It’s ANZAC* day today. I didn’t want to get up early because I’m feeling far from great right now, but my nine year old daughter wanted to go to the Dawn Service with Grampy and Uncle Paul, so up I got, and woke her I did. And, against all better judgement, stayed up.
I can’t complain. Not today. Not when I’m sitting here in my warm dressing gown in my warm house with my warm ugg boots and my warm cup of tea. I’m not in a muddy trench. My life isn’t threatened, nor my country.
I went to a funeral on Monday for my mother-in-law’s uncle Tom. I didn’t know him that well, but he was a wonderful, wonderful man, and I wish I had known him better. He wasn’t yet born when this picture was taken, but he fought in World War 2. A man from his local RSL branch spoke at his funeral, and they laid poppies on his coffin.
I was at Uncle Tom’s house once, years and years ago, and he mentioned he’d fought in the war, in Papua New Guinea. Me, being me, and being probably too young at that time to really know any better, asked him “What was that like?”. He couldn’t talk about it, not then, not over a cup of tea and a biscuit some fifty odd years after the fact. I learned a lot that day, simply from that.
I learned that I may never understand.
All I can say is “thank you”.
*For my non-Aussie readers, ANZAC stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. ANZAC day, 25th April, marks the tremendous sacrifice of life at Gallipoli, Turkey, in 1915. I believe the last of the old Diggers have died now, but we keep the tradition, remembering those who fought in all the battles, right up to the present one. Lest we forget.