On Monday night, it was a quiet night, and I thought that I should bring out one of the books you sent me. I opened my sewing dresser, to do some sewing, and saw The Cellist of Sarajevo. A nice light book (in weight), so I brought it to bed. This book captivated me, and I could relate greatly to the following:
Ten years ago, when she was eighteen and not called Arrow, she borrowed her father’s car and drove to the countryside to visit friends. It was a bright, clear day, and the car felt alive to her, as though she and the car moving together was some sort of destiny, and everything was happening exactly as it ought to. As she rounded the corner, one of her favourite songs came on the radio, and sunlight filtered through the trees the way it does with lace curtains, reminding her of her grandmother, and tears began to slide down her cheek. Not for her grandmother, who was then very much alive, but because she felt an enveloping happiness to be alive, a joy made stronger by the certainty that someday it would all come to an end.It overwhelmed her, and made her pull to the side of the road. Afterwards she felt a little foolish, and never spoke to anyone about it.Now, however, she knows she wasn’t being foolish. She realizes that for no particular reason she stumbled into the core of what it means to be human. It’s a rare gift to understand that your life is wonderous, and that it won’t last forever.
That passage certainly stuck with me, and I wish I had it in cursive written on my wall. I would like that quite a bit.
Well, the next morning I awoke early and got ready to go to the Remembrance ceremony south of town, a little old wooden community hall nestled underneath the mountains. I brought Suite Francaise, and left early in the morning sunlight. I was the first one there, and so I read for a short time. Most intriguing, was the backstory on the book itself. How fascinating, and tragic. What a legacy, and I appreciated the succinct, and also well written, translator’s note.
I try, every year, to make Remembrance Day a beautiful and thoughtful day. It looks like I succeeded again. The Remembrance ceremony, again, was very special, and again my friend Frank Zieffle (93 years old) accompanied me at the ceremony, and I made further friends with some other locals, one of which had many war stories of her father, Arthur Ames.
After that, I got my horse and went for a bareback ride, that turned to be rather long. I thought, how nice would it be to make it to St. Henry’s church? And so we went along the highway towards… it got closer on the horizon, and we made it to the sign on the highway, but, looking up at the criss-crossing road up to the church, it was another 2.5 km. I decided, though it would be quite nice, I best save that pilgrimage for another day.
Mac
