Once, a very wicked politician set out to rule the world. He probably didn’t regard himself as all that bad. He most likely believed he was doing good. And he had charisma — enough to sway an entire nation over to his way of thinking. And he promoted fear and distrust amongst his people, and that fear and distrust twisted into hatred.
But he had one fatal flaw. He had no empathy for others. He simply wanted to control them. And the countries of the Western world took notice. They knew that no good ever comes from that kind of control, or that kind of hatred, and they banded together to stop him. And they did stop him.
What happened next was a long, peaceful, prosperous eighty years. Nations of the Western world formed an alliance based on cooperation and understanding. And so we observe Remembrance Day in Canada on November 11 — to honour the men and women who stood up and fought for good.
I personally take the day to celebrate my father and my mother, who both played a role in making Canada a safe and pleasant place to raise my children. Who provided the same for my grandchildren. So, I want to share this short remembrance with you again. It’s one that I’ve shared in the past.
When I was a schoolgirl, Remembrance Day was hugely important in our household. My parents were both veterans of the Second World War, which shaped their lives and cut my father’s life short.
I can still see my dad, grand and handsome in his Legion blazer and beret—a captivating man with strong features, wide hands like paws, and eyes that flash mischief. He steps into the kitchen, a poppy pinned to his lapel, a string of medals across his chest, unusually serious on this morning, a twitch bucking his lower jaw.
I’m a Girl Guide and decked out in the standard blue uniform complete with red and white scarf. My brother wears the Boy Scout regalia, a jaunty cap, and Mom looks official in her blazer. But our costumes don’t transform us the way Dad’s does. We pile into the car, drive five blocks to the Legion, climb out, and hurry to the corner of Broadway and Third to join the parade.
Wheat fields, long, lonely gravel roads, and tumbleweed surround our town in southern Alberta. By November it’s cold, but sunny on this day, the grass glazed over with hoar frost.
We gather and march up the street on route to the Cenotaph. Our breath hits frigid air, forming steam clouds that project from our lips like cartoon bubbles. We don’t say a word. Our shoes shuffle in unison. It is a silent and solemn event — no marching bands, no drums, no clashing cymbals. Even the babies are quiet.
Standing at attention in the hushed, frosty air, we watch town officials deploy wreathes against the gunmetal-grey Cenotaph, fresh blood splotches on a faded backdrop. My father stands beside us, but he is far away. I wonder what’s churning in his mind. Is this the only time he thinks about his leg? He never speaks of it — the one that’s shorter than the other and wears a built-up shoe. He still limps. During the 21-gun salute, Dad looks up, closes his eyes, and clenches his fists. He’s in another world or lifetime. When the bugle blasts out the Last Post, I feel an urge to cry.
We parade through town, ending at the Legion. On this day only, they allow kids inside. Women volunteers pass hot chocolate in steaming mugs to the children — Rye and Coke, or beer to the adults. The volume rises. Within an hour, the piano in the corner is rolling out a line-up of wartime songs. My father is back to himself, and he sings off-key in his great booming voice. He laughs in bursts, greets friends with playful slaps, and his gold-capped teeth sparkle more brightly than his medals.
Dad succumbed to cancer at fifty-five, after years of annual X-rays, required because of injuries he suffered in combat. He was just a teenager when he signed up with the Canadian army, and they stationed him overseas. During the liberation of Holland, an enemy soldier lobbed a grenade into his tank’s hatch. The boys inside died, but Dad, as the gunner, stood half out at the rear and the blast only hit his legs. He never told his story, not even to Mom, until three decades later. That’s when shrapnel began to appear under the skin on his chest, as if trying to expel the last remnants of war from his body and his mind.
Mom did her part too. She served at the War Office in Ottawa in the 1940s. While she was alive, she never missed a Remembrance Day commemoration. Even after dementia had taken hold, and she was oblivious to her surroundings, we made sure she got to the ceremony. On November 11, 2017, in the final year of her life, when the Last Post sounded, she rose to her feet, stood soldier-straight in front of her wheelchair and saluted.
When I was a girl, we were taught to respect the November 11 observance, and I still attend the service annually. Some people want to abolish Remembrance Day, claiming it glorifies war. But glory has nothing to do with it. It’s a day when we can express our heartfelt thanks to my parents’ generation, who suffered to win the freedom and democracy we enjoy today in the Western world.