Out of bed before dawn. Out of my comfort zone completely. I’d wanted to do this forever. Dressed in warm clothes, socks, my cashmere coat. Out to the car. Windscreen washers and wipers on, to clear the layer of frost across the screen. The town, normally still largely asleep at this hour, was crawling with cars, people on foot. We found a park and set out towards the memorial gardens, moving with the strangely silent crowd. As we approached, a bag-piper let loose his instrument. A flock of cockatoos erupted from the giant redgums and all but drowned out the piper. People were congregating, moving forward, inch by inch, for a better view. I was thankful for the warm, protecting arm around me.
Along the way, I’d been preoccupied with thoughts of our soldiers at war. Boys – in trenches, in sodden field uniforms, sitting or lying down in mud – tired, hungry, cold, yearning for home. This is why I was here – to remember them.
Amongst us were those affected by the wars – soldiers themselves still traumatised, their long-suffering and caring wives, children raised in troubled homes, descendants of two world wars’ servicemen and women.
Christopher Sawade, with 50 years served in the RAAF, addressed those of us gathered. His fifteen minute talk held us spell-bound, with remarkable stories of war, sacrifice and love of country.
After the laying of wreaths, a bugle sounded ‘The Last Post.’ Handkerchiefs discreetly removed from men’s pockets. Tears wiped away. A young dishevelled man – two metres away from us, sobbed quietly. Heart-breaking. He’d lost someone – either killed in or ruined by war, which had in turn ruined him.
Then the minute’s silence. The hush was profound. Even the birds were silent. It felt as if a warm blanket of love had been dropped over us all. No-one moved. Tears ran freely.
The crowd dispersed then – slowly, quietly, thoughtfully. We walked back to the car. Children were dotted amongst us – sombre too, well-behaved – for a little while comprehending what children shouldn’t have to be burdened with. But in a climate of war, in today’s war-torn countries, children are.
We decided to go to the breakfast in the RSL hut, where I’d attended kindergarten as a child. Little changed, it is an austere and humble building, but this day, packed with townsfolk of one accord, it virtually shone with self esteem, helped along of course by volunteers who had put in their loving effort to make it look its best.
This was time to introduce my friend of old, to my town. I guess it couldn’t be hidden that we were close. Body language speaks volumes. We had conversations with a few. I suspected that by the end of the next day, it would have been common knowledge in town that I had been seen with someone who looked to be more than just a friend.
The march was later stepped out under a clear blue sky. If you blinked, you could have missed it. A small contingent from Tanunda, marched proudly with pipe band at their rear. Still brought a tear to my eye. People clapped as they passed. A few moments, once a year perhaps, where these men and some women can bring their normally private grief and trauma, out into the air, and feel appreciated for what they were made to endure.
I am currently reading ‘Her Sunburnt Country – The Extraordinary Literary Life of Dorothea Mackellar’ by Deborah Fitzgerald. Dorothea had a charmed and privileged upbringing, born to wealthy parents, and growing up in mansions, in Sydney”s Point Piper, and on large rural properties in Australia as well. She was a highly intelligent woman and while she travelled the world, country Australia was dearest to her.
We hear and read of what Australia meant and will always mean to those who have fought for her freedom. That patriotism must be one of the only things that helps them justify what conscription has done to their lives.
Regarding Dorothea Mackellar, I am looking forward to reading some volumes of her poetry. I believe she wrote two novels, but no short stories. I love the short story genre. Such an opportunity for writers to observe the world around them, pick a common, everyday happening and make a story of it. They can be so utterly enjoyable – to write and to read. I read one recently about something as common as what clothing a man with a simple wardrobe, wore on specific occasions. A clever writer can make something as simple as that into an intriguing story. Thank you.
I have had a very full week. Fairly significant changes in my life which I will gradually share with you. This gentle autumn day is ending, the month is ending, but even as one ages, things can begin.
Take care.
Warmly,
Sue
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