- Contributed byÌý
- Glenn Miller Festival 2004
- People in story:Ìý
- Marion Shimmans (nee Reynolds)
- Location of story:Ìý
- Bedford
- Background to story:Ìý
- Civilian
- Article ID:Ìý
- A2982963
- Contributed on:Ìý
- 08 September 2004
I was aged 7 during the war, and we lived in Bedford. My grandfather worked as a commissionaire at the ´óÏó´«Ã½ in Bedford, and my father worked at the Allens steel works, where he was a member of their fire service. As such he was in a reserved occupation and wasn’t called up.
Working at the ´óÏó´«Ã½ meant my grandfather got to know a number of the personalities and celebrities of the time including Glenn Miller. My father also knew Glenn Miller as they both used to frequent the Gas Workers Hall for a drink and to socialise.
As a result, Glenn Miller would often send me presents such as ice cream. I remember on one occasion I was late leaving school and my mum was getting flustered worrying that the ice cream would melt before I could eat home to eat it.
I remember being taken to a see a broadcast that Glenn Miller did on the ´óÏó´«Ã½. My grandfather had to ask his permission to take me in. I seem to remember a singer in a little sound box on his own, but my memory might be playing tricks! I do clearly remember my grandfather warning me that when the red light went on I had to be completely silent.
At one point we were given a set of the drummers drum sticks. My brother used to play with them on his little tin drum.
During his time here, Glenn Miller had been building a model of a house he wanted to build when he returned to America. He was apparently going to call the house ‘Tuxedo Junction’. It was quite a large model, made out of plywood. I seem to remember that it even had the grounds and things laid out. When Glenn Miller died, his possessions were cleared out, and I was given the house to use as a dolls house. In actual fact it was too big to fit in our home, so was kept in the coal shed and brought out to be played with.
Unfortunately, the house was left in the garden during a storm and the plywood buckled and warped. My father burnt it on his allotment. I often think how big a shame it was that the house didn’t survive.
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