I have a problem with cynicism, there’s not enough of it; commercialism, there is far too much of it; conspiracism, that comes in the form of bogus ‘holidays’ and there is nothing more bogus than the Hallmark Holiday Valentine’s Day aka ‘Single Awareness Day.’
To prove my point with the three C’s, and because I had nothing better to do until the cricket started, I conducted a survey. My randomly contrived survey produced some interesting facts.
The first: I am a cupid critic but I am not on my own. My fellow participants will be celebrating anti- Valentine’s Day by pummelling cupid and his quiver into oblivion.
The second: Men have a completely different outlook to the world of ‘lovefestville’ than women.
The third: Men and women come in four distinct categories – the single, the married (under ten years), the married (over ten years) and the vomit inducing lovey dovey couples.
The fourth and most interesting fact: The once simple day has been hijacked by the retail industry. February the 14th is their bonanza day. The chocolates, cards, and teddy bears leave the shelves quicker than a harpoon firing from a Japanese whaling boat. But the one who has the most to gain by keeping the bogus day alive are florists. As quick as Cupid can fling his arrows to far flung victims the price of flowers for that one day in February rises faster than variable interest rates. Perhaps our new Prime Minister should consider implementing a Commissioner for flowers.
The hype, the propaganda, and the guilt are all used to send the untrained to the point of lunacy. Take the singles for instance: the singles are singled out on this bogus day, deliberately. Yes the “in your face” advertising has only one aim and that is to highlight their plight of singleness. The singles spend all year looking for their soul mate (translation: finding someone whose imperfections fit their own) and when they can’t then this day is just rubbing salt into that “single” wound.
I know who’s to blame for the economic benefit. It is all in my survey. The vomit inducing couples and the married (under ten years) are the ones who keep the cash registers ringing. They know it is a bogus day they just get caught up in the hoax. They are to blame for the overdosing of advertising that we are forced to contend with. They are to blame for the hike in prices. They are to blame for the chocolate shortage and they are to blame for being taken in by the retail industry. Open your eyes people. You are all being had. You are helping to keep this billion dollar bogus day alive. The only thing more revolting than crap love poetry inside a pathetic card are those dreadful newspaper ads that read: To my Big Boo Boo Boy love you forever your Cutie Chockie Cupcake etc. Etc.
You get the picture. Give me a break. Oh, and a bucket.
Married people with a decade or more miles under their belts know it is all a farce. It took them years to gain the knowledge and strength to ward of such belligerent behaviour from the retailers, but they did it.
The survey showed that many people break up on V-Day. Many declared it was because of the pressure… I believe it was more the lousy present they gave – either way they are doomed. If you are one of the unfortunates to get caught up in the retailed generated hype of chocolate-coated, pink-tinted, frilly-laced products that are manufactured by the card, chocolate, and flower companies, choose wisely for it may just lead to you being just another statistic.
Let the battle begin – although it isn’t as much of a battle as it is a scuffle. Women win regardless. If they get something good they are happy. If they get something bad they get to inflict pain. Win- Win.
Men cannot win. Valentine’s Day is not geared up for them to ever win. They are damned if they do and dead if they don’t. So it is just a choice of whether they are going down the cliché path or down the ‘max out the credit card’ road. The cliché path can and will backfire big time. Before you think of penning that ode to the love of your life in a sky writing spectacular or hanging that banner from the Harbour Bridge both sound good in theory, both would be well received, but what about next year and the year after. What if you have ten years of coming up with bigger and better spectaculars. Don’t think she will ever forget the skywriting, she won’t. Women never forget. If you manage to sneak a marriage proposal into the sky writing or on to the banner she will be thrilled but give it a few days. It wouldn’t matter if the rock on her finger is the size of Uluru she will be complaining to her friends that you have managed to merge two possible presents into one – Valentine’s Day and the engagement ring. Don’t do it men. It isn’t worth it. There is nothing remotely romantic with a rock the size of Uluru being thrown back at you like a Brett Lee bouncer.
Finally, never play the ‘Let’s not buy anything for each other because we’re so secure in our relationship’ game on V-Day. It’s a guilt thing and there is nothing more potent than a woman playing the guilt card. How else can you explain the line of forlorn looking men at the BP station trying desperately to find a last minute appropriate gift and watching them racing for that one card left on the shelf. It is a Valentine’s Day massacre.
V-Day has nothing to do with romance. It is all about the ca-ching, ca-ching ca-ching. Let those cash registers ring.

