Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Remembrance Day
 Today is Remembrance Day. In Nova Scotia, it is a statutory holiday, and one of two days that, by law, all stores and businesses MUST be closed.
I come from a family with a long military tradition: my father served during peace time, my paternal grandfather served in World War II and the Korean Conflict and my maternal great-grandfather served in World War I.
My grandfather lived in Toronto when I was a kid. We visited him on occasion, in an apartment building that seemed impossibly tall and with reflective windows, that to my 3-year-old eyes, gleamed like gold. I had never seen anything like it and to this day I remember the awe at this world that was so different from the rural life I lived in.
When I was 10, my grandfather moved back "home", taking an apartment that was conveniently located right across the street from my school. My mom wrote a note to my teacher allowing me to leave school grounds at lunch, and every day I would take my lunch box across the street to my grandfather's little apartment and eat lunch with him. We would talk, I would ask him questions about when he was a kid, we spent an hour together every day. When Remembrance Day was coming up, I started asking questions about the war. My father warned me to be careful - Grampie never talked about the war, but for some reason, he opened up, even searched through his storage closet for his war medals and let me take them home. I stared at them and wondered about them for months. Day after day we would talk, and as the winter wore on, I noticed some changes in my grandfather, and on one Thursday after our lunch together, he was really struggling for breath. I was the last one to see my grandfather alive.
I remember collapsing on our kitchen floor in tears when I heard the news. I struggled for a long time with my relationship with my grandfather. He and my father were not close, and during the time immediately after his death, my father remained stoic. I couldn't understand why he wasn't as upset as I was. My grandfather was wonderful, a hero in my eyes.
My 10 year old self tried hard to remember all of the details of his war experience, I tried writing them down, but sadly, there is no record. My memory has faded just as his did, and I was the only one he ever opened up to. His stories are gone.
In 2003, Scotian and I honeymooned in France, Italy and Slovenia. I desperately wanted to visit the battlefields of Europe: Juno Beach, Vimy, Arres, Caen to try and understand what my grandfather encountered, what it must have been like. I consider myself a strong person, but I was surprised to find myself openly sobbing at the war memorial in Vimy. I wasn't embarrassed, and I wasn't alone.
In Slovenia, we stayed with friends, one of whom was a school teacher, and wanted very much to show us the war museum in the small town of Kobarid. It was the first time I had the opportunity to see the impact of war from the view of an Axis country. I will never forget a Nazi uniform that was on display from the later years of World War II - it was small enough to fit an 8 year old. It was shocking. There were photos of men who had horrendous injuries and still survived. I won't say lived, but survived. The impact of war goes far beyond "good guys" and "bad guys".
Through this, I have always felt it is so important to remember. We attend Remembrance Day services every year, and we take the kids with us. Every year I cry when the trumpets play. I may not have seen war, but I have seen the scars war leaves - a grown man unable to talk about what he's seen, the pocked countryside of Eastern France, the rows upon rows of crosses at the roadside, the uniform small enough to fit a child. We may not remember directly, but we must not forget. Lest we forget.
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