Mother putting potatoes into the coal oven, (we called them ‘stovies’ not jacket potatoes!), and Dad searching for his torch, nails and equipment for the Grand Night.

We, (I was the eldest of four children), added to the anticipation by reading out the descriptive names on the assorted collection of fireworks: ‘Golden Spray’, ‘Silver Fountain’, ‘Rainbow Shower’, ‘Catherine Wheel’, ‘Roman Candle’ and yes, we did have some ‘bangers’ but they went off with a whimper compared to today’s supersonic explosions!

What made it a special occasion was the ritual that went with it. Dad was in charge; and I was allowed to hold the torch for him, and we each were allowed a ‘turn’ at choosing the next one to be ignited. This happened on one night only- come rain, fog or frost! It did not last for weeks on end and was only changed if it fell on a Sunday.

November also heralds the end of colourful, aromatic autumn and overnight we realise winter is here! Frosted windscreens; dark evenings; and heating bill worries! The world around now seems gloomier than ever.

And we have Remembrance Sunday.

Watching the Cenotaph ritual, I saw vividly a life size game of chess! There is the Queen, five poppies held by a silver clasp, followed by her ‘knights and bishops’; then high ranking officers with their medals and immaculate uniforms. Next the politicians trying to look sorrowful and respectful as public servants should. And last to walk forward are the few remaining ’pawns’ and the actual families who have just cause to grieve. Shouldn’t it go in reverse?

 (Pawns are lined up at the front of the chessboard and are moved up and down to protect those behind. Nothing changes!)

I found this particularly upsetting this year.

A few months ago, a young soldier from our locality was killed in Afghanistan. His wife of one year, trembled from head to foot, as she tried to cope with the very public military funeral. Local people lined the streets, unsure as how best to show their sympathy and grief alongside his family. Everyone was dreading this most harrowing of days.

But the Vicar sought to offer solace and kept reminding those present that we were, in fact, ‘celebrating the life’ of this young man.

I related these events to an elderly friend of mine. She listened and then snapped back: ‘What life did he have?’

I knew she was right and that I, too, had been sucked into the idea that to express anger was somehow disrespectful.

How better to show respect to the dead and dying than by shouting loudly that this should not be happening! And why is it not being shouted from the pulpits too?

War achieves nothing and only sows seeds of anger that last for generations to follow.

Now December approaches and we will be donning our cloak (a red one?) of jollity and of peace to all men. We have very short memories.

Evelyn Arslan

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