June 6, 1944

I am recovering from more than two days of almost constant television-viewing. I watched so much, with marathons beckoning from a couple of channels, that I was stiff this morning from near-total inactivity. It was the 65th anniversary of the D-Day landing in Normandy, of course, and, for me, it all started with the BBC's full live coverage of the memorial service on Friday, and just continued from there, concluding at 11 pm last night.

Although I could talk at length about my emotional response to all of this specific viewing, I won't, because you either experienced it, too, and empathize, or don't have any particular interest, or even a sense of connection with it. This is not to say that we aren't ALL connected with it, one way or another, but I understand that my fascination is likely more powerful than it could be for some of you.

I have indelible links to that era, and particularly to wartime England, through my own family, most of them gone, but with a few remaining. They recounted their stories over the years (those who could bring themselves to do that - my father certainly couldn't) and I never tired of hearing them. I have, in turn, woven their anecdotes into my current novel, although their segments are not fiction at all, but it's the only way I know to record them.

Despite rather a lot of tears shed and almost-forgotten memories rekindled, this total immersion in the past left me strangely refreshed. If we came through that, we can come through anything.

So my blog is relatively short today. My own words are inadequate for the enormity of that day, June 6, 1944.