Remembrance Day Musings

Today, as most years, I went to the Remembrance Day service in my small town. There's a park and a beautifully-maintained Cenotaph. A small contingent of veterans, cadets, and other groups (like the volunteer firemen) march from the Legion to the Cenotaph, where a service and wreath-laying are held. Pretty much the same thing is going on in other towns and cities all over the country.

It was a mild day for November 11th here; although a few rain droplets fell while we watched the veterans pass and walked after them to the Cenotaph, the sun came out soon after. It was warm on my back as I listened to the opening remarks, although there was a breeze stiff enough to send the Canadian flag and those of the Colour Party snapping while we observed two minutes of silence.

The service is fairly well-attended in our town, and today I was observing the diversity of folks who turned out. During the two minutes' silence I watched a blond teenager quietly and carefully join the crowd, carrying his skateboard so as not to disturb the quiet. He wore a black "30-hour Famine" hoodie and part of a shiny bicycle chain hung as jewellery around his neck. He softly laid his skateboard out of the way so no-one would trip on it and waited until the silence was finished to take a few photographs of the veterans and assembled honour guard. Then he stood quietly and attentively throughout the rest of the service, next to an elderly couple, bundled in warm coats and scarves and hats, who undoubtedly still hold hard memories of war. Nearby, some young children played quietly, surely not understanding even a fraction of what was going on around them, but picking up somehow on the sombreness of the event.

As usual, the playing of the Last Post made me tear up, as did the Piper's Lament. At one point I was thinking cynically about all the politicians turning out today to pay tribute and perhaps take advantage of a photo opportunity, even while they have made or helped make decisions that sent others off to war. Do they feel conflicted? Guilty? Remorseful? Or are they fully convinced that their decisions were absolutely necessary and have no need to reconcile the two?

Today I'm thinking about two family members in particular. My great-uncle John, who fought in the Second World War and came home with scars mental and physical and a drinking problem that eventually ended his life; and my grandfather's cousin Alec, who went off to the First World War and sadly did not come home at all. We have a postcard that he (then around 18) sent to my grandfather (then 9 or 10), who was worried about him. It's very poignant to hold it and read it, and know that he would die shortly after writing it.

A lot to think about today, and no conclusions to arrive at. Perhaps the thinking is enough.