Some family memories as it's #VEDay2020 day today. This isn’t about making a point. It’s self-indulgent and for me to reminisce, any purpose beyond that is chance. If you like old photos, there is a few of them too.
As a millennial, these are the stories of my grandparents. With two working parents, my grandparents often helped with childcare and they often spoke about their lives. War memories, therefore, made up a large part of my youth.
My maternal grandfather, son of a Colonel, who was also the son of Colonel. He died before I was born, from a heart attack while travelling to work. Yet, the family always spoke of his desire to follow in his father's footsteps. (Here with his father in 1940) 
To his disappointment, the closest he got to action in WW2 was somewhere in the Middle East, a fellow soldier got bitten by a snake. My grandpa enthusiastically took out his snake bit kit (which apparently he alone had bothered to pack).
Part of the kit was a razor blade to help bleed the bite, and clear the wound. Apparently, it was in his nature to diligently follow folded paper instructions with great gusto.
When they finally got the poor guy to a doctor, the man who saw him was amazed both, that my grandpa had saved him from the bite, but also that he hadn’t bled to death from overzealous cut my grandpa had made.
His wife, my grandmother, would also often recount the story that my grandpa never got his medal because he was on the wrong side of the river when they handed it out.
That the front he was stationed on never gave him a chance to be the man he wanted to be, and as far as I know, that disappointment stayed with him. He had aspired for a military career, but after the war, to reduce the numbers he was retrained as an accountant.
Sent to Assam to work for Burma oil, he stayed there for many years. This was where my mother would grow up till she started boarding at Stoodley Knowle, a UK-based convent school. Somehow, she used to travel solo by air at age 6 between the UK and India in the 1950s.
Eventually, he would return to the UK in the late 60 to work in the city, and it was on that commute he would eventually die. Having recently lost a friend he recognised the symptoms and managed to get himself the hospital, but ignored and not triaged in time he didn't survive.
As far as I understand, he died disliking his job. As an accountant, he wasn't much love with the company structure, worked long hours and died young. I hope that is only part of the truth. (Here he is in 1978)
His wife, my grandmother I did meet. Until I was about 6 or 7 she would pick me and my brother up from school. I would later learn she suffered from metastatic melanoma for most of the time I knew her.
Surviving the best part of a decade in the 80s was a near miracle, and no primary tumour was ever found. (I discussed her death here - theguardian.com/commentisfree/…)
Her war stories were of watching the radar and calls to fire the Anti-aircraft guns, and of course those of her late husband I’ve already discussed. She never glorified, it was just what she did and she was proud to have played a part.
She would often tell this story, but I never recall a single mention of Hitler or the wider politics.
As both were from military families their parents knew each other well. Apparently, both sharing a cot at one point. Both were born outside the UK in military bases.
As both were from military families their parents knew each other well. Apparently, both sharing a cot at one point. Both were born outside the UK in military bases.
On my paternal side, my Grandad didn’t fight. He signed up to the Home Guard. However, in a training exercise, someone built a bomb as some kind of prank. He confiscated and disposed of it. (Here 1936)
As he was doing so some material detonated, shrapnel was blasted out of the bin and he lost an eye. He never spoke of this, I don't believe for any reason other than it wasn't in his character to do so.
And as I child I just wondered why one eye always looked wrongly dilated (not that I could put it in words). Only once my Nan, his wife, show her anger at their friend for the making the device, and that's when I learnt of the tale.
He would probably never have fought, even with his eye. As a perfumer making Chanel in Croydon and Ireland (which France certainly wasn’t) he had a protected job. The products they made brought good income from the US troops, No 5 was a popular gift to buy the local women.
I know the differences between the two families this lead to contention between my grandparents. Which is sad, but I expect likely more about my regrets of my grandpa not having got the opportunity.
At some point, the Croydon factory was bombed, which is why all his books smell of perfume. (I discuss the notebooks he left behind in particular in my BBC show on perfume -bbc.co.uk/programmes/w3c…).
His wife, however, had the most stories, where my grandfather was stern and sadly passed away before I was only enough to get his demeanour, my Nanny was quite the opposite. (Here in the 1930s)
How they ever got together I don’t know, but I do know one of the last things he said was that he loves her. She always told me she knew from the moment she saw him on the packing floor she, like all the other 'girls', wanted him. There was a pride in her success.
My Nanny’s war stories whereof the blitz. She talks of not making it to the shelter in time and relatives being blown from one side of the house to the other.
She also spoke of the fear of doodlebugs (which material Granny also would talk about in her tales of the radar scopes) and how at-least you heard them coming, unlike the V2.
But the story that stuck with me most was how she turned the garden into a modest farm due to the limits of rations. Stretching food. One day she found one of the chickens they owned had got straw stuck in its neck. This is apparently not uncommon.
This is apparently not uncommon. With nothing more than a book from the library, she used alcohol to get the chicken in a state where she could open up the throat, remove the straw and sow it up. Somehow approximating sterile procedure. (Photo 1937)
How that chicken didn’t die from infection amazes me, but it laid many more eggs and continued to feed the family.
As I said this is all self-indulgent, but I got to put them in writing before I forget these tales
As I said this is all self-indulgent, but I got to put them in writing before I forget these tales
@threadreaderapp unroll
