People Are Wonderful: Celebrating a Life of Gratitude and God's Love

By Agnes Milne

● Follow Agnes on her journey with Jesus Christ, her Lord,
    who surely called her from her mother’s womb.
● Follow her from Scotland when, as a little girl, God proved 
   Himself to be real to her.
● Follow her when Jesus was still faithful, and she was not.
● Follow her to Cyprus,

• Language: English
• Publisher: byDesign Media
• Release date: Nov 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781896213378

Agnes Milne

For over 20 years, until recent retirement, Agnes worked in a mental health facility where she ministered, from a heart of compassion, as a chaplain. There, her music helped many patients find peace in their lives. Agnes has been privileged to counsel for 40 years in churches. She has helped many people find release from grief and depression. When others get free, God gets the glory, and Agnes gets the blessing. Rev. Agnes Milne, B.A.Th., M.Th.S., CASC, E.A. Chaplain - Counsellor

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Life During the Not-So-Wonderful War

I can hardly believe I turned eighty on my last birthday. How time flies. Life goes so quickly. I’ve been trying to write this book for a long time, and now I’m finally going to start it. I have called it People are Wonderful – and they are. But sometimes life is not so wonderful, and we have struggles and challenges on the way. But on looking back from where I am now, it has been a wonderful ride. Now, where do I begin?

I was born in Glasgow, Scotland, on June 29, 1939. In September of that year, World War II broke out. I was named Agnes Watson after my grandmother on my father’s side. I had a sister who was two years and two days older than I. Her name was Jessie Whitehall. She was named after our grandmother on my mother’s side. My parents were Annie and James Gilgallon. Our mom and dad were wonderful loving parents to their two little daughters, even though our country and the world was in chaos for six years of war.

Although I was so young during those years, I can still remember the time very vividly. I remember there being huge, inflated balloons shaped liked whales flying in the sky. They were called barrage balloons and were put in the air to prevent enemy planes from coming near our country. They were filled with gas. Had a plane hit them, they would have exploded, and the plane would have gone up in flames. I don’t know if that ever happened in our area, but I believe London, England, got the worse attacks in the war.

All our family was given oxygen masks in the event we needed them, even the children, but our masks were made like comic characters. My sister’s mask was Donald Duck, and mine was Mickey Mouse. If we had to wear these masks, which I don’t think we ever did, it was supposed to be like putting a mask on for fun. After the war, they disappeared. Whether they had to be given back to the government or were thrown into the garbage (as our parents didn’t want to be reminded of the war), I do not know.

My father was not ‘called up’ for service as he had a problem with his eyes and wore very thick glasses. That saved him from going to war. He worked shifts in a huge factory called the Forge. His job was to keep the fires stoked up night and day. I have no idea what went on there, but by the time I visited Scotland in 2016, it had been made into a huge shopping centre.

One night my father was on night-shift, walking to his job when one of the alarms went off. My mother was anxious in case he had been hit. But he made it safely to work and told us the next day, Well, if it was my time to go, it would have happened; but I’m not going to worry about it because we all could have been blown up. That was my dad’s attitude in many things, even after the war. He always encouraged my sister and me not to be afraid.

Every night, we had to keep our windows covered with thick black curtains to blot out the inside lights. It was called a ‘blackout.’ We would hear the sirens going off, and that was very scary. It meant something could have come too close to us. No matter what time, and usually it was two during the night, we would get up. Everyone in the building had to go downstairs to the first floor. We had to wait until the ‘all clear’ came. I would probably sleep as I was so little. As I got older, I remember the family on the first floor would make us tea. We were a close-knit community in those times.

That was probably the beginning of my observations of wonderful people. While all that fear and chaos was going on, these dear moms and wives worried about their men overseas. Husbands and sons over 18 years of age were called up to fight for our country. I think these women were praying for their men to come home safe. There were no atheists in those times that I knew of. It was a stressful time, but I never got affected by it as I was so little. My parents shielded my sister and me from fear.

I had been born with a problem where I could not swallow very well. I survived babyhood with milk formula, but it was Corn Flakes that kept me alive for many years. I ate them with anything and everything; milk, pop, juice, and even fruit when we had it. We didn’t have the great cereals we have now, but good old Kellogg’s Corn Flakes was my main staple. Remember, this was just during the wartime, and we were being rationed. We had food stamps.

