Seems as if I’ve written about this before, but I don’t see it when I look back in this blog, and it is what I remember every year when D Day comes around. I was 18 then, and thanks to a severe labor shortage during The War, I was a full-time reporter on the local weekly newspaper, as well as county correspondent for four city dailies, for three summers.
Not sure I realized just how desperate the situation was, how near
was to being conquered, that it was possible this
country could lose that World War. But
even as a teenager I knew the significance of The Day, as boys my age, boys
from my small town, finally waded ashore to invade the continent of England Europe.
So yes, I covered D Day. The editor sent me out to report on the
’s reaction to the news that the invasion had begun. How did I do that reporting, I wonder? Certainly not by car. I wouldn’t have a driver’s license until five
years later – no automobiles manufactured for years past, gasoline
rationed, tire replacements the biggest problem – for my generation, fresh
from the Great Depression, even owning a bicycle was exciting. Village of Penn Yan
|Silent open doors like these.|
What I remember is walking the village streets on that sunny June day, and being struck by the quiet. All the church doors were open. I came to the Catholic Church on
Liberty Street – the big front doors opened wide, dimly lit sanctuary
with many candles burning, people here and there in the pews – and complete
silence. I walked to the (lots of Danish immigrants in Penn Yan) – doors open, heads bowed, total quiet. On Main Street at the Presbyterian
Church (where I often sang alto in the choir) – doors open, nothing happening,
not a sound from the men and women sitting there. Mostly women; the men were away at war. Lutheran Church
|I remember it looking like this.|
The whole town was silent, but I can still feel the waves of prayer, memories, desperate hopes that flooded our town that sunny day.
What do you suppose I wrote about it? I have no clippings, no idea.