Recently, a book came into my possession. It is not exactly in mint condition, but it is nearly 100 years old, and can hardly be expected to be in mint condition.
On the first page, there is a certificate stuck on.
It says 'Presbyterian Church of Victoria and Tasmania,'
Gre Gre North School,
Awarded to Mervyn McRae
as the prize of the Junior Bible Class.
And there's a signature and a date, 19/10/28. That is 1928, nearly 100 years ago.
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The book is still perfectly readable. 'The Turn of the Tide,' by Eleanor H. Porter.
But this is not why it is precious to me. That was my father who was awarded this prize so many years ago.
It is strange to think of him as a little boy. I remember him as a great father, 'Pa' to my children, as a genial middle-aged man, and for a time, a 'Grey Nomad.' He started a farm, raised his children, played tennis and bowls, and wrote a couple of books with the help of his wife.
But also, I remember him as a shadow of his former self, one of the sad residents of a Nursing Home.
It had me thinking - we see an old person, and tend to forget that this person had a rich history. They worked and had a family, most were fathers and mothers, they knew heartbreak (everyone knows heartbreak at some stage) and once upon a time, they were little boys and little girls.
This little old book is a treasure.
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