My mother worried so much about me. I was a skinny little thing and could not eat anything but Corn Flakes. In spite of the war, she took me to doctors a lot – and also to a place for suntan therapy – thinking it would help me. I can remember one time my name was called, and I missed it. They had called for Agnes, and I was used to being called Nessie, which was my pet name from my parents. I stayed too long on the tanning bed and almost got a bad burn, so we didn’t go back as it didn’t work anyway.

I don’t know if they knew about vitamins so much back then, but I remember castor oil being gulped down a few times. Mom took me to a good doctor, and I was finally diagnosed as having enlarged tonsils. I was admitted to Glasgow General Hospital, where I had surgery to remove them, along with my adenoids. I was about five years old at that time.

I well remember my first meal after the surgery. We were visiting friends, and the woman made scrambled eggs and put a plate in front of me. I finished it all. My mom and everyone was so surprised and pleased. So, the lady offered me more, and I ate that too. I was cured. The only problem I feel bad about was that they took out the adenoids and now I can’t taste some foods very well. After all these years, I still can’t eat fast as I chew a lot before I swallow. You couldn’t pay me a million dollars to eat fast, but I don’t care. I still enjoy my food, and I am very healthy and never get indigestion.

I remember the first time I saw eggs. My mom was thrilled when she came home with four eggs – one for each member of the family. She must have put them on a table or something because Jessie came into the bedroom where we had been playing, with two eggs in her hands, and gave me a ‘ball.’ Of course, I took it and proceeded to throw it against the mirror. When the egg smashed, my mother came through and was upset with Jessie. I’ve never seen my mother that angry with any of us. She gave Jessie a smack on the behind for being bad. Dear little Jessie must have felt terrible when she saw what she had done. I just stood there, not knowing what to do. After all, I was the one who had thrown the egg, but she got the punishment. For years, as I told this story, I thought it was funny and made people laugh – but as I got older, I regretted making a joke of it as I missed my dear sister and feel bad that she got the punishment instead of me.

I remember eating my first banana. I was about six at that time. I was told to eat it carefully in case I got sick. I took it outside, eating it slowly in minuscule bites. All the kids around me were licking their lips, wondering what that banana tasted like. We don’t think we’re being mean as children, but we do get a certain pleasure from thinking we have something others don’t have. I didn’t mean to hurt those kids, but kids will be kids.

The War is Over!

Britain was joined with Canada and the US some years before, and in 1945, the war was won. I remember the cheering and everyone bringing out flags when the news got out. Sometime later we had a party in the street. My dad brought his accordion, and there was much jubilation. Some of the songs they sang were: When the Lights Go On Again All Over the World and Lily of the Lamplight. We’ll Meet Again was a big hit. I believe it was Vera Lynn who made this song famous. There were many more songs sung at that time. People were ecstatic and dancing in the street. We ripped off the black drapes and let the lights on the street shine for us again.

I decided to go home to go to the washroom and I saw that Auntie Nan, our wonderful neighbour had not joined the party. She was sitting in her chair staring into the fire, looking very sad. I asked her why she did not come to the party, and she replied, I don’t want to. I’m remembering those boys who didn’t come home. She was such a wonderful kind lady, like a mother to me and many others, I’m sure. Of course, I was too young to think that young men didn’t come home, nor did I know why, but on looking back, there was a lot of grief.

My Uncle John and Uncle Willie (my mother’s two brothers) were in the war. Uncle John was ‘missing’ for some time, and no one knows, even to this day, where he was because he came back a very changed man. He was sad, I believe depressed, and he got kind of funny after that. I now recognize it as PTSD, but in those days, it was called shell shock. My Uncle Willie didn’t seem so bad. Uncle John brought me a little embroidered apron. He never said where it came from, except it was from Germany. Where he got it, I don’t know, but I remember that little apron made of white linen with red embroidery pattern on it. I don’t have it anymore but I still remember the pattern.

