My mother gave it to me when I was back in Cornwall last week.
It's a memoir written by a wartime evacuee from London called Vic Cummings. He and two of brothers were taken in by my Great Grandfather and Great Gran who owned a multi-generational farm in Cornwall. It's where my grandparents also lived and where my mother grew up.
It is frustratingly scant being just fifty pages or so. But from just this much I've learned a lot about some of my family members that I didn't know before. And there are wonderful descriptions of a working 1940s farm and Cornish village life too. Some stories range from the whimsical - like my Grandfather claiming he'd shot down a bomber after loosing off a couple of barrels at a low-flying Luftwaffe plane out to strafe the shipyards at Plymouth - to the darker and more visceral side of farm life when the slaughtering was done on site. But it's been a wonderful read.
And it's made me wonder whether we shoud all write a 'book of my life' for future generations to read?
Let's face it, people don't keep diaries like they used to. And you won't get an accurate view of everyday people's lives in the 21st century from reading social media.
I've been to so many places and experienced amazing things and met some wonderful people. Perhaps I should make a record of it? Just my childhood in Cornwall would make interesting reading I reckon.
Hmmm. Maybe I will.
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