make them edible, they had to be ‘bletted’. That is, the fruit was softened by allowing it to become rotten. If you had the space, you could do this by putting the medlars into storage, and leaving them to quietly rot under lock and key. But storage was often difficult. Perhaps you had a large family and a small house, and there was simply no room. Even if you had storage space, it might already be filled with apples, pears and other stored produce.

An alternative was to let the fruit hang on the tree until the first frosts did the bletting for you. The hard outer skin softened and wrinkled. Inside the skin, the sugar content increased. The flesh became gooey, with a texture like, it’s said, soft toffee or apple sauce.

At this stage, if you got your timing right, the medlars could be eaten raw. I’ve never tasted one, but have been told that they taste like a mixture of apple and pear— which sounds optimistic, especially as my informant adds that ‘they’re better with sugar and cream.’ Even at this stage they’re ‘an acquired taste’ which, in my experience, usually means ‘bloody horrible.’ (Except for Laphroaig.)

Bletted medlars were made into medlar jelly, as much for medicine as food, and medlar ‘cheese’ which was similar to lemon curd. The fruit has virtually no commercial value today, so is rarely grown, except as a curiosity. (Reminder to self: must get one, to grow in a pot for its pretty blossom and autumn colour.) In the past, though, medlars were a saleable crop, in demand by apothecaries and tanners, as well as the few who had acquired their taste.

So there were your medlars, hanging on your tree or trees, waiting for the frosts. You were poised, waiting for them to achieve their perfect bletted moment, whereupon you would rush out and pick them before they passed over into full-on rottenness.

But you were not the only person in the district with an eye on those medlars. Other people were eyeing them as they passed and sneaking in, after dark, to feel up your medlars and test their blett. Sadly, the person who had tended those medlars, who had pruned the tree, cherished and manured it, often came out one frosty morning to find that all the bletted medlars had vanished in the night.

So, according to my Dad, if you considered those medlars were yours, you made a lay-hole near them. I imagine something like a childhood den, a sheltered nook. Perhaps you lit a fire, to warm you in the frosty night, and the flames flickering through the dark orchard would also warn would-be medlar-burglars that your medlars were under guard. Or perhaps you lay low in your lay-hole and sprang out, laying about you with a big stick, when you heard soft footfalls and saw dark shapes near your medlar tree.

After setting out these explanations for the phrase, I have to say, if I’m honest, that Dad’s sounds the least likely. If I had to back one as the true meaning, I’d say that it’s ‘I’m digging a grave for people who pester me.’

But I prefer my Dad’s account. It’s a better story. And it gave him a wonderful excuse to tell me about medlars.

--*--

I’ll end with one last phrase, which I often heard said of people: “He (or she) is from Hagley.” And there’d be a nod, or a knowing look, as if this meant something more than the words said.

Or someone would be mentioned and it would be said, darkly, “They'm like the Hagley monument.” There would be laughter.

Here’s the Hagley Monument, also known as the Wychbury Monument or the Wychbury Obelisk. It’s not far from where I live, at the top of Wychbury Hill and is visible for miles around. It’s on public land and you can take a walk up the hill, stand by it and admire the view of the traffic on the A456.

Tony Hisgett from Birmingham, UK

 After many years, I finally found out why people were ‘like the Hagley Monument.’ It was because they were ‘stuck up for nothing.’