My Wonderful Family

Our flats (apartments) were only about four stories high. On each floor were three apartments. Ours was a room and kitchen. That meant we had a room to one side as we came in the door. If you turned to the right, our ‘best’ room was there. It was always kept nice and neat in case we had company. It also served as our guest/music room with a piano and dad’s accordion—and it was my parents’ bedroom. When I say bedroom, I mean that on one wall, we had an insert that held a double bed with curtains in front to give privacy if anyone visited.

If you turned left when you entered the apartment, our kitchen was there. That, too, had an indented double bed. My sister and I shared that one. The kitchen with the sink, stove, and fireplace was where we lived most of the time. Our fire was coal, so we had a coal bunker in our hall at the front door. Coal was delivered to us from time to time, and they would dump it right into the coal bunker. You can imagine the dust and black soot everywhere. Oh how I hated dusting when I got older.

Where was the bathroom? We had none! On every half-landing, there was a toilet for each floor. For toilet paper, we had old magazines and newspaper cut up in squares and hung up with a nail. We had our own bathroom tissue, so we’d read the nail stuff while we were sitting. As far as bathing was concerned, when we were little, it was done in an enamel tub. Later on, when we got older, we went to a building which was called a steamy because of the steaming hot water. We could go into a private room and take a bath. My mom could also take big pieces of laundry there.

Normal laundry was done by hand. There was a building in our backyard that all the women in the apartments around could share. It had running water (which I am assuming was hot), a sink, and a wringer. They would wash their clothes and hang them out on clotheslines with pegs. The laundry was always so nice and fresh when finished. The women all got together and chatted and got the latest gossip. If a mother had just had a new baby, the other mothers would help her – wonderful women working together in a community.

There were two apartments consisting of a room and a kitchen, and one single apartment on each floor of the building. We had wonderful neighbours. A senior lived in the single apartment, sandwiched between the two rooms and kitchens. She was a sweet little lady who always went to church. The third apartment on our floor was occupied by Nan Ramsay and her three children. Nan was a wonderful woman of God. I called her Auntie Nan, and she was the kindest neighbour we had. She was a strong Christian woman who was like Mother Theresa to all in our building during the time of the war. She would even help the midwives when babies were being born at home, which was quite common then.

In those days, people appeared to be very religious. God was real to me as a child. I don’t think I ever heard the word atheist. One’s religion defined one’s politics and sports, especially the football team one supported (which by the way, wasn’t called soccer). Catholics supported Celtics, and Protestants supported Rangers. You would hear people asking, What foot do you kick with? If you said left, you were a Catholic, and if right, you were a Protestant. My parents never had any fighting over religion, although my mother was Catholic, and my father was Protestant.

My Mother’s Family

My mother’s family were beautiful and loving Catholics. My mother had two older sisters, Auntie Jessie and Auntie Kate. Younger siblings were Uncle James, Auntie Chrissie (my favourite aunt), Uncle John, and Uncle Willie.

My grandma turned Catholic to marry my grandpa, who was Irish. He had a strong Irish brogue and, as far as I know, worked on the family farm since he was six-years-old. He apparently did not get much of an education, but he still provided for his family. My dad said you couldn’t cheat him about money because he could count alright and read the newspapers.

Southern Ireland was separate from the north. They were fighting with each other, even in those years. It was a war that went on for years. The Irish Catholics were from Southern Ireland, and the Protestants were from the north. My best friend was Susan; she was Catholic, and I was Protestant. We were best of friends for years, and religion would never separate us.

Grandma’s mother was French. I don’t have any other knowledge about her, except that she was buried somewhere in Glasgow. My dear little grandma was only four-foot-eleven, and Pop was over six-foot tall. She had red, curly hair and wore glasses. When I was older, I was told I looked like her. She loved to do crafts like knitting, crocheting, embroidery, and dressmaking. I inherited my love of crafts from my grandma. My mother showed no interest in doing any of these, although she did work in a carpet factory later in life. I remember visiting her there once and her showing me how she ‘combed’ the wool to make a pattern on the carpets.

I inherited all the crafts my grandmother had made. I especially love knitting even today as it is a great relaxer. Most little girls in the neighbourhood, from about the age of nine, learned to knit and crochet. We used to sit on ‘dikes’ doing our handwork. The neighbours would give us their wool, and we would crochet granny squares. As I got older, I could knit Fair Isle (knitting a patterned sweater with different coloured wool). Fair Isle was famous all over the world.