So soon after our Remembrance day , when ex-evacuees marched with the military at the Cenotaph, I received a stark reminder on Sunday last; news that my foster aunt Vera, with whose family I spent WW11, had died at 9am. She was 98.
I kept in touch with her from time to time throughout my life; I visited with my dad at about 12 years of age; I called on them at 20 at Easter on my return from Egypt as a soldier; I visited with my young children once; I sent congratulations and a bouquet on the occasion of her golden wedding; condolences on the death of her husband many years ago, he had been the officer i/c the Home Guard, 'Dad's Army'; and I visited her in her village when they celebrated their 1000 year 'Songs of Praise' after I had been gone 50 years.
So, sometime next week I will pray once again, and probably for the last time, when I return to give thanks and pay the respects of myself and my family at the little Saxon church in the village known in the 19th century as 'The Garden of Eden' , in beautiful Somerset.
Her brother, who was in the RAF throughout WW11, is organising the funeral arrangements, and may well be playing the great organ, which I used to pump as a choir-boy. He is 94 years of age.
I will meet up once more with the little girl who was the family grand-daughter and exactly the same age as me, and who came and stayed at the house on the night I arrived unexpectedly from London as a four - year old, just to keep me company.
Before I leave I will be sure to call, as always, at the site of the Canadian and US Army camp , where , as a kid, I met so many young soldiers who had come to our aid, and were preparing for D-Day.
I will then be able to put my formative years behind me, with heartfelt gratitude. I look at that village and see it as it was in WW11, now long gone; the memories of most have faded with the years of familiarality. Such is life!
I kept in touch with her from time to time throughout my life; I visited with my dad at about 12 years of age; I called on them at 20 at Easter on my return from Egypt as a soldier; I visited with my young children once; I sent congratulations and a bouquet on the occasion of her golden wedding; condolences on the death of her husband many years ago, he had been the officer i/c the Home Guard, 'Dad's Army'; and I visited her in her village when they celebrated their 1000 year 'Songs of Praise' after I had been gone 50 years.
So, sometime next week I will pray once again, and probably for the last time, when I return to give thanks and pay the respects of myself and my family at the little Saxon church in the village known in the 19th century as 'The Garden of Eden' , in beautiful Somerset.
Her brother, who was in the RAF throughout WW11, is organising the funeral arrangements, and may well be playing the great organ, which I used to pump as a choir-boy. He is 94 years of age.
I will meet up once more with the little girl who was the family grand-daughter and exactly the same age as me, and who came and stayed at the house on the night I arrived unexpectedly from London as a four - year old, just to keep me company.
Before I leave I will be sure to call, as always, at the site of the Canadian and US Army camp , where , as a kid, I met so many young soldiers who had come to our aid, and were preparing for D-Day.
I will then be able to put my formative years behind me, with heartfelt gratitude. I look at that village and see it as it was in WW11, now long gone; the memories of most have faded with the years of familiarality. Such is life!
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