Remembrance

As I stood in the crowd under a warmer-than-usual November sun this morning I was struck by the thought that I'm completely unable to recall a single Remembrance Day service from my childhood. I know I attended many of them as a child... how can one avoid it when one is immersed in all things military by the accident of birth? But not a one stands out in my mind. I grapple with the why of it.

As I pondered this mystery all afternoon, the only conclusion that came to me is that I don't remember them now because they didn't really mean anything to me then. Sure, I knew that my grandfather died while in the service of his country, but his death was not in battle and therefore didn't "count". I knew that my great-grandfather had served in the Great War, but he came back. Our country wasn't involved in any dangerous missions while I was growing up and so the real meaning of all of it didn't penetrate.

Today my emotions were easily aroused. As I pulled a Kleenex from my pocket, I tried to understand. Part of me was so grateful for the sacrifices made by all who have served in the defence not only of our country but of fairness, security and humanity for all. The Last Post always raises the hair on my neck; when I hear it I think of my grandfather, Thomas Montgomery. He left his young wife and five daughters to heed the call to duty, only to find himself severely depressed by the separation and by chronic pain after a motorcycle crash. He took his own life in a guard tower in Prince Rupert on May 26, 1942; he was 38. It makes me think too of my Grand-uncle Maxie, Grandma Curry's little brother, who was killed in action near Ravenna, Italy on December 14, 1944 at the age of 32. I found myself wondering how hearing that bugle made my ancestors feel as they served. Did it give them goosebumps, or did it elicit tears they struggled to conceal? Or was it simply a marker that was forgotten as soon as it ended?

Another part of me was proud of the role my family members have played in the history of this country, whether at war or at home. Five generations. (Six if you count Amanda's time in the Cadet Instructor Cadre.) All have been volunteers. My great-grandfather William Jabez Cubitt was a married man with three children when he followed his two younger brothers into service in the Great War. He was 30 years and 7 months old on the day of his enlistment, September 5th, 1916. Young Herbert John, known as Jack, had enlisted on October 26, 1914, only weeks after Canada entered the war. He was 24 years, 6 months old. George Thomas, 2 years and 2 months older, followed him a week later on November 3. All three survived the war and went on to live long and productive lives. WJ even served in World War II as a recruiting officer. No military service is ever trivial. "They also serve who only stand and wait." John Milton was right about that.

Yet another part was awed by the number of young men and women I saw in uniform, standing at attention as the Cadet band played our national anthem. As always, the youth of the day gets a bad rap but there were many there today who were there voluntarily, wearing the uniform with pride. They are the leaders of our future and it made my heart full to be in their company.

And finally, part of me grieved for the lost... not only those who gave their lives but also those who have returned injured. I'm exceedingly proud of Connor, whose life is entwined with our daughter's, for enduring two tours of duty in Afghanistan. I only hope he is able to overcome the psychological and emotional effects of those tours.

There were hundreds of people there at St Albert Place today. It pleased me enormously to see the families with children... that didn't include a dad or mom in uniform. That gives me hope for the future that remembrance will not just fade away.

They shall grow not old,
As we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them,
Nor the years condemn,
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning
We will remember them.
-- Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)