When I got up this morning I was amazed at the calmness outdoors. There was no movement in the air, not a leaf was fluttering, and the jacket I’d donned was too warm so I shed it as the pups sniffed around the yard. Not the typical Remembrance Day weather, usually grey and raining or snowy and frigid. Today was like a spring morn, bringing with it the promise of better things to come and somehow it seemed wrong, this is a day when we should endure dismal conditions, it seems unfair to have it so good, to not grab at our collars to ward off the penetrating cold, taste a bit of the abominable conditions that soldiers of war have felt, day in and day out.
Maybe I’m a gloomy Gus, but of all the days of the year this is the one that I need to be morosely sad, bringing me closer to the reality of war, to the suffering and the anguish of it all. I don’t want to feel happy, hear birds sing, I want to wallow and linger in sorrow. This morning felt like I was in a beautiful, sun filled bubble, a shirt sleeve kind of day, uncharacteristically warm for this time of year. If only I could be happy, smile and appreciate the beauty around me, see it as a gift of their sacrifice, but not me, I have to be eaten by guilt and court shame for the fabulous life I lead that only exists off the hardship and the backs of so many that came and went before us. To me, suffering a little on this 11th hour, the 11th day of the 11th month, epitomizes the ‘Lest We Forget’.....
I didn’t go to the cenotaph again this year. I prefer reflecting on Remembrance Day in solitude. I am one of those that lost a family member, a grandfather. I can't remember him on this day of remembrance because I never knew him but he is very real to me. I am sad that I never got to sit on his lap and be tickled by his scruffy, five o’clock shadow, or his nimble fingers finding those spots that make little children squeal with delight. I never got to hear his voice or experience the warmth of his love. Like so many other families, ours missed out on what could have been. Maybe if the past had been altered by my grandfather surviving the war, I would not exist, but that would be fine, I wouldn’t know and my father might have been less sensitive, able to build a