Arriving at the school we ran the gauntlet of each political party handing out their pamphlets. She took one from everyone. She couldn’t be accused of bias.
Inside we made our way to the desk. She gave her name and watched closely as the woman searched for it.
“Have you voted anywhere else today?”
“You’re kidding right,” was her response.
“A no would have sufficed,” I said.
“Why did we have to come so early? What time to you close?” she asked.
“6pm.”
She threw me a look of disdain. I didn’t bother taking a photo of it.
She managed to get her name crossed off and text four separate people to claim she was being held hostage at the polling booth and it was all my fault.
“I don’t make the rules.” I started up the ‘it’s your democratic right’ but I had lost her. She was already having an in depth conversation with a fellow ‘hostage.’
She held up the two pieces that signified democracy, threw me another look and made her way to yet another line. “I should have brought more hands,” she said as she struggled to hold the leaflets and the ballot papers. “I am going to shove them all in the box,” she grumbled. “I will be here forever. Look at the size of this one.”
It was not the time to remind her that she should have read the ‘How to Vote’ brochure that came in the post.
“How long is this going to take I have a life you know?”
Patience is not a trait she was blessed with.
“It will take as long as it takes,” I replied
She rolled her eyes.
What bugged me the most was that in three days time I knew I would have a better response than the one I just gave her.
She went through her pamphlets. “Am I a swinging voter?”
After I got over my initial shock of the question I explained what it meant.
She shrugged and right before my eyes she turned into a swinging voter.
“I might vote for her, or him, or this one. Look at this geezer. I am definitely not voting for him. He looks weird.”
I looked at the picture it was hard to disagree with her. I have heard worse reasons for not voting for someone.
A booth opened. “Finally,” she sighed and stepped up. Another opened and I stepped up to execute my democratic right. When I had finished she was still in the booth with her head down.
“What were you doing?” I asked as she came away from the booth.
She rolled her eyes. “Democracy takes time, Mum.” She made her way over to the boxes.
“Remember to put the right one in the right box.”
Her hands went to her hips. “I’m not stupid.” She held up her papers in triumphant.
“You could have folded the white one a bit neater.”
I received yet another look.
“I have never been good at folding table cloths.”
Tablecloth was a bit of an exaggeration as were her claims at folding them. “You can at least smile.”
“I am.” She glared at me as the people waited to add their ballots.
Click.
“Have you finished humiliating me?” she said through clenched teeth as the murmurs behind me began to get riotous. I quickly hurried her out. I knew what they were thinking… And they let this person vote.

Giving someone a call for their birthday was once a pleasant experience. You would dial the number and find yourself smiling for no particular reason as you waited for the phone to answer. When it did you would put on that bizarre voice, the one that is a few octaves higher than your normal voice – again for no particular reason- and believing the birthday recipient had suddenly become hearing impaired you would bellow down the phone, “Happy Birthday.’ Some even managed to sing a stirring albeit eardrum annihilating rendition of the same. You would receive the polite thankyou along with the unspoken but quite clearly heard undertones of ‘I would rather have a present but oh well, if I must have to put up with this I am glad it is only once a year’ followed with a few minutes of insignificant chat that neither party would ever recall even under the heaviest of cross examination, and then you all got on with your lives.

Then came the invention of the mobile phone.
My Dad, who is race into his eighties, had to have one.
Why? Because he needed one.
Why? I have no idea.
This is the same person who had lived without a house phone all of his life and now suddenly he needed a mobile phone but he couldn’t just get the basic model no he had to get the unsurpassed model.
We suggested he get a simple model.
He wouldn’t hear of it. He went for the surfing the web, downloading music and videos quickly over the high speed connection, while keeping on top of his busy life schedule by sending or receiving emails with attachments, catching all the action of his busy life on the video recorder and taking photos of his busy life on the 2 megapixel camera, mobile.
We suggested he at least read the manual.
He claimed it was a waste of time. “Besides,” He boasted, “Why do you think I had so many grandchildren?” So one by one the grandchildren were ‘tortured’ as they attempted to teach him the basics.
He wanted to learn how to text. He wanted to take pictures. He wanted to learn everything there was to learn.

