Thoughts from the Heart on Anzac Day

For the first time in a lot of years I did not  attend the Anzac Day march this morning.  Too long standing and walking for me at the moment.  Most of the rest of the household turned out.  I stayed here with the twins and sang them Advance Australia Fair and Waltzing Matilda,  and other sustaining songs .

As always I have found the articles and clips moving today.  A couple of new songs I had not heard before. Adam Brand ~ The Anzac and  Ragged Bloody Heroes  posted by Ann at Eight Acres of Eden. ( A Kiwi living in Oz)

I've written before of my  grandfather  here and here  and my great love and admiration for him.. Strangely, although that rose-tinted view is still the way I remember my Grandad, in the last few months I have had much to mull over about his life and character.  We knew him as a sage and often jolly old man, sitting in his cane chair on the veranda, smoking a pipe, telling a yarn, rousing on the nippers.

 In the past few months as some of my cousins have met to organise our upcoming, "100 Years on the Block" celebrations, we have been able to talk about our memories.  Also my Uncle who is putting together a book of Family History, my Dad, who is the oldest living  member of the family, and my three aunts have all contributed and answered questions.  Although they loved their parents dearly, my grandparents,  they grew up in a generation which was much more rigid and austere.  Where children were seen but not heard at the tea table, yes, even in the shanty in the bush.  Where war, drought, flood, and the Great Depression cast a gloomy shadow over youthful exuberance and survival was the main priority in life. 

My grandfather was a devoutly religious man and obviously he would tolerate no rebellion from his children,  Some in the end left the farm either to join the army in WW2 or for other jobs. Some left on not the best of terms.  Some of the nine stayed and loved the land all the days of their lives.  To me, it seems that my Grandfather may have suffered much more emotionally and spiritually than the physical wounds of his battle scars showed.  My heart aches for him, for my grandmother and the loneliness and toilsome heartache of her lonely bush life, trying to soothe the pain which gruesome, senseless warfare had inflicted on her husband.  I ache for my father too,  who it seems was able to speak very little to his father of sensitive things and finds it hard to relay the same to us his children.

Last weekend I attended the 21st birthday celebrations of one of my nephews.  My brother spoke so lovingly and humorously in his speech to his son and finished simply with "I love you, son."  Teary eyed, I told him afterwards how precious his words were and as we hugged he told me he had resolved to say that because, you know....................  He said no more, but I knew.  In our fabulous family, through all that golden childhood which I hold so dear, there were some who never seemed to be able to say those precious words.  I am so thankful that this generation is different.  That we openly speak of our love, of our hurts and disappointments.  That we encourage one another and stand by in support when the chips are down.  Those things were always done but saying those three words can touch a person's heart in a way no other thing can.  In generations past, love was expressed in the hard work and loyalty one showed and it was great love.  Love in fact which was prepared to lay down their lives for us.

Lest we forget......