It Still Matters
I shouldn’t be, but I’m continually surprised by the condition of war memorials in small country towns. Of course, it’s an easy sell to a politician to spend money upgrading or caring for a war memorial; who would dare say no. My cynicism can explain the well-kept memorials in the cities and larger towns, but less so the small hamlets and villages that lie between. Drive through a town that to outward appearances has decayed beyond repair, with the shops mostly shuttered, and the best kept garden will be that which surrounds the small, simple memorial.
I don’t stop at them all, but at many of these simple memorials, I pull over, and wander across to read a few names. Sensing a growing militancy during the Howard era I tended to avoid the formal, structured, remembrance services. They have their place, but to my eyes such services feed a form of patriotism that I fear, and the aggressive manner in which the form of the memorial days are protected both justify my concern, and serve to exclude rather than embrace a range of perspectives and emotions.
Leaving behind one such memorial, in a thriving rather than dying small town, we climbed the range along the Waterfall Way. With time on our hands for once we stopped at one of the small parking bays near a waterfall. Stopped in front of us was a small van, it’s bonnet open, it’s occupants seated at the two picnic tables; a group of four or five at one table, then two more at the other table.
Stepping out of our van, all eyes, bar two, were trained upon me. Before a word was said I knew I was going to disappoint them.
“You got any tools in there?”
“Nah, sorry I don’t carry any tools. I wouldn’t know what to do with them if I needed them.”
My self-depreciating joke bought a slight polite chuckle.
“Where you blokes off to?”
“Bendemeer”
“Bendemeer!”
I’ve driven past Bendemeer many times, and don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice town, but it seemed a strange mid-week destination for a group of middle aged men. Must be a fishing trip I thought.
“Yeah, Bendemeer, goin’ up for the service, we go up every year. Mate over there,” he motioned to one of the two blokes sitting at the other table, the only one not directly facing me, but instead seated sideways on the bench seat, his back to me, his gaze directed out into the valley,
“mate over there lost a few relo’s in the war and goes up every year for the service at Bendemeer. And we always go with him.”
I heard a little more of their story and then wandered closer to the waterfall, near to the other table.
The one bloke facing me added to the story.
“We heard you coming up the hill and thought it was the repair man. He said he’d be here in 15min but that was over an hour ago. I spent a fortune on a service last week to make sure the van would make it there OK, and now this.”
He glanced over at the back of his mate who was still staring off into the valley and then poignantly added.
“I think we’re going to miss the service.”
I pressed my upper teeth hard into my lower lip, and casually glanced away to hide the emotion.
It still matters. To this bunch of old blokes Remembrance Day still mattered. Taking time to pause, to reflect, and to honour the fallen – for them, it still mattered. They hadn’t forgotten.
I’ll admit it, their commitment surprised me, you see, they hadn’t exactly dressed for the occasion. I couldn’t imagine this lot at a big city service, standing at attention, posing with a hand over their heart as many often do. That didn’t seem their style and it’s certainly not my preference.
“Don’t worry, we’ll make up for it at lunch. And we’re there for dinner too, not coming home till tomorrow”, said more for his mate still staring into the valley, than for me. I didn’t doubt him. He had the look of someone who could murder a beer and leave no evidence.
