We will remember them

Remembrance Day. The first time I was aware there was such a day I might have been about eight or nine years old. My dad and my uncles were veterans of the Second World War, but I don’t recall hearing too much about it when I was a kid. Dad’s uniform hung in my parents’ bedroom closet. A scratchy, woollen affair. Occasionally when my brother and I played hide-n-seek, we’d get caught up in the wonders of the clothing hanging in the back of their deep, dark closet. Mom’s wedding dress and Dad’s uniform, hanging together. Forgotten.

Like a lot of dads in the fifties, our dad occasionally went to the Legion on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes my younger brother and I would accompany him. I’m sure Mom had her reasons for letting the two of us tag along. Of the seven children, we might have been the most tiresome to have underfoot. It’s likely Dad would pay more attention to the time of day, knowing that sooner or later the dynamic duo would get bored and want to have dinner. I’m sure my brother and I didn’t know what, exactly the Legion was all about, except to say it was a place that smelled of beer and cigarette smoke, with a hint of bathroom cleanser. Dad may have been the kind of guy who sipped his beer and relived the hours spent in the bomb bay of a Lancaster on night missions. Maybe he talked about football or his beloved Boston Bruins. Whatever the vets got out of being at the Legion was unimportant to me and my brother. We hammed it up on the stage, plunked tunelessly away on the piano, crawled over and under the extra tables and chairs stacked in the corners and played with the light switches behind the curtains. Going to the Legion with Dad meant my brother and I got a break from Saturday chores at home. I suppose Dad was getting a break, too. Maybe a break from building our house or going to work or living in the suburbs.

When I was about nine, a teacher invited a veteran to visit our class. He was there to speak to us about Remembrance Day. I vaguely remember the man wore a blue jacket, festooned with medals, like some of the fellows at the Legion Hall. He spoke about the importance of wearing a poppy to remember the fallen. Each of us was given a little red felt poppy to wear on our blazer lapel. But when you’re a little kid, “the fallen” was a very vague concept. I had conjured up a picture armed men running across a vast, open field, some falling down because of the uneven ground. If anyone had asked me, I wouldn’t have known “the fallen” was a less horrible way to say “the dead”. As far as “the fallen” went, I didn’t get how a veteran or the word “remembrance” came from running across a field. Heck, I didn’t even really understand the uniform, the one hanging in the closet next to the wedding dress.

I’m not a little kid, anymore. My parents passed away several years ago. In the final months of my dad’s life, he was a bit more forthcoming about his service in the RAF/RCAF during the Second World War. Dad was a teenager when he signed up. He became a flight sergeant who didn’t run across a field— he flew over them. Hearing his stories helped me to understand why he went to the Legion on those Saturdays so many years ago. I also better understand why Mom sent us along as his reminder to come home for dinner. Today, Mom’s wedding dress and Dad’s uniform are tucked away in a trunk in someone’s attic. No one really remembers whose attic. But I understand why those outfits hung together, for so long, at the back of their closet. On this Remembrance Day, I think of the young couple who gave so much for their home, their family and their friends. They gave so much, together, for the future they believed in. On this Remembrance Day, I think of my daughter-in-law, a veteran of Afghanistan and Bosnia, and her wife—our youngest daughter. I think of my dad, his brothers and their families—of all the men and women who sacrificed so much.

“At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.”

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca