In late-1953 I had my eighth birthday. Earlier that year, on 2nd June, when Queen Elizabeth II was crowned our little farm community had held our celebration in a cowshed that had been cleaned out, whitewashed and decorated by Gerald, the farmer’s son. This was typical of him. In his early 20s, he was the liveliest and most charming person around and I enjoyed going out on the tractor with him and generally helping out.
In the process, I learned something about him that I don’t think anyone else knew.
Then, sadly, in the Spring of 1954, tragedy struck. An event that would mean my little family would have to move yet again.
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