The mention of Uncle Bill starts off a whole string of stories, laughter and squeamish in my family…

At about the age of 80, Uncle Bill came to live with us - Mum and Dad opened our home to look after him in his latter years. We were a family of 7 kids, a full house already, and had to shuffle the rooms around in order to have him stay. 

My memories prior to him living with us were mainly of his large acreage of fruit trees and flowers. A mess of weeds and brambles, overgrown, but an exciting place to run around and explore. His original shed style home still had a dirt floor but was kept clean and tidy. He made a mince stew, always ready on hand to share, that had way too many tablespoons full of herbs added, and bloated raisins, which we as kids dreaded being offered. Still mum said it was polite to eat what we were given. And we did.

When he came to stay with us, he was given the single bedroom beside the toilet. We knew he’d been in the 1st and 2nd World Wars. He’d escaped a war prison. He shared many life stories, but he never really shared those about the war. What we knew was gathered from when we walked past his room to use the toilet, and would hear him talking about his war experience and expressing his political opinion out loud to the radio announcer blaring from the National Radio show. Often times we put our ears to the door to try and get a little more information of his life and experiences during the war. 

The squeamish came when he would corner us to tell us something. He had rotten teeth and the worst bad breath ever. But his stories were always interesting or mischievous. 

My Mum and Dad looked after him until he was well into his 90s, at which time he went to live in a rest-home, found himself a girlfriend there of similar age, and died a little over a week out from his 100th birthday (he had already received the honorary birthday letter from the Queen). 

Today at the ANZAC service, I couldn’t help but think of him. He is my link to the terrible wars past. Yes he, like the others, fought for freedom, and for his country. But in the moment, there is no doubt he fought for his family, to keep his buddies alongside him alive, and for himself to survive. 

With his memories in mind, many many many years later as a florist, I have the privilege to serve this community of Raglan by creating commemorative wreaths for a few of the businesses, associations, services and schools here. 

I researched traditional ANZAC wreaths this year. Why do they have leaves pointing upwards towards the centre top of the wreath? What is it about the colours? Things that my floristry school omitted to teach us. I wanted to honour the tradition. 

The leaves were a nod to the original Roman wreaths symbolising victory. The colour red, representing remembrance for those who died in war. The colour of the fields of poppies. Green, hope. These two are the main symbolic colours seen here in NZ on ANZAC day.

But we also see white, a commitment to peace. Yellow, honour, a value central to the ANZAC tradition. And purple to commemorate animals used in the war who lost their lives. These were the elements I focused on in this year’s creating of the wreaths. 

It seemed surreal so many years after his passing to think that I am even now linked, present, connected to that time and place in history. We all are. The acts of generations past - the bravery, the sacrifice, the choices - transmit to the opportunities, challenges and implications of our life-landscape today. 

Here’s to you, Uncle Bill. There’s no way we’ll ever forget. We have the memory of you imbedded in our lives, and your past interconnected with our now, and our futures.