With him mastering nothing his birthday arrived and I dialled the number.
The phone was switched off.
I waited an hour and dialled again. It rang and was answered after a half dozen rings.
“Hello.”
“Hello, it’s me. Is Dad there?”
“Hello.”
“Yes hello, it’s me, is Dad there?”
“Hello.”
“It’s me. I want to speak to Dad.”
“There’s no one there.”
“Yes there is. I am there. I mean here, is Dad there.”
The tell tale beep beep beep of the hang up pounded my eardrum.

I dialled again.
“Hello.”
“Hello, it’s me, is Dad there.”
“Still no one there.”
“I am there,” my voice rose. “I am there.”
“Why don’t people say hello?”
“I am people. I am saying hello. Is Dad there?”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Great. This is just great.
I punched the number in again.
“The person you are calling is unavailable.”
Oh, the irony.

I redialled. It rang out.
I redialled. “The number you are dialling is out of service.”
I don’t know about the number but the person certainly is.
At this rate it will be his next birthday before I wish him a happy birthday for this one.

Perhaps it is my competitive streak or maybe my obsession with the ‘it’s the principle of the thing’ either way I could never give up.
I redialled.
“Hello.”
I sighed. “Hello, it’s me, is Dad there?”
“There mustn’t be any service.”
“There’s service,” I said. “How else could I be almost talking to you?”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I redialled. It went to voice mail. On the verge of hysteria I laughed. Voice mail. How would he figure that one out? Any message I left would surely be unclaimed forever.
I hung up.

I redialled.
“Hello.”
With what little sanity I had left, the no particular reason smile now a frown of despair and my delayed cheery birthday greeting desperate to get out all but gone, I dug deep. “Hello, is Dad there?”
“I think it might need recharging.”
Yeah, that’s the problem it needs recharging. Give me a break.
I took a deep breath counted to twenty – ten wasn’t going to do it- and redialled.
“Hello.”
“Hello, it’s me, is Dad there?”
“The phone is on the blink.”
“No it’s fine. It’s me, is Dad there?”
“There is definitely something wrong with it.”
Yes but it’s you. You are what is wrong with the phone.
I listened to them debating the ‘problems’ associated with the phone.
“HELLO.”
The tears of frustration welled as I once again was forced to listen to the hang up signal.
This was turning into the most expensive non-phone call ever. It would have been cheaper to buy him the company.
With thoughts of a conspiracy theory within the telecommunication industry gaining momentum I redialled. A million things went through my head – none of them good.
“Hello.”
Been there done that. I am not falling for that one.
“Put Dad on.”
“Do you think I need a new phone?”
No. You need to know how to use this one.
“Put him on. Put him on. I want to wish him a happy birthday.”
“Why doesn’t it work?”
Maybe it’s has something to do with the fact that you don’t know what you are doing.
“Put him on or so help me I will tear down every tower I can find.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Even someone as competitive as me who believes strongly in the ‘it’s the principle of the thing’ had to admit defeat. Yes I caved in and I waved the white flag.
Next year I am sending him a card.

My phone rang. I stared at it. I answered, “hello.”
“Hello,” came my father’s voice. “I didn’t hear from you today. I thought you must have been busy. What have you been up to?”
“You wouldn’t believe me, Dad.”
“I am using my free hour to ring.”
“Good for you.” That’s just great. I am going to have to sell my kidney to pay my phone bill and he is using his free hour. Where is the nearest tower?
“Oh, by the way happy birthday,” I grumbled ungraciously. “Did you get something nice?”
“A GPS.”
Arghh

Peace and goodwill lasts up until someone cuts you off and pinches your parking space. Then sanity takes a sabbatical and insanity arrives quicker than the big man can say “Ho Ho Ho.”

