LEST WE FORGET

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Lest We Forget

I have just had replicas of my Grandad's WWII medals mounted and framed. What you can't read is that it labels his name and service number, the campaigns he fought in (Italy and Africa), who he fought for (the 8th Army) and that he spent time in a POW camp (Badia).

I feel sad that this man, who was such an influence on me growing up passed away eight years ago, and that my son will never get to meet him, and to feel his influence. He was a man who could turn his hand to anything, and (to me at least) knew how to fix everything. I remember his garden in Rotorua growing up. The can on the end of a long pole for picking plums from the giant tree at the bottom of the garden. He had beds in neat rows full of vegetables and fruits. I have never tasted raspberries as clean, as fresh- as 'raspberry' as the ones we picked from his garden.

He was the one who would bring pram wheels to the farm so we could make billycarts, and was still able to chase us with a hose well into his retirement. I remember staying up until 0500 on the occasion of his 70th birthday. It was a surprise party, and I am sure he nearly had a heart attack when he came home to see his family and friends crowding into his house. We had a spit roast, and spent the night singing, drinking and dancing. He led most of the music on his ukulele.

I remember as a young boy spending a week or so on a shearer's camp helping him as he was the camp cook. During that time he spoke to me extensively about the war, and his experiences as a young sapper in the Light Aid Detachment. They were responsible for fixing machinery in the desert- or blowing it up if it couldn't be fixed. He loved Cairo, more for the booze and women than the history, and had incredible adventures. On the day we laid him to rest, I was told a story about him during that time. There had been an argument in a souk, and it was agreed that Grandad and the Arab merchant would have a footrace to settle the dispute. Being of a similar frame as me (ie short legs and long back), he knew that he couldn't win a fair race. Somehow he contrived to have the race run only in hobnailed boots. Apparently the Arab was too embarrassed to let his arms swing free, giving Grandad the advantage he needed to win. I can't guarantee that is a true story - but I dearly want to think so! 

He was a prisoner of the Italians for a time, and had to fashion a spoon from a piece of wood to allow him to eat. If you could call mouldy bread and watery potato soup a meal...

He always had time to tell us a story, to show us how to build something and to just sit with us. I will always remember his bandy legs bouncing backwards on a beach at Waihi until he fell over, unable to keep up with one of his grandchildren.

I remember how proud I was to be able to march in an ANZAC Day parade with him. At the time I didn't really understand the significance of the march, but felt the pride within him. He was a larrakin, but still stiffened at the call to attention of the parade Sergeant Major. 

I would dearly love to have MacK spend time with my Grandad. I will make sure he knows who he was!

Lest We Forget.