Hi Everyone,
Welcome to another podcast from Teacher Joseph.
Today I want to tell you a story about my ancestor Maggie McTaggart, who lived in south-west Scotland in 1920.
Maggie was just sixteen years old when this story takes place. She came from a lively, hardworking family — one of eleven children. Her father worked long hours in the steelworks, and her mother stayed at home, looking after the younger ones, cooking, cleaning, sewing, and somehow keeping everything running.
Life wasn’t easy for Maggie, but it was full of energy. Their small stone house stood at the edge of the town, close enough to the railway tracks that you could hear the trains rattling past at all hours. Inside, it was always noisy — children shouting, babies crying, pots banging, someone always rushing in or out. But there was warmth too, a sense that no matter how little they had, they had each other.
Maggie herself was bright and full of life. She had a quick smile, a love of singing, and a fierce determination to make the best of whatever came her way. Like many girls her age, she had started working young — not in the mills like some of her friends, but in a small bakery on the high street. Every morning before sunrise, she would tie back her hair, pull on her apron, and walk into town with the smell of fresh bread already filling the air.
The bakery was a busy place, especially in the early hours, and Maggie worked hard. She learned to knead dough quickly, to pack up loaves without squashing them, and to deal with all sorts of customers — from grumpy old men to tired mothers with crying children clinging to their skirts.
But Maggie didn’t mind the hard work. She liked being busy, and she liked knowing she was helping her family. Every Saturday, she handed over most of her wages to her mother, keeping just a few pennies for herself — enough to buy a second-hand book now and then, or a bright ribbon for her hair.
At home, Maggie helped raise her younger brothers and sisters. She mended torn clothes, told bedtime stories, and sometimes even led the whole group in games out in the fields after supper. She had a natural gift for finding joy in small things: the way the sun fell on the river, the sound of the church bells on a Sunday morning, the laughter of her brothers tumbling over each other in the long grass.
Sometimes, in the evenings, when the day’s work was done and the younger ones had finally fallen asleep, Maggie would sit by the window with a book on her lap, dreaming of what life might hold for her. Maybe, one day, she would save enough money to travel — not far, perhaps just to Glasgow or Edinburgh — and see the world beyond the grey streets of her hometown.
But Maggie wasn’t unhappy. She loved her family fiercely, and she loved the life she knew. There was music in her world — real music, played on battered fiddles and old pianos at dances in the village hall. There were friendships that had lasted since childhood, solid and dependable. And there was the deep satisfaction of knowing that, even with so many mouths to feed and so many worries to carry, her family never gave up on hope.
In the spring of 1920, Maggie’s life took a small but important turn. The bakery owner, impressed by her hard work and cheerful manner, offered her an apprenticeship to learn more about the business. It was an unexpected opportunity — and one Maggie seized with both hands. She began learning how to balance the books, manage orders, and even create new recipes.
It wasn’t just about the money, although that helped too. It was about the pride she felt every time a customer smiled and complimented her work. It was about standing a little taller, knowing she was building a future for herself, bit by bit.
That summer, there was a celebration in the town — a fair held in the fields just outside the church. Maggie went with her brothers and sisters, laughing as they ran from stall to stall, their pockets full of sticky sweets. She wore a blue dress her mother had helped her sew and danced late into the evening under the open sky.
When the stars came out, she sat with her friends by the riverbank, her bare feet dangling in the cool water. They spoke about dreams — of travelling, of owning shops or farms, of simply living good lives. Maggie listened, smiling quietly, her heart full. She didn’t know exactly what the future would bring, but for the first time, she believed it could be bright.
Maggie McTaggart never became rich, or famous, or travelled very far from the town where she was born. But she built a life of meaning — full of laughter, kindness, and hard work. She became a pillar of her community, a woman others turned to for help or advice, someone who always had a warm loaf ready for a neighbour in need.
And perhaps that’s the best kind of legacy to leave behind — not one written in grand histories, but in small, steady acts of love that ripple outward long after we’re gone.
Today, when I think of Maggie, I don’t picture tragedy or hardship. I see a bright-eyed girl with a ribbon in her hair, singing as she walks down a dusty road at sunrise, ready to face whatever the day will bring.