Sadly Christmas is all about the presents. Most people treat Christmas shopping as a search and rescue mission. It is trolleys at ten paces. The pressure to get it right is too much for some people you see them pacing from aisle to aisle muttering inaudibly to themselves. At any other time of the year they would be packed off to the asylum AKA the mental health facility. These poor people are an implosion waiting to happen.

The mission of buying presents can be a simple task as long as you follow the basic rules. Kids are easy you just get them something either colourful or loud and if you can manage to combine the two you are definitely on a winner. For the teenager who knows everything just give them cash. Buying for men is easy just get them a cordless drill apparently having too many is never too many, a ratchet – men seem to like saying the word – and anything for his car no matter how ridiculous it is even a two dollar snow scraper for the windscreen can be a sure fire hit even though I can’t recall the last time it snowed in Australia at Christmas.

Tickets – screams out winner – especially when they are for any sport at any venue at any time. Opera tickets don’t have the same impact so steer clear of them.  A barbeque that has seven burners is a must buy because everyone knows the more burners the better. Nothing says danger more to a man than having access to all that gas and never under any circumstances buy him anything that ‘requires some assembling’ for he will always have parts left over but if all else fails buy him something colourful and loud.

Now for the women they will always want nothing, which firmly translates to “you better get it right or I will find another use for that ratchet.”

What they don’t want is cheap perfume that smells remarkably like road kill, canisters, pierced earrings if the receiver doesn’t have pierced ears (personal experience) anything that slices dices or peels, anything that comes with a thirty day trial, anything that comes with its own knife set or the phrase but wait there’s more…  anything that comes with a warning, Anything found in the back of a taxi (sadly from personal experience), hot water service (again sadly from personal experience) or anything that can be used as a weapon.

If Christmas is so wonderful why is everyone acting insane?

Once you get the gift buying out of the way it is time for the next instalment of the Christmas craziness for it is time to make THE decision – stay home or go and visit the relo’s?

The choice you have to make have advantages and disadvantages.

If you stay home you have the home ground advantage, which is always an advantage but then you have to set a menu because KFC isn’t open on Christmas day. You have to do all the cooking this is always a problem in our house as no one likes my cooking besides I haven’t cooked Christmas lunch since I set fire to the chook in the webber a few years back.

But the thing that brings everyone undone is putting up the Christmas tree. No one wants to do it as the rule is ‘you put it up you take it down.’ By the time January comes around no one has the drive or inclination to do it and leaving it up for next Christmas is considered poor form.  With the rule strictly enforced the Christmas tree never left the cupboard last year. Even having visitors for the festivities couldn’t conjure up enough enthusiasm for anyone to put it up. Bribery didn’t work.

“Well, we will have to do something we have visitors,” I noted as I sat in my recliner watching the movie of the week.

“The tree has only one leg and the angel has lost an eye and a wing,” number two child complained. “You can’t put it up it is embarrassing. Why don’t you just throw it away and get a new one.”

“Because I am watching the movie besides would you get rid of me just because I lost a limb and an eye?”

“Ah yes,” he replied.

I crossed him off my Christmas list.

“I will do it,” the baby called out.

“I knew there was a reason why I had you.”

I should have been suspicious as she never ‘volunteers’ but I was busy watching the worse movie ever made.

“Do you need a hand?” I called to her in the ad break.

“Nope, it is all under control, Mum, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your life.”

Sarcasm she volunteers all so well.

I got the full extent of her ‘volunteering ‘a few minutes later when she came and stuck the drawing of the Christmas tree onto the wall. I had to hand it to her. I had to admire her initiative.

If you choose to go the other way and have Christmas away from home that can only mean the dreaded Christmas road trip, the one thousand kilometre journey to hell. You arrive covered in vomit to be yelled at by your father because you are an hour late. “You could have rung?” he demands.

“What on my shoe phone,” you retort because your mobile phone hasn’t had any coverage for five hundred miserable kilometres. “I would have sent up a smoke signal but there is a total fire ban on.”

And thus begins Christmas with the relo’s.

