Great Uncle Norman is one of the forbears I remember during November and think about on many occasions.
‘Five foot ten of a beautiful young Englishman under French soil. Never a joke, never a look, never a word more to add to my store of memories. The book is shut up forever and as the years pass I shall remember less and less, till he becomes a vague personality; a stereotyped photograph.’
Captain Norman Austin Taylor © Sarah Vernon
Such a commonplace death. Shot by a single sniper. Youngest child, only son. Three sisters and a father left to grieve along with so many other fathers, mothers, sisters, wives, brothers, children.
“Poor Norman,” said my grandmother Joyce in the 1950s, and turned away so that her youngest son changed the subject. Was she still, so many, many years later, too saddened by her brother’s death to talk or had he, for her, become nothing…
View original post 347 more words