And the Band played Waltzing Matilda...
“Keep in time with the town hall clock, “ the serviceman said at my spontaneous decision to join the march down the main street of my little country town. Why not? I hadn’t remembered to polish the medals won posthumously by my father and had trouble matching them with the right ribbons in the box on my dressing table, but had proudly donned them on this one day of the year.
Anzac Day is part of my heritage – of every Australian and New Zealander and becoming acknowledged by younger generations every year.
Since my early childhood I had worn them to the Dawn Service in Christchurch, New Zealand, more recently, Melbourne, Australia and the year before last in China - Shanghai. That was special as the service was held jointly by the Australian and New Zealand Consulates – with the Turkish Consul as a progressively invited guest. In a rare occurrence, I got to sing both National Anthems and realize both sides of my identity.
I was made to feel special as a young child baring those medals. I hadn’t known my father – he was killed in a freak accident after 17 missions flying a Wellington over Europe with the RAF’s Bomber Command, four months after I was born.
Nor had he known me – his only child and wife of only a short time back home on the other side of the world. Like so many others, his life was cut off before it had really begun – at the age of 25.
Much as I tried, I could never conjure him up, although I wrote a film script of his story a few years ago in that vein, but Anzac Day was Dad day to me – the day I honoured him.
There were three or four of us marching behind the eight or nine so diggers and straggle of scouts behind the Kyneton Band. The years walking of boarding school “crocodiles” made it natural to keep in step. The rain had stopped as we marched down the short stretch of street to the town hall. My cheeks were wet with the unexpected poignancy of the occasion.
The service was short and the least formal I’ve attended. School children gave readings, a local singer guitarist performed “I was only 19,“ and a country and western singer sang “And the Band played Waltzing Matilda, “ flat and checking the words.
All over the country, in New Zealand and many parts of the world – particularly Gallipoli where it began 94 years ago, similar commemorations are happening. It has become more than a day of remembrance – a day of reckoning, of identity, an audit of life purpose. As I age, this solemn day affects me more each year.
This is our culture – formed by war as throughout history, rather than peace. Australians and New Zealanders are never more conscious of their national identity, than on this day.
The little local service in my new life in the country is as significant as any of the massed ceremonies – and the bugle player’s Last Post was far superior to the Oriental rendition in Shanghai!
Anzac Day is part of my heritage – of every Australian and New Zealander and becoming acknowledged by younger generations every year.
Since my early childhood I had worn them to the Dawn Service in Christchurch, New Zealand, more recently, Melbourne, Australia and the year before last in China - Shanghai. That was special as the service was held jointly by the Australian and New Zealand Consulates – with the Turkish Consul as a progressively invited guest. In a rare occurrence, I got to sing both National Anthems and realize both sides of my identity.
I was made to feel special as a young child baring those medals. I hadn’t known my father – he was killed in a freak accident after 17 missions flying a Wellington over Europe with the RAF’s Bomber Command, four months after I was born.
Nor had he known me – his only child and wife of only a short time back home on the other side of the world. Like so many others, his life was cut off before it had really begun – at the age of 25.
Much as I tried, I could never conjure him up, although I wrote a film script of his story a few years ago in that vein, but Anzac Day was Dad day to me – the day I honoured him.
There were three or four of us marching behind the eight or nine so diggers and straggle of scouts behind the Kyneton Band. The years walking of boarding school “crocodiles” made it natural to keep in step. The rain had stopped as we marched down the short stretch of street to the town hall. My cheeks were wet with the unexpected poignancy of the occasion.
The service was short and the least formal I’ve attended. School children gave readings, a local singer guitarist performed “I was only 19,“ and a country and western singer sang “And the Band played Waltzing Matilda, “ flat and checking the words.
All over the country, in New Zealand and many parts of the world – particularly Gallipoli where it began 94 years ago, similar commemorations are happening. It has become more than a day of remembrance – a day of reckoning, of identity, an audit of life purpose. As I age, this solemn day affects me more each year.
This is our culture – formed by war as throughout history, rather than peace. Australians and New Zealanders are never more conscious of their national identity, than on this day.
The little local service in my new life in the country is as significant as any of the massed ceremonies – and the bugle player’s Last Post was far superior to the Oriental rendition in Shanghai!
Labels: Anzac, Australian culture, country life, New Zealand, traditions, war
posted by Jill@flyingconnoisseur at 4:39 PM
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