This article was published in the West Sussex Gazette on April 19th 2001.

    Olive May Sharman (nee Hewitt) was a unique and truly memorable person, born into a simple country-life at East Grinstead in Sussex, the heart of one of England's most beautiful southern counties, where she grew up among simple rustic cottages, woods and lanes. She quickly acquired the family nickname of Tom, as a special tribute to her tomboyish nature.

    'I was born on a very wild and stormy night in the October of 1908. Mum told me later that I was a very large baby and she was ill for a while afterwards. I was her third daughter and named after my mother's half-sister, Olive. As I grew older, I remember my sister Violet, a gentle, kind girl, always willing to help Mum to watch the baby. I also remember a very small sister, Grace, who was older than myself and always kept herself very clean and tidy.

    Later, I had another sister, Ansley, always not very well, a brother, Charlie, who died through an accident when he was seven years old and another sister, Doris, who was lively but not as rough as I was.

    I preferred boys' games and helping my Dad. I hated to do jobs indoors, although I could read early and read every scrap of print I could find. There was no nearby Public Library to borrow books from and we had little spare money for books. Most books had a moral to them, but sometimes I borrowed boys' Books from friends.

    I didn't care for 'neat and tidy' girls and spent my life tearing clothes and getting into scrapes like the boys.

    We lived in a house with cellars underneath and a passage to one side and a vacant plot to the other. It contained a lot of doors, not very well fitting and when the winds roared, the carpets waved up and down like waves on the sea.

    I loved to hear it through the key holes and it often made my ears ache, but it brought me stories of storms far away, of trees torn from their roots, hay-stacks scattered far and wide, hats and chimney pots, slates and fences all torn from their places, when the wind had passed by.

    Sometimes it told me stories of a soft breeze that had gently rocked the small ships and brought lovely scents of pine woods, downland flowers, fresh scents of spring, of earthy roots or perhaps Autumn's slightly decaying smell, of golden and red leaves, whirling and dancing as they aim to make a warm covering for tender plants.

    Of winters coming to freeze our ears and noses, or one of the soft breezy days of late September, when a walk on the Downs with clouds, very white in blue skies, changing shapes from dragons to castles, lions or magic islands.

    Who wants to be 'matter of fact' on these days, when, in winter's chilly winds we suddenly remember our lovely September day, with its soft gentle wind?

    At our Sunday School near Christmas time, we would rehearse for a play. We also learned poetry, which we would recite at Magic Lantern Shows. We all paid one penny, which 'helped the heathens' or went towards Church expenses. We loved the Magic Lantern Slides, although often the slides were put in upside down. Stories of work that churches were doing in Africa or India were shown.'