Protecting the Children

I have failed at blogging in two ways. First, I am told, a blog page should be a neutral color. That seems intrinsically wrong, though perhaps not quite sinful. I don't know. But certainly wrong. Second, a blogger, I am told, must post regularly. But if you stay up late doing cool stuff to write posts about and fall asleep immediately upon returning home without writing said posts, what then? Are you bad? Or just an abject failure? I think the latter. Either way, it gives me pause.

I have been neglecting my blog lately for one simple reason: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. What a gem of a book!

I gave Hunt a copy for Christmas last year, and he loved it and urged me to bring it along on this trip. I am so thankful that he did. If you have not yet read it, please

1. Do not continue reading this post.

And

2. Turn your computer off and go find a copy immediately.

___________

Isn't it absolutely charming? I adore the characters. They remind me of Jane Austen's characters though not so fleshed out and not so extreme. But oh, so dear. If only I could sit and enjoy tea with Isola my life would be complete!

I have thought so much through the years about World War II and its effects on Europe and Europeans. Perhaps this comes from marrying a historian, perhaps it is just a subject that picques my interest. I don't know. I do know that Americans like to think about the War beginning in '41 when we entered the fray. We like to focus on Normandy and the Bulge and VE-Day. You know, those good parts when America donned her white hat and showed everyone what was what.

But there were few good parts for the Europeans.

Anyone who has read about the camps, the battles, the bombings knows that all Europeans lost something precious: their lives, their loved ones, their property, their dignity, their innocence. Something. Or all. It was a tragedy on such an enormous scale, that I find it impossible to comprehend.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society offers a glimpse into what it must have been like for parents trying to protect their children during wartime. Keep them nearby and in possible danger or send them into the unknown and out of harm's way to live without family for years? What kind of choice is that? Parents should never be forced to make such decisions.

Eben Ramsey writes, “My grandson, Eli, was evacuated to England when he was seven. He is home now—twelve years old, and tall—but I will never forgive the Germans for making me miss his growing-up years.”

No, I will never comprehend the loss.