They arrived by the dozens leaving the blitz in London for the tranquility of Wales. I remember hearing of their arrival and was determined to accompany my parents to the old railroad station where they would arrive. I was just 7 years old and wondered if these English children looked any different from Welsh children.

The old coal engine of the train announced the arrival and the train chugged up to the platforms. The children were all shapes and sizes. They were dressed warmly and carried small cases with their worldly belongings. Each had a gas mask slung over a shoulder, and around each wrist was a paper label giving his or her name. They were evacuees fleeing from London. The clerk of our small town carried his long list of places where the evacuees would reside, and we waited for our name to be called. Eventually, we were allotted two girls, one 8 and the other 12. Their names were Pixie and Brenda. We all strode back home, up the hill to eat a meal that our meager rations allowed.

Imagine my surprise when I was in a meeting in Camarillo and talked about my hometown in Wales to meet a gentleman who had been evacuated to my very hometown. His name was Terrence Hemings. Not only did we go to the same school but also he lived just a few short blocks away from my home.

When we sat down together to talk about the old times, our memories were clear and accurate. He had spent his early childhood in London, spending most of his nights sleeping in the Underground and dodging bombs. His recollection of his first night in Wales was that everything was so quiet that he couldn't sleep.

He was fortunate to find a loving family to lodge with, and he was regarded as a family member quite soon. He was given his duties like seeing that the wicks on the oil lamps were trimmed and that the apples lying in the attic from a bountiful harvest were turned regularly. They would provide fruit for apple pies in the winter when there was no fruit available.

It is interesting to note the things he remembered. He remembered seeing a man riding a horse furiously down the main street. Apparently the man's wife had gone into labor and he was fetching the doctor.

There were few telephones in those days, and you did what you could with what you had available. Another clear picture was of the local tailor sitting cross-legged on a table sewing pieces of old material together to make something; Terry knew not what.

He remembered the snowfalls that came regularly. It was a time of throwing snowballs and dodging the ones that were thrown at you. All good clean fun. Then there was the fair that visited our town twice a year. Pennies were saved for the event and vanished in a matter of minutes.

It was a time in World War II when the V-1 flying bombs and V-2 rockets were being sent over England and Wales to get Britain to surrender. You would hear them fly and then the sound would stop and you never knew where they would fall. If there was an urge to run, it was difficult to know where to run to, and you crossed your fingers most of the time.

Meanwhile back in my home, Pixie and Brenda were settling down to their new routine. There were three of us sleeping in a double bed, the two evacuees and me.

My sister slept on a couch and my parents had their own double bed. There was a small room under the stairs, which had originally been a pantry. Now it was a shelter for us if there was an air raid warning. We all rushed in with our gas masks praying that we would not be hit. When the "clear" siren was heard we all breathed sighs of relief.

When Terry was older he returned to London and married. He and his wife and two children came to the United States and settled in Camarillo. They became American citizens.

— Star columnist Margaret Nesbitt welcomes comments and suggestions about subjects of interest to seniors. Messages can be sent via e-mail to undeg@verizon.net.