I watch from my window as the man who lives across the street emerges from the green door of his 17th century home. He is slightly bent over, but walks briskly, dressed in a neat, pressed black suit instead of the old gray anorak he usually wears. Bernard and I follow a few minutes later, poppies in lapels, for the chilly 5 minute walk to the war memorial. An obelisk stands in a little square just outside the churchyard, inscribed with the names of sons of the village who died in the first and second world wars. This November 11th, people gather here for the annual service of remembrance.
Four ancient but upright men with colorful medals across somber jackets stand at attention before the memorial.two of them hold flags. The vicar, Nick, leads us all in a short prayer, then members of the British Legion, the Boy Scouts and the girl guides lay wreathes at the foot of the monument. Flags-tips lower onto the steps around the monument as the vicar begins to read out names, so many from the same family, especially from the first world war. Some of the names are the same as people we know in the village, survivors, still honoring sons, fathers, brothers and sisters.
A white-haired woman in a wheel chair struggles to her feet as the service begins. She stands the whole time, head bowed, her grand daughter holding an umbrella to shelter her from the light rain which weeps down on us.
Our neighbor steps forward, straight as an arrow now, and says:
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, not the years condemn, at the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.
A Legionaire bugles the last post, then silence, broken only by the whisper of rain falling around us.
At last Reveille sounds, clear and clean, guiding us back to this misty, cold morning, to the blood-red wreathes propped against rain-drenched gray stones, and the silent crowd of villagers.
A memorial service continues inside the church, where we pray for peace, within ourselves, with our neighbors, and between nations. We pray that there will be no more maimed young men, sorrowful mothers and fathers, children and siblings. We know there must be a better way for humans to live together on this planet than through rivers of blood.
Later on in the evening, B nd I are watching the results show of a favorite program, Strictly Come Dancing. It’s an entertaining, if frivolous, display of healthy bodies, smiles, energy. But still, they acknowledge the day and the sacrifice with a song sung by a trio of soldiers in uniform, the studio awash with lights of red poppies, while two professional dancers enact an appropriate and moving routine.
Each year, I am struck by the universality of respect shown to their soldiers by the English. For a week, I have seen poppies in the lapels of people on the street, on television presenters and in shops. It isn’t an act, here, to prove how patriotic you are, but a heartfelt and reverent appreciation.
What a lovely description of Shere, Kathleen. Today is 11 November, and Tim and I were at the War Memorial for the 2 minute silence. There were far fewer people there; I suppose it being Monday, most were at work. But it’s true, we Brits do still respect the dead of two world wars. If only we could also respect the peace within Europe that the EU has won.