As many of you are aware, we moved the end of February, from a big two-story house with a two car garage and 1000 square foot studio, where we had lived for 22 years, to a one-bedroom apartment in the former kindergarten room of an old school, with a classroom for a studio for my husband and the principal's office now my office. The reasons why we moved are multiple, including freedom from maintenance and lawn care and the freedom to travel, snowbird, etc. (Speaking of snowbirding, I'd love to pick anyone's brains out there about how you actually go about finding an apartment to rent for a couple of months every year!)
|The living room; lots of light.|
But we love the new place. The apartment is pretty much set up, and we got all the books up in my office, as you can see. It took a lot of hard work, and a trip to the chiropractor, and there are still odds and ends that need to be done, but we are in, and functioning again, except that Allan's computer died and is in the computer hospital even as we speak. (More on that later.)
|My office, almost fully stocked.|
And I find things that I haven't looked at for years. Including a photograph album full of my father's photos from World War II. (I'd share some of my father's photos with you, but Allan's computer that died had the scanner.)
My father served in Dutch New Guinea. There are lots of photos of him posing athletically - he looked like a young Greek Burt Lancaster in those days - either in uniform or in bathing suit or in a towel. There are lots of photographs of trees and ocean and sand, which, to be honest, since these are all in black and white and are about 2" by 4" max, aren't nearly as beautiful as the actual scenery must have been. He wrote notes on the back of almost all of them to my mother, ranging from "village" to "always yours, heart and mind, body and soul, your ever-loving Charlie."
|A Google photo, but you get the idea|
There were also some photos of a Japanese soldier, alone, and also with what apparently is his graduating class from the military academy. These old, very faded photographs were undoubtedly taken from a dead Japanese soldier, although I doubt if my father killed him. (My father worked for the catering corps, and while he saw some action, because there was action all over New Guinea at the time, I always got the impression that he was never on the front line as a soldier.) All that's written on the back of these is a laconic statement, such as "Japanese soldier." But it makes me wonder who he was; how old he was; if his family ever found out if and where he died...
Old memories, old wars, old times, new place.