WW1 shrapnel

If yesterday floated past me, today I completely missed the boat. On the up side I slept away a chunk of it and sleep is wonderfully healing.

It is warm, (unseasonably so) and I've unleashed lighter fashion crimes on my neighbours (dinnosaur boxers and an old Tin Tin t-shirt). Yes, I need locking up ;-) Not that I've managed a great deal of shuffling around the yard today.

About today's blip. Granddad Boo (he used to say "boo!") served in WW1. He was a signaler posted at the front line. It's remarkable he returned with no physical wounds as signallers stood above the trenches and surrounding countryside.

Granddad Boo served on the Western Front, including the battles of Passchendaele (which had NZ's worse day of war casualties) and the the Somme.

My brother visited the Western Front in Belgium and France. Amongst the places visited included a small private museum on a farm near Passchendaele. When the farmer learned S came from NZ and our families connection, he handed him 3 pieces of shrapnel.

While I'm more towards the pacifist end of the spectrum, I know enough of life to know it is not always black and white. I've not faced times as Granddad did. I feel immense pride and sorrow when I hold this piece of shrapnel in my hand. It symbolises so much of what it cost NZ (10% of the population died in WW1) and shaped the country I live in today.

Lest we forget.

I have a hanky, special embroidered note for his mother and another small card from France he sent home in 1918. Should I have a mini series? Would you be interested in seeing these?

Brain turning to mush, better go.