November 11th 2013

I’ve just returned from my 2 minutes silence on the 11^th of the 11^th of the 11^th something I have done all my life. My parents were staunch attendees of the Westoe Cenotaph in South Shields and I did not have an option to not attend with them. I can still remember how long 2 minutes felt in total silence as a child, an eternity trying to keep still and not make a sound, keeping my mind occupied by watching the leaves float down from the autumnal trees. In my early teens in the 1970’s attendance at the Cenotaph was down to a handful of people. Back then no one really worried about remembering the dead, it was our grandfathers history, ancient history. I still went with my parents despite my protestations, the protestations of youth, when young we know what we believe, not what our parents tell us. The Falklands War I feel began a resurgence in Remembrance Day when young men failed to return, or returned maimed. Certainly I remember going down to the Tyne as the warships returned and the crowds shouting ‘Three Cheers’ as the sailors passed up the river. For a while in the 1980’s I assisted the Boys Brigade Band in East Boldon who led the Remembrance Day procession along Front Street. In recent years I have remembered on my own, somewhere quiet and outdoors if possible. Today I stood under a tree in the little garden we have here in work and stopped for those now very short 2 minutes. Age speeds up the passage of real time, but I still remember them, and will continue to do so, as I too now enter my autumn years and watch the autumnal leaves float down around me in silent thought.