Joanne Ross's story about The Yellow on the Broom

About three weeks ago I walked three miles to Alloa Library, looking for my favourite, an enchanting little book, 'The Yellow On The Broom', by Betsy Whyte. The yellow on the broom appears in early springtime and disappears towards the end of June so it was perfect timing. The sun was shining, the smell of honeysuckle was in the air but alas, could I find it? No. Luckily for me though, the helpful library staff said they would order it in. I was absolutely thrilled, not least because when the narrator was growing up (in the early nineteen thirties) she wouldn't have dreamed of going near a library, far less joining one because young Travelling girls didn't think that libraries were for the 'likes of them'.

Last Friday when my charming Postie brought me a letter to tell me it had arrived I was so excited I scurried down the town there and then, like a 'horn moich mort' (woman possessed) to collect it.

Once more I was spellbound and in no time at all was laughing and crying at the same time. By tea time I had told my son about 'the civil man with the face like a harvest moon', Travelling folk have a habit of sometimes saying the opposite of what they mean. On Saturday morning, I told my hairdresser about the 'crying woods of Alyth' and on Sunday night, I dreamt I was telling my grandson a story about the tiny frogs that come down with the rain. On Monday, I downed tools and read it all over again and today I am itching to write about it.

There are many thought-provoking and poignant tales but 'The Yellow on The Broom' stands out for me. Apart from the fact that Betsy Whyte delicately paints each short chapter like it is the finest bone china, it is essentially a book about growing up and I had just grown up or so I thought. The book was written in 1979 and at that time my mum was in and out of hospitals a lot. Even now, I have a scomfished smile on my face as I think of the 'burkers' (doctors) because they did indeed chop my mum to pieces in a vain attempt to cut the cancer out of her. My mum died a few years later, (April 14th 1983 to be precise) in the early springtime when just as the book describes the yellow was on the broom and I have never forgotten that. I love walking in the hills, especially in the springtime. When we were young many a day was spent frolicking in the hills with my mum who adored them and where it grows in abundance. The yellow on the broom reminds me of a time when we were young and particularly when mum was healthy and full of the joys of spring, so much so that I insist on having this beautiful wild shrub in my garden to this day.