Armistice Day
My father survived WWI, but my uncle was killed on the Somme. I have some of his letters home, written in pencil from the trenches. Their innocence and courage is humbling but their vision of hope tears the heart, even today, as I hold the fragile yellowed paper and witness, through the eyes of an eighteen year old, the cruelty and suffering.
In WWII my great grand parents were killed in the blitz. I learned my tables in the school cellar, where we were driven by the air raid siren, while stuttering flying bombs above us prepared for their final silent dive of death and destruction. I remember as we recited the 4x table a tremendous concussion of a close impact causing the floor beneath our feet to heave and dust fall from the ceiling down upon us. Our shrill voices faded but just for a moment. The teacher tapped her ruler ‘come along children! Six fours are?’ Twenty four! we trilled.
There is a lot to remember.