As a young person, I had no idea why I had to write letters when abroad, or just away from home for a few days. I sunk into my world to ponder over new experiences.
I was born into a family where letters and memory writing had played a significant role. My grandfather on my mother’s side had written his memories, and the Danish word “Erindringer” was the first difficult word I learnt as a six-year-old.
Emry, the granddaddy, had just died in 1957 and my mother used her spare time to rewrite his compactly written memories in a more readable form. It took me many years to read it my self, and the situation came six years ago when my mother was dying. I read it all and was struck by the lively way it was written, and I read parts of it aloud to her during her last month.
I have recently realised that I am a compassionate person and that writing letters, blog posts etc. helps me understand and digest things.
My mother was among the first tourists coming it England after the war in 1946.
I have a photo album from her tour with other young people on their bikes from Harwich to London and the south of England.
Without their Danish rye bread and salami and liver paste, they would have starved. At one place they were offered a sandwich with a piece of lettuce on.
You see the effects of the blitz of London on some of the photos. As a child, I have looked at these photos over and over. The pictures from her tour.
The boat trip back to the more luxurious ferry ” M/S Kronprins Frederik.”
At a youth hostel in High Gate the host had shouted :
“Two for washing up!”
My mother and a young woman from Manchester reacted and helped on this task.
They continued to write letters and I have the complete collection from their lives describing most events and thoughts from 1946-2008 where both died.
Josey meant so much to me, so when I heard she had died, I had to go to her village outside Manchester and try to get in touch with people who had known her.
My mothers love for England came from the days of liberation from the German occupation in May 1945. She had somehow met one of Montgomery’s soldiers Bill, and they got engaged to be married. He later disappeared in Burma. That was the story I heard as a child. She never got over the loss.
Now I just enjoy so much this blog writing. So much has been stored up in my life ready to be shared with you dear readers. I am sharing this post at the blogging event called “Prompt Stomp” and #vintage