RELAY FOR LIFE...
This has been my third Relay for Life , and once again not only was I amazed at the sense of community but it was a very bitter sweet time for me.
Last year Dad had a white luminaria bag, as a survivor. This year his was a memorial luminaria bag.
Honestly there is nothing so touching as walking past all these lit bags. Each one in memory of someone, either someone gone or someone surviving.
It's an amazing experience....and a great bonding one.
Once again, the Mobile Bookworms stormed away.
This photo is of those at the end of the relay. Most had been walking for hours and hours. This year we had over 40 members, some came with their children, some came with their spouses. Everyone walked. Our amazing leader, Fay, walked over 40 laps. Over 32 kilometres...well deserved cup of tea and hot bath waiting for her that night!
As I walked, my thoughts turned to Dad. Of his random visits to see us when Kate was working in Melbourne. How he would always take home lemons, and return them to me as marmalade. Of this curried salmon and asparagus tart he would always make for us each time we visited them. Because at one stage we had been polite and told him it was nice ---neither one of us liked it, but each visit he would produce this tart and we'd paste our smiles on yet again.
I have a friend who is writing some of her personal life stories down for her grandchildren. She wants to put together a book for them, with real life events, to put down her social history.
I thought of the stories Dad had told me over the years. Stories such as one of his first jobs as a teen was picking beans until he was fired and told 'it's not a job for a white man'. Racism definitely. Dad had been working hard, hadn't realised he had been working with immigrants...merely that he had been working with others, and bringing money home.
I have a few stories like that. Stories that if I do nothing with will fade away until there is no one left to remember them. Perhaps if I weave them into fiction. Get them down in some form or another. Each one of us will die, and when we go our stories go with us. Unless they are put down somewhere. Collected and saved as important social history.
We've all got stories to tell. Maybe it's time to start listening.
Vicki
Last year Dad had a white luminaria bag, as a survivor. This year his was a memorial luminaria bag.
Honestly there is nothing so touching as walking past all these lit bags. Each one in memory of someone, either someone gone or someone surviving.
It's an amazing experience....and a great bonding one.
Once again, the Mobile Bookworms stormed away.
This photo is of those at the end of the relay. Most had been walking for hours and hours. This year we had over 40 members, some came with their children, some came with their spouses. Everyone walked. Our amazing leader, Fay, walked over 40 laps. Over 32 kilometres...well deserved cup of tea and hot bath waiting for her that night!
As I walked, my thoughts turned to Dad. Of his random visits to see us when Kate was working in Melbourne. How he would always take home lemons, and return them to me as marmalade. Of this curried salmon and asparagus tart he would always make for us each time we visited them. Because at one stage we had been polite and told him it was nice ---neither one of us liked it, but each visit he would produce this tart and we'd paste our smiles on yet again.
I have a friend who is writing some of her personal life stories down for her grandchildren. She wants to put together a book for them, with real life events, to put down her social history.
I thought of the stories Dad had told me over the years. Stories such as one of his first jobs as a teen was picking beans until he was fired and told 'it's not a job for a white man'. Racism definitely. Dad had been working hard, hadn't realised he had been working with immigrants...merely that he had been working with others, and bringing money home.
I have a few stories like that. Stories that if I do nothing with will fade away until there is no one left to remember them. Perhaps if I weave them into fiction. Get them down in some form or another. Each one of us will die, and when we go our stories go with us. Unless they are put down somewhere. Collected and saved as important social history.
We've all got stories to tell. Maybe it's time to start listening.
Vicki
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