So, yesterday, I was sitting at a table with various older members of my family and amongst these was a distant and very old relative who was loud and deaf and much given to telling stories about the old days. It was interesting, despite being near asphixiated by the tobacco smoke and before I was forced to leave due to the subsequent pounding head ache this afforded me, I was regaled by a story of this worthy ancient's boyhood adventures on a Danish island called Fanø. (Ø in Danish means island so most Danish islands end in ø. Ø is pronounced in a way that does not translate into English at all, but its a noise similar to U).
As I was listening to the story teller he suddenly remarked in an off hand way, "...and that was about, oh, 1930" and at that my brain, never very good at concentrating on any one subject for long, got side tracked for it suddenly impacted upon me that what was to me a genre was to this man just another memory. 1936 to me is so far removed from my life and experiences that although I read about this period all the time it never really has any impact on my life. I might just as well have been listening to a man talk about 1066 for all the insight my books and surfing have given me.
I looked down at Freja, who was wandering about in a lurid 1970's style green dress that Mette had made for her and had this sudden insight of her sitting at a table in seventy years time, telling a host of young people about the twenty twenty's and they all listening, unable to fully understand what it was like in the twenty twenty's.
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2 comments:
My wife's uncle is 92 years old. He drove a tank in Patton's army. His mind is still sharp and the stories he tells of his life are very interesting, and quite foreign.
It makes me think of a Chinese blessing; 'May you never live in interesting times', or words to that effect.
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