I didn't do it on purpose, but on this Memorial Day, I'm reading Few Eggs and No Oranges: The Diaries of Vere Hodgson 1940-1945. I started reading this last year.
Diaries fascinate me. I love to read about the details of everyday life. I've been keeping a diary, off and on, mostly on, since 5th grade (many, many years ago). I've posted about that before.
I have several books I started to read at least a year ago and which I'm determined to finish this year. Feel free to query me occasionally about how I'm getting on with Gormenghast, Don Quixote, and Travels of William Bartram. They're all interesting but not gripping. Anyway, I picked up where I left off with Hodgson's diaries of World War II.
What people endured in the British Isles, Europe, and, I suppose, in other places during WWII is unfathomable to me. Waiting night after night for bombs to fall, wondering if it would be your house next and whether you'll survive. People dying when the bomb shelters collapsed or were flooded. People trapped under debris. Little food, disruption of utilites, fires. We've been spared that in the United States. Hodgson says she wonders if she'll be like the girl in Liverpool who sat writing in her diary as a bomb fell on her. Her diary was found but she never was.
Members of my family have fought in every American war including the French and Indian War. War is awful, war should be avoided, but, on this weekend of remembrance, I thank those who fought, some giving their lives, others wounded mentally and / or physically, hoping that their war would be the last war.