"They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old …." — from the fourth stanza from Laurence Binyon's poem For the Fallen.
As I hear these words over the next few days, I cannot help but think of my father, as I know many of you will be thinking of fathers, grandfathers, uncles, brothers and the wonderful women who gave so much for us all.
Dear Dad, I think about you often, but never more than remembering you lead the Anzac Day parade. From a young girl learning to type and typing up the Anzac Services for you, listing the order and names of the bearers of the wreaths — to bringing my family from wherever we lived, to stand with Mum and watch you march and call the commands. You were an angel to me.
You never talked much about serving overseas and I learned more about what you did as a soldier after you died than I ever heard from you. I learned that you were a crack shot with the rifle, a sharpshooter who, even when shot in your arm, propped yourself up inside the house with the other wounded and shot any enemy soldiers who came to the door, saving the lives of many men. You were a man's man, showed few emotions, yet provided well. You and Mum sacrificed having your own children to serve your country and adopted when it was all over.
Guns were a part of your life and hunting was your passion. Every weekend you could, you were away in the bush somewhere shooting game, supplementing our meals with venison, wild pork, and, at the appropriate times, duck and pheasant. You needed only one gun and mostly one shot. When I was young you taught me to shoot a 44 calibre lever-action Winchester. I loved pretending to be a cowboy. However, when I realised guns could kill, I coughed, spluttered, whistled and sang to put you off shooting. You stopped taking me shooting with you after that.