It is about now the distant relative shows up without warning and empty handed. He is the cousin twice removed on your mother’s side that you have never met and would never want to again. He proceeds to drink far too much of the Christmas spirit and all the while you have a vice like grip on your champagne flute as you stare at him and understand why suddenly normal people snap with such murderous intent. And that is before the same relo suddenly becomes an expert on everything. All the while old Uncle Dave is sitting in the chair in the corner complaining about sitting in the chair in the corner until the Christmas spirit hits him and he promptly falls asleep.

Your father then proceeds to torture the grandchildren with jokes that weren’t funny thirty years ago, does that stop him? No, it only encourages him. Your kids look at you pleading for it to stop, you don’t though you figure that you had to put up with it thirty years ago it was about time it was someone else’s turn so you just drink and wish you were in another family.

And just when you think things are going as well as they possible can some fool drags out the board game and it is on for young and old. Even old Uncle Dave comes alive when the game begins and suddenly that one thousand kilometre vomit fuelled trip doesn’t seem so bad.

Merry Christmas.

Stepping off the train in Amiens, France, I was excited if not a little anxious as I made my way out of the station to meet our guide, Sylvestre and his question that I was expecting.

Did I have any expectations? Should I have any? It was obvious I had more questions than expectations. “I don’t know,” I replied with a hint of embarrassment. He shrugged.  I guess I wouldn’t be exceeding his.

I sat quietly in the vehicle pondering. The two letters that I had carried from home sat safely inside the bag. I began to think about my expectations. I expected to deliver the letters to my great uncles. I expected to be touched by doing so. I expected the day and visits to the cemeteries to be an emotional experience. I expected there might be tears hopefully some would be mine.

What I expected and what I got were as wide as the Somme itself.

Driving through the French countryside I couldn’t help but see how serene and peaceful it was although I had the feeling that at any moment my life could possible change.

“Potatoes,” Sylvestre answered my unasked question.

I smiled as I looked out at paddock after paddock.

“The French have the best,” he continued proudly.

“Do you export?”

“No we keep them for ourselves we only export things we don’t like.”

I laughed and before long he parked the car. The drizzle that greeted our arrival at the Australian Memorial seemed appropriate. I stared up at the imposing memorial and as he began to speak it hit me that I was actually standing in a place that many years before was the scene of such carnage and mayhem. I was struggling to keep it together. My eyes rested on the rows of white headstones. They were lined up like soldiers out on the parade ground.

Slyvestre leaned closer. “You are on Australian soil now.”

I nodded my head in understanding even though I didn’t understand. The names saddened me, the ages brought the tears to my eyes and the ‘unknowns’ had me turning away.

“Your unknown soldier in Canberra?” He spoke interrupting my thoughts for which I was grateful. I looked to him I understood exactly what he was saying for I have visited the tomb myself.

“He came from here.”

I frowned. I looked over to where he indicated. I never thought about where he came from. It had never entered my mind and now I was being told that instead of being here with his mates he was all alone in Canberra suddenly it felt wrong.

Good intentions have never been a favourite of mine and by the time the day was out I was to see how very wrong good intentions could be.

I climbed the stairs of the memorial and looked out over the headstones and beyond. The colour green struck me. I wondered if the green seemed greener because it snaked in and out of the whiteness of the headstones. East West North and South the beauty was astounding. I looked further afield through the light mist to see the excavation taking place. It was a stark reminder that they were still today searching for the fallen. “They will always be looking,” Sylvestre said matter of fact. That offered me little comfort.

The ensuing silence was welcomed. I needed to gather my thoughts. I was struggling and I hadn’t even got to my uncles graves.

Our visit to the Victoria School and museum ended all too soon and then it was time to deliver the first letter to my great uncle Ossie. I looked to the envelope adorned with a poppy and an Anzac badge courtesy of the Mildura RSL and made my way into the cemetery.

“Do you have a flag?” Sylvestre asked.

I shook my head. I couldn’t get one. He went to the back of the vehicle and took out a flag. Somehow I wasn’t at all surprised. It took only a few minutes to locate the headstone we were looking for. I placed the envelope and the flag and ran my hand over his name. I didn’t say anything. Everything I wanted to say was inside the envelope.

