Remembrance Day

I am writing this today, November 11^th. It is Veteran’s Day here in the US. In Canada, it is Remembrance Day. Both of these national holidays coincide with others around the world, such as Armistice Day in the UK, that mark the anniversary of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, when the First World War officially ended.

Neighbours on our street have placed small American flags all along the sidewalk up and down; and in front of our house as well. I added one small Canadian flag just right beside our front steps. For some reason, maybe because of our flag’s scarlet colour, the old poem we learned to recite in school popped into my head. I can only remember the first two lines off by heart: “In Flanders fields the poppies blow, Between the crosses, row on row.”

A Canadian physician, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae from Guelph, Ontario wrote this poem on May 3, 1915, after the funeral of a friend who had died in battle in France. It was published later that year in London. It refers to the red poppies that grew among the graves of fallen soldiers.

I was a bit ambivalent about Remembrance Day when I was a kid. It meant an afternoon off school and that snow was usually on the ground. In the morning, classes were suspended so we could attend a memorial service. I think I remember a minister or maybe representatives from a couple of religious denominations coming to school to lead us in prayer and hymns, such as “Our God, Our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come.” A bugler would play “Taps.” We were expected to wear Sunday best and pin velvety red poppies to our coat collars. And the poem “In Flanders Fields” would be delivered by someone chosen especially for the honour.

One year, a girl named Juliana recited the poem. Her family had recently immigrated to Canada from Germany. I found that curious even at my age which would have been 8 or 9 at the time. I wondered if the school was punishing her for being German or if it was a gesture of forgiveness and welcome. Or maybe she was picked because she was quite simply a good reader. She stood in front of the entire school assembly, with her hair in long braids, wearing a pleated skirt and a home-made Bavarian-style wool sweater, speaking the verses as clear as a bell.

My Dad had not gone overseas as he had ulcers and was not classified fit for combat, but he did join the Army Reserves and did basic training. I vaguely remember his brother, my Uncle Bob, being in the RAF, not the RCAF as one might have thought, and I think he was stationed in England, but I never heard stories about it. Dad’s sister Anne’s husband fought in Europe and had been taken prisoner of war and never returned home. A family friend was a pilot who had been terribly burned in a plane crash. He came over to our house a few times and I got used to seeing his scarred face. Along with the Great Depression, World War II shaped my parents’ sensibilities to a huge degree and I grew up in its shadow because of their memories.

Not much was said in our family about World War I, although my grandparents would have been young adults at the time. My Dad’s family came to Canada from Scotland sometime around 1910. I do remember my mom saying that my Granny used to sell poppies outside Eaton’s department store in Winnipeg. I wondered if she was honouring young men, maybe someone she knew in Canada or back home in Scotland, who had died in that war.

By the time I was a teen, anti-war sentiment in the 1960s and early 70s fueled my rebellion about Remembrance Day. In my witlessness I believed that the holiday and the blood-red poppies were glorifying war. Apparently some students at Ottawa University have had this same idea very recently. Here’s a passage from yesterday’s “Globe and Mail”:

When Canadian veterans gather at the National War Memorial to honour those who served and those who died in this country’s wars, there may be unwelcome guests: activists distributing white poppies, which they say symbolize peace, claiming the red ones celebrate war.

Their stunt threatens to disrupt a sombre moment with a manufactured controversy. Remembrance Day has never been about glorifying war. Rather, it’s about reflecting upon its horrors and its sacrifices, which Canadians have been forced to endure over the past century.

Age has softened the edges of my youthful ignorance. Perhaps it will do the same for the protesters and maybe one day some of them will be ashamed of their actions today.

As for me, I am in awe of the courage that it takes to fight for one’s country. The least I can do is put out a small flag on November 11 and wear a red poppy. I can pause to be grateful to those who are defending our peace and honour those whose lives have been lost. Lest we forget.

 

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
      Between the crosses, row on row,
   That mark our place; and in the sky
   The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie
         In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
   The torch; be yours to hold it high.
   If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
         In Flanders fields.