Remembering...
At the 11th hour, on the 11th day, of the 11th month...we stand, bowing our head, silent for two minutes...remembering. We pay homage to all of the men and women who never came home from a foreign land, and the ones who did, but were forever changed by what they witnessed.
When I was a child, we would have a ceremony in school, honouring veterans for their service and sacrifice. We would all assemble in our schools gymnasium, listening to a bugle play The Last Post, watching real battle footage from WW2, as well as listen to a veteran who took the time to visit our school and tell us about his experiences. I can recall feeling sad, but as soon as we went back to class, it was back to reading, writing and arithmetic.
A visit to our city's cenotaph, when I was 20, certainly changed me forever. It was 1985, and I was in college. We had the day off for Remembrance Day, and I was complaining to my parents I had nothing to do. My dad, suggested I walk down to the cenotaph and watch the laying of the wreath ceremony. I agreed because I had nothing better to do. I had to walk, and it was a 3 mile hike, it was raining and cold and I was grumbling all the way. I arrived in time, to watch a number of veterans, dressed in their uniforms helping their friends in wheelchairs, get out of vehicles and line up around the cenotaph. There were veterans from WW1, WW2, and, Korea, standing there. I stood there in the rain and cold, waching and listening. I could hear rumbling in the sky, and there, over the cenotaph and us, flew 4 yellow Harvards, in formation. People spoke, and we heard The Last Post, being played. I stood in the rain, and I watched these men, some in their 80's, break down and sob, while others saluted. It was humbling to say the least. A retired nurse, stood and recited the poem In Flanders Field. As I stood there listening and watching, I could see the shattered look of horror in the eyes of these veterans. For them, the battle still raged, and I wondered if it haunted them everyday. My question was answered, I heard a woman beside me say her husband wakes up everyday, either crying or not wanting to talk, remembering his lost friends.
The ceremony was over, and people began to make their ways to their cars, but the veterans continued to stand there, quiet, heads bowed. The tears were streaming down their faces, it was not the rain. I too, welled up, as I stood there. One of the men walked over to me and asked if I was a family member to a lost soldier. I told him my grandfather had been in WWI, but he came home.
He told me the group of veterans gets smaller every year as they pass away, and the guests visiting the cenotaph gets smaller every year as well. He told me one of his greatest fears were that people would forget what happened.
It's 31 years later, and that man is gone now. We cannot forget...EVER! Those men and women were teenagers, or in their early 20's. My son is 25, and I shudder thinking about him enduring war.
We must give honour and heartfelt thanks to these men and women who served, for the ones who died, who lived and suffered everyday because of it, and the ones serving today. We owe them that.
My walk home was still in the rain and it was still cold, but I was alive, and free, because brave young men fought for my freedom. I didn't grumble on my walk home, I prayed and thanked God that I was.
When I was a child, we would have a ceremony in school, honouring veterans for their service and sacrifice. We would all assemble in our schools gymnasium, listening to a bugle play The Last Post, watching real battle footage from WW2, as well as listen to a veteran who took the time to visit our school and tell us about his experiences. I can recall feeling sad, but as soon as we went back to class, it was back to reading, writing and arithmetic.
A visit to our city's cenotaph, when I was 20, certainly changed me forever. It was 1985, and I was in college. We had the day off for Remembrance Day, and I was complaining to my parents I had nothing to do. My dad, suggested I walk down to the cenotaph and watch the laying of the wreath ceremony. I agreed because I had nothing better to do. I had to walk, and it was a 3 mile hike, it was raining and cold and I was grumbling all the way. I arrived in time, to watch a number of veterans, dressed in their uniforms helping their friends in wheelchairs, get out of vehicles and line up around the cenotaph. There were veterans from WW1, WW2, and, Korea, standing there. I stood there in the rain and cold, waching and listening. I could hear rumbling in the sky, and there, over the cenotaph and us, flew 4 yellow Harvards, in formation. People spoke, and we heard The Last Post, being played. I stood in the rain, and I watched these men, some in their 80's, break down and sob, while others saluted. It was humbling to say the least. A retired nurse, stood and recited the poem In Flanders Field. As I stood there listening and watching, I could see the shattered look of horror in the eyes of these veterans. For them, the battle still raged, and I wondered if it haunted them everyday. My question was answered, I heard a woman beside me say her husband wakes up everyday, either crying or not wanting to talk, remembering his lost friends.
The ceremony was over, and people began to make their ways to their cars, but the veterans continued to stand there, quiet, heads bowed. The tears were streaming down their faces, it was not the rain. I too, welled up, as I stood there. One of the men walked over to me and asked if I was a family member to a lost soldier. I told him my grandfather had been in WWI, but he came home.
He told me the group of veterans gets smaller every year as they pass away, and the guests visiting the cenotaph gets smaller every year as well. He told me one of his greatest fears were that people would forget what happened.
It's 31 years later, and that man is gone now. We cannot forget...EVER! Those men and women were teenagers, or in their early 20's. My son is 25, and I shudder thinking about him enduring war.
We must give honour and heartfelt thanks to these men and women who served, for the ones who died, who lived and suffered everyday because of it, and the ones serving today. We owe them that.
My walk home was still in the rain and it was still cold, but I was alive, and free, because brave young men fought for my freedom. I didn't grumble on my walk home, I prayed and thanked God that I was.
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