My stepfather caught Mum and I drinking tea and making rude comments about our respective books (hers was boring; mine had no light to silhouette the dark and give it shape). He thought it was amusing. What he didn't know was that in between books we considered important issues such as whether one needs two types of potato salad(Australian and Russian)for a big family lunch. Food and books are essential to the Polack family. Food and books and computers.
Tomorrow will have less reading time. Minion #1 and I intend to retire to the biggest airconditioned shops we can comfortably reach and stay out of the smoke and the heat tomorrow. The only shopping we are committed to is me being bought a drink of some sort.
Yesterday I explored a bag of papers concerning my mother's Uncle Max. Photos of him as a very young pilot. Messages from various people saying he was MIA in World War II. More messages saying that he had managed to save members of his aircrew and that they had reported in safely, but that he was still missing. Eventually he and two others of the seven were found in a single grave dug by the Germans who had found their crashed plane. Then there was the letter saying that his body had been identified (his wristwatch did the trick) and he had been given his own grave in a little churchyard in Normandy. He's the only Aussie in that churchyard and has the only grave bearing a Magen David. And my mind wants to fill in the missing story. I've visited his grave and the field where he crashed, but the more I know, the more questions I have. The big one is whether he died in that crash landing.