So…at some point my world started shrinking. Maybe its because what once seemed so big to me…so far away….so unreachable….just shrunk. That’s it…everything shrunk. The other side of the world once really did seem like…..the o-t-h-e-r s-i-d-e of the world. Everything was a long, long way away and so much bigger than we imagined. You can get the news now…in a nanosecond. I can get news flashes from the other side of the world while its happening. Just imagine….during WW1 they didn’t hear about events for days and days. Heck…when people landed on these shores their family didn’t hear about it for years, if ever.
When did I start seeing little things? When did the little people start creeping into my life? The real little people started arriving back in Croydon, England. They arrived in little plastic bags…by the dozens….by the tens of dozens; the original little green men. These little fellows then became the marching armies of Europe, mostly from around the early 1800’s. They were hand painted, by regiment….every tiny accurate detail…every banner, every weapon….every detail down to the buttons on their uniforms. The most incredible part was the fact that they were only 15mm tall…that’s right…just 15mm. These little fellows crossed the Atlantic with us….and continued to march and multiply. Some now sit astride noble steeds wearing beautiful saddles and bridles, some lie broken and bleeding on the scarred battlefield. They have now taken their positions upon enormous pieces of plywood. Every detail of a battlefield is in place…every rock, every tree, every blood soaked regimental flag. Spread before us is the entire battle of Waterloo in all its bloody, victorious
glory.
I walk past this battlefield, often with armloads of laundry on my way to the laundry room; sometimes, carrying a dog for grooming. I pause for a moment…studying the field spread out before me and I feel humbled. It represents so much history; history that I have absorbed through osmosis from my husband who is so passionate about his armies. It also represents hours upon hours of tireless work on his part to recreate this piece of history that lays before me.
When did I start seeing little things? When did the little people start creeping into my life? The real little people started arriving back in Croydon, England. They arrived in little plastic bags…by the dozens….by the tens of dozens; the original little green men. These little fellows then became the marching armies of Europe, mostly from around the early 1800’s. They were hand painted, by regiment….every tiny accurate detail…every banner, every weapon….every detail down to the buttons on their uniforms. The most incredible part was the fact that they were only 15mm tall…that’s right…just 15mm. These little fellows crossed the Atlantic with us….and continued to march and multiply. Some now sit astride noble steeds wearing beautiful saddles and bridles, some lie broken and bleeding on the scarred battlefield. They have now taken their positions upon enormous pieces of plywood. Every detail of a battlefield is in place…every rock, every tree, every blood soaked regimental flag. Spread before us is the entire battle of Waterloo in all its bloody, victorious
glory.I walk past this battlefield, often with armloads of laundry on my way to the laundry room; sometimes, carrying a dog for grooming. I pause for a moment…studying the field spread out before me and I feel humbled. It represents so much history; history that I have absorbed through osmosis from my husband who is so passionate about his armies. It also represents hours upon hours of tireless work on his part to recreate this piece of history that lays before me.
So….I guess my world shrunk but it opened a much larger world to me. I can now see an entire battlefield representing thousands of patriotic fighters defending their nation and their kings….right in my basement.
It is humbling.
2 comments:
Oh, my goodness. WHY, oh WHY did you wait SO long to start a blog? It's brilliant!
Your description of the battlefield is riveting. Yes. Humbling.
Back to my couch.
It's not so brilliant, as expected. I've written thousands, upon thousands, of words in hopes to find a way to turn thought creatively into the written art. And I've known it to come from two awesome sources. Mom and Dad.
If I'm never to become a great writer I hope I've at least sparked a great writer in you Mom.
The piece sang. I loved its journey. I wasn't really sure where you were going with that Mom. But it played out like a symphony for me. I've been telling you for ages to get your ideas, emotions, down onto the page. Only because I knew you were capable of communicating our most secreted truths.
The soldiers are humbling. Your work around them, is moreso. It speaks of their sacrifice.
We live on. Freely.
Good stuff. Now write a poem about it!!
(Oh picked up a great source of writing etiquette, that few read, The New York Times STYLE BOOK : For Writers and Editors . 1961 Edition. It's like reading an indexed novel regarding the rules of writing.)
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