Sixty Years Ago
Growing up, I heard the most amazing stories about my Uncle Oliver. I heard tales of my father and his brother’s adventures with nuns on ships and sheep and rolling hills. The boys were shipped off to live with relatives in New Zealand during the war. They were best friends – and his presence in my life was huge, although I never met him. (The Girl’s name would have been Oliver if she’d been a boy. The Cat’s name was just a coincidence, but I’m pretty sure it gave him a part of his power.) My bedtime stories were tales from their childhood in Scotland in the 30’s and 40’s.
One of the most haunting and tragic of course is the story of the dream my Grandmother had. One night, she dreamt that her beloved son, Oliver, had crashed on an island while flying for the RAF in the Korean War. Days later, the knock on the door came. His plane was missing, the worst was feared. Weeks later, his plane was found on an island.
Oliver’s body was never recovered and I know, for all his life, my dad has held out hope that maybe he was captured, taken prisoner, and still alive somewhere. He did a little searching back in the internet’s younger days and never found anything.
Two nights ago, I decided to do a little searching. I didn’t discover him still alive. But I did discover the reported date of his death. Sixty years ago today. (Although, by the time I post this it will be after midnight – so yesterday, I suppose.)
I am grateful that I discovered this when I did. The Girl and I lit a candle for him tonight and spent the evening looking through old photographs.
You are missed Oliver.
Elspeth, Roger, Oliver, and my dad, the baby of the four siblings, circa 1936, Colzium, Scotland
My dad looking at the memorial to his brother at John McGlashan College, their old boarding school in New Zealand.
Werewolf, Mine 