Tag: remembrance day

Reflections on Remembrance Day, 2019

On By BarryIn Grandparent, Holidays

Thank you to the children and teachers of Smithson Junior Public School for a Remembrance Day to cherish.

Don Cherry’s ‘you people’ rant on Hockey Night in Canada unfortunately diverted attention from the growing support for our military, past and present.

I was a fortunate child and grandchild, for my gramps and dad survived war zone service in WW1 and World War11, respectively, and as such were integral to who I am today. Remembrance Day, for this writer, is always a melancholy journey, a mixture of gratefulness, pride and family renewal to be the best of them, in my own imperfect way.   

They rarely recounted stories of their military service and the horrors of Gallipoli or the fears and uncertainty from the almost daily, nighttime bombings of Great Britain. Upon their return, they took up day to day living, often in occupations that were taken out of necessity, in order to provide opportunity for their families.

Peace fought for and won with great cost would hopefully quiet their troubled memories of loss and personal trauma.

It was with these thoughts and seventy-five years of life behind me (thanks to my father’s survival) that I entered Smithson School at 10:15 on November 11th to be in the company of my seven year old granddaughter, Mollie. She was unaware that I was coming and as she looked about she spotted this grandpa and her face lit up with a smile almost too big for her face. I was reminded of my good fortune, luck, and fate to be in this place, at this time.

 I remembered my veteran dad and grandfather; and all the veterans who suffered losses for their family and unknown families from faraway places.

As the young children entered the assembly, parents, grandparents, children and grandchildren found each other in a similar fashion to Mollie. Some parents jumped to their feet and waved until I feared they would injure themselves. Almost in every case the children were more reserved because the Smithson teachers had prepared them for the solemnness of the ceremony.

I took in the scene-never completely turning my eyes from my granddaughter, in case she flashed her now toothless smile that melts my heart. I was again aware of the diversity, in every possible way, of the Smithson School community, and the blessing for parents and grandparents to have our children being raised in an environment of acceptance, tolerance, generosity and caring.

There were no ‘you people’ in this gathering!

 The formal program recognized and honoured loss, lessons were provided, and a hopeful, future path was offered to our children, grandchildren and the audience through readings, poems, songs and a children’s story. All done in a respectful, thoughtful and age appropriate way.

The Last Post was powerfully done by a Smithson teacher. Our children then exited calmly and quietly. Parents and grandparents behaved appropriately (not a certainty) following the Last Post and avoided the not so subtle ‘look’ or raising of a hand (quiet …please) by a Smithson teacher.

As I reflected on the occasion, I believe that I had witnessed in this small, urban school the best of the Canadian ideal. The Canadian experience has been and perhaps always be an imperfect journey; but these 45 minutes left me more hopeful for the future than when I entered.

I could hear my grandpa and dad by my side saying thank you Smithson community:  ‘YOU DID YOURSELVES PROUD! ‘

The love that soldiers gave families was a blessing

On By BarryIn Grandparent, Holidays

Remembrance Day for someone of my vintage (60 years young) is a reminder of the two most important people in my childhood, my father and my grandfather. Nov. 11 is the day when I stop and pause and give thanks for the gift of these two men in my life.

My grandfather was born in Elmira, N.Y., but by the age of four had moved to St. John’s, Nfld. When the First World War took place, he joined the Royal Newfoundland Regiment and served in the Dardanelles.

As a young boy, I would often hear the story and see the items that were part of his life at war. It seems that during a bombardment, a piece of shrapnel penetrated his tunic at chest level and struck a coin, a pen and a notepad, falling just short of striking his heart.

I was and still am startled at how my family’s creation was wrapped up in luck, fate or God. My father was born after my grandfather’s return and he was their only child.

My grandfather did not return unscathed from the war; he had contracted an illness which left him with a severe permanent curvature of the spine. My grandmother, a few years later, suffered a severe mental breakdown, probably treatable today but not then in the 1920s. The relationship of these events has always remained unclear, but simply were what they were.

The gift of my grandfather was what every child should receive. He showed me about the importance of love and family. I still remember him sitting on my bed, holding my hand, waiting for me to say it was OK for him to leave. I remember the shopping bags of fireworks that appeared every May 24 that put the public displays to shame.

He provided that needed place of quiet and comfort so needed by any teenager struggling to make sense of his world. Just knowing that he was there with his unwavering love, no matter how I messed up, was perhaps his ultimate gift.

There but for that coin and pen that saved his life, I have reason to remember.

My father, my grandfather’s only offspring, had his first son (not me) prior to the Second World War. My dad volunteered in 1939 and was sent overseas to London until 1943. He returned to train soldiers at Camp Borden until the end of the war. I was born in May 1944 and I like to believe that my conservative father went absent without leave nine months earlier.

My father, like many dads of that time, left their children and wife to serve in the military. Many didn’t return, others returned with the injuries of war and the reality of not participating in and knowing their child’s early years. I was lucky and the end of the war gave me an involved, loving dad for 50 years of my life.

“I remember on this day when you were born, I cried. I was so happy to have been given a baby. Put your hand on your chest and you will feel me there. Every beat of your heart is my loving you,’ – a separated parent and Canadian soldier to their child