We then went to what is dubbed ‘Young Australia’s Darkest Day’ 5000 lives lost in a single day. I looked out over the fields that had seen so much death so much so that the Germans and Aussies agreed to a ceasefire. The British High Command refused. The killing continued. It was here we heard the story of the Aussie taken prisoner. His wounds had him at the German hospital where he was able to write a letter home to his mother (I saw a copy of the letter) saying he was being treated well and was hoping to be discharged soon. He died two days later.

A few hundred metres down the road we stopped again at VC Corner I noticed the two large concrete crossed laying flat on the ground. They were surrounded by over 400 rose bushes. I was soon to learn that each bush denoted one Australian death. There are no headstones as they are all unknown. It was one the most serene, beautiful cemeteries’ I have ever seen. I signed the remembrance book where I was told former Prime Minister John Howard and his wife had signed previously.

Another stop had us looking at another monument. I waited for the explanation. I knew there would be one. “This isn’t the original monument,” he began, “It was replaced. It depicted a solider attacking an eagle with a bayonet. WW2 the Germans took exception to the statue and blew it to smithereens.”

I smiled.

“They never damaged any headstones in WW2.”

I could see the irony in the Nazi’s having more respect for the dead in WW2 than they ever did for the living.

“The Germans always had the higher ground.” He continued, “Always.” He took us to a German cemetery next. I looked at the 11000 gray crosses. There were no flowers. It was dark, bleak and terribly uninviting.

“Do you notice anything?” he asked.

It’s ugly I wanted to say but somehow I knew that wasn’t the answer he was after.

“Have a look where the British and Australian cemetery is.”

We looked a kilometre away. I noticed it was situated on higher ground. I smiled and left the cemetery closing the jet black gate behind me.

After lunch and after gathering our thoughts we were on our way once more. Sylvestre spoke “Hitler was injured here.”

I looked out of the window.

“He lost a bit of his… how do I say this, appendage.”

I smiled.

“Three times he was injured.”

I nodded thinking it was a pity they missed.

“Watch your step,” I was warned at our next stop. I thought he meant the mud but it was the three live bombs resting against a statue of Jesus that had me watching every step. I was soon in a field searching for shrapnel. It didn’t take long the place is littered with it. Farmers are still getting injured just last year one was gassed. He handed over the shrapnel and suggested I take it home. I refused. He insisted.

It was time to deliver the second letter. I stood in front of Uncle Alfred’s headstones pondering. The workers mowing the lawns came towards us. They turned off their machines and waited for me to finish. I thanked them. A gentle breeze had me believing that he somehow knew that I had come. And then our day ended in Lille.

The first question I was asked was what were my expectations? Now it was how did I feel? An array of emotions consumed me I felt sad, proud and honoured. Along with the sadness and the pride I think I will remember the colours the most the lush greens, the redness of the roses and the poppies and whiteness of the headstones.

War changes everything. So does peace.

I stared into the little suitcase and all thoughts of the luckless day I was having left. The contents more than made up for the fact that the airline I travelled on to retrieve the case didn’t even offer me a stale old muffin and it certainly made up for the fact that the same airline lost my luggage, which I was to find not only ironic but convenient as I didn’t have to lug the suitcase around an airport- it was to be delivered to me.    

The suitcase I lost paled into insignificance with the suitcase which found me.

Inside was a life I was never a part of but after opening it I found myself not only becoming a part of that life but entrenched firmly inside of it. The contents took me back to a time that I had only read about in history books at school. It transported me to places such as Belgium, France, England, South Africa and America.  It took me to the Great War.

Birthday cards, newspaper clippings heralding the surrender and armistice, scarves, Christmas cards, intricate handmade embroidered cards and the letters; letters to sisters,  letters to brothers, letters to sweethearts, letters to break your heart, letters that leave you breathless, letters that leave you smiling, letter after letter after letter.

They tell of men being on guard duty, playing football and cricket, training, and participating in marches. I wondered when they had time to win the war. Each letter and card revealed just a little more. They gave me an insight into a world that had produced such true heroes and real icons.

Great uncle Oswald I soon realised was a bit of a lady’s man. He wrote to his sisters complaining that his sweetheart hadn’t written to him in a while. He joked that she had probably thrown him over for someone else. In retaliation for her silence he began talking about picking up French tarts. And he wasn’t referring to those you could purchase at the local bakery. I was horrified that he had written such things to my grandmother, the woman who religiously attended church every Sunday. My sister laughed at me.

My great uncle Alfred wrote frequently of missing his family and his home. He spoke sparingly  of the trenches and the front line. He was protecting his family from the harsh realities. He was  a man far from home dreaming of being at home.

But it is the love story between Charlie (grandfather) and Daisy (grandmother) that endured  throughout the long arduous war. The deep love and ever growing affection for each other that  not even the years of separation could break.

My grandfather was a Light Horseman fighting for king and country in a country far from his own. He wrote regularly albeit guardedly to his sweetheart.  He too was cautious in what he said to protect those at home and by being censored by those in charge. The letters were always from somewhere in France or just France, Belgium, or England.

But his love for the woman who would eventually become my grandmother knew no such restraints. He wrote that his memory seemed to be going on him probably because he was so in love with her. I had to laugh when my sister tried the same line on her husband. He just stared at her like she had lost her mind.

I knew my grandfather to be a handsome man. I would see this every time I walked into my grandmother’s lounge room to see the portrait that hung with pride on the wall. I would see him sitting proudly atop of his horse. I was too young then to realise the significance.

What I didn’t know was that in 1914 he rode his horse from Goulburn to Cunningar to join his troop a distance of 144kms. He travelled further from home to fight. Many more miles were covered before him being one of the lucky ones found himself home safe and sound.

Life wasn’t easy for those on active duty overseas or for those waiting at home – families were separated by war. Families would be shattered by war.

The contents of the tattered old brown suitcase made my heart soar with pride for three men I never knew. It made me cry for the same three men. Two of them never came home. They were buried where they fell – somewhere in France.

The sadness gripped me as I read of a mother telling her beloved son that she prayed that he would return in time for the next Christmas. He had already missed two. The Christmas she was praying for never came. He was killed in action never to see his family again.

The suitcase was given to my cousin by his mother a decade ago to look after. He never opened it. I laughed at him and told him I would have opened it the moment I got it.

No one knew where the suitcase was kept for all the years in between. I asked all the old aunts and uncles no one knew. There was plenty of speculation but nothing substantial.

Uncle Ron, who served himself in WW2, was overcome with emotion with the contents and when I took the scarf and laid it out on the table to reveal the words and music for ‘Till the Boys Come Home’ printed onto it his wife burst into a stirring rendition.  It was a humbling experience to see a man, who had served his country with distinction, brought undone. He squeezed my hand. There was no need for words.

The condition of the contents amazed everyone. For decades they had been loosely left inside the suitcase but somehow the suitcase protected the contents probably in the same way those at the front protected those at home.

Before I had time to fully absorb the contents I carefully re packed the little suitcase, placed it inside a bag and took the train into town. My sister and I stood in the carriage as the train pulled into Circular Quay and we marvelled at the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House both standing with purpose and gleaming in the morning sun – a testament to all signalling freedom and democracy. We alighted from the train at St James station and took the short walk down Macquarie Street; we passed State Parliament, the Sydney Hospital, and the newest building that made up the State Library complex. We walked in hope and with determination in finding a new and proper fitting home for the contents that had been kept undisturbed for many decades.

We knew what precious cargo we were carrying we also knew it was a find that will never again be found. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are ones written via email. Gone is the art of the beautifully handwritten letters of old.

We made our way passed the statue of Mathew Flinders and his cat, Trim, and climbed the stairs to the original building – the Mitchell Library built in 1910.

We entered with a glorious sadness for what was lost and a wonderful appreciation of what has been gained.

From England, South Africa, America, France, Belgium and back to NSW the contents have one more trip with me before the long journey is finally over. It is only fitting that the Mitchell Library, an imposing sandstone building with its stain glass windows, will be entrusted to look after the precious contents of the tattered old brown suitcase -a beautiful library to care for such a beautiful collection.

Now for the final journey…

‘… give me a piece of ground in NSW big enough for me to dig a dug out that will hold me and anyone can have the whole of France…’ Joshua Oswald Noble 27/5/1917 Somewhere in France.