By Pauline Howard
formerly of Cobden
The eleventh minute, of the eleventh hour, on the eleventh day, of the
eleventh month, Remembrance Day, celebrated all over the world. We
all know what it means, I was sure that I knew its meaning. From a
young age I wore a poppy on my left side, over my heart to signify
remembrance and respect. I attended services, said the prayers, sang
the standard hymns, Abide with Me, O Valliant Hearts and Onward
Christian Soldiers. To this day I can sing the first and last verses
of each of these hymns by heart. Grandpa was in WW1, Dad in WWII, one
brother-in-law in the Navy, one in the Army and a nephew in the Army. I knew its meaning.
As a child I would play with the shiny brass buttons in the button
drawer, drawn by their shininess, the hat badges and fabric badges
that were part of Dad’s uniform. The stories they could tell, but
they were as silent as Dad about their time in the war. I found these
things in the linen closet, two pieces of material the size of a loonie one grey and one brown on an army green string. No idea what they were at the time, but there was a number on them that my mom new by heart, and I liked holding them. I later discovered that they were my Dad’s dog tags. One would float and one
would not burn.
Several years ago I began to see the meaning of Remembrance Day from
adult eyes that had been opened wide. It is easy to talk about war
when it happens half a world away, seen in grainy black and white
films that you had to watch during history class, but I am not really
sure I paid enough attention back then.
My brother-in-law spent a year in Rwanda, and I was an adult at that
time. I sent letters and packages, saw the news, and when my sister
heard from him she would let us know he was okay. He came back
changed. How could one not after seeing what he saw. I thought I
understood, but looking back now I didn’t fully understand.
I was in Germany visiting my sister and her husband and on a quiet
Sunday afternoon. I walked through the Canadian War Cemetery in Groesbekk Holland.
It was a sunny afternoon, no one was around but Dolly and I and it was
deathly quiet except for our hushed voices. To this day I am not sure
why we whispered but it felt right. As I walked row upon row and read
name upon name, and saw for myself the more than 1,000 graves
of young men who died way too young, November the 11th sure took on a
new meaning for me. I was on hallowed ground in a foreign land where
far too many Canadians were laid to rest. Now I was beginning to understand.
Then the news came my nephew would be deployed to Afghanistan for his
tour of duty. Boy, clarity came fast. My sister commented “it was one
thing to send your husband on a tour of duty; it was entirely
different sending your son”. Good-byes were said and tears were shed.
I wrote every week, sending a package of gum in each letter and a
parcel once a month. Sometimes letters would take six weeks to reach
Kevin, when he was in the field. If my sister called later than
normal or in the middle of the day, my heart would be in my throat as
I answered the phone. My way of communicating with him was letters, a tradition I still carry on today, they made me feel close
and it was something I could do. Upon his safe return, we would joke about
how I single handed supplied the Canadian military with gum. How one
package arrived minty fresh because the bottle of scope I sent broke
and everything smelled of peppermint. The summer after he arrived
home we looked at some of his pictures. He would grow quiet at times
reflecting on the horror of a memory and then said, “he died that
day”. The meaning of Remembrance Day was getting clearer.
For those of you who don’t know me, I was a humour therapy clown at the
Rehabilitation Centre in Ottawa, and I had the pleasure and honour of
meeting some of our wounded soldiers who came back. They were proud
of their service and determined to get well and go home. For all that
they had been through they still had a moment to share a joke and a
smile with two crazy clowns. If we could make them smile just once in
our visit, then my job was done. For one brief moment in time I made
a soldier, who was in pain, smile and maybe, just maybe forget for a minute.
For me, the Remembrance Day meaning is clearer. A mother says goodbye to a
child, “be safe”. A woman says goodbye to her husband as a man says
goodbye to his wife with a “please come home safe”, and a child cries
as they say goodbye to a parent not sure if they will see them again.
A solider, someone I most likely do not know, went to a country and
fought so that people I don’t know may live in peace. Sacrifice and
with the hope of peace. Many died that I might have freedom, a
freedom I most certainly take for granted on a daily basis.
It has taken 47 years but I think I finally know what Remembrance Day
is all about. I wear my poppy with pride until every Remembrance Day service
and then find a cenotaph, gently kiss it, place it at the bottom of the
memorial and say thank you as I walk away crying.
The eleventh minute of the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day in the
eleventh month, two minutes silence and I will remember them.
