A Grandson's Thoughts

When I think of my Granny, I am flooded with the thoughts of a grandson. The way her hearing-aid squeaks when you hug her; kitchen cupboards that smell of mustard; a valve radio tuned to 2YA; mutton with mint jelly; her surprise at how I've grown; saying my name with more vowels than anyone else I know; stories of my Dad when he was my age; knitting socks; many draws full of interesting things; blowing soap bubbles for me when I had a bath; her ability to memorise the Paraparaumu–Wellington train timetable; old toys in the hall cupboard; pictures of me and my sisters and my aunts and my Dad and my cousins when we were all younger; greeting her after a long trip; how she exclaims that I must be so cold, no matter the weather; relating how my second cousins, and great aunts and uncles are; how she says Weetabix instead of Weet-Bix; patience and love.

And her wedding photo, taken looking down on her and my Grandfather. Both of them wearing military uniform, standing in occupied Hamburg during the war.

I cannot think of my Granny landing at a Mulberry Harbour just after D-Day. I cannot imagine what my Granny would be like giving comfort the wounded while crawling through tents by the light of a hurricane lamp as shells exploded around her. I struggle to picture her serving captured champagne to the dying as a last comfort. The enormity of her task repairing the lives of those who survived Bergen-Belsen is something I cannot fathom.

My thoughts of my Granny are those of a grandson, and for this I am thankful. The French gave her Legion d' Honour, but I have no medals or awards or certificates to give her, just a grandson's love and a grandson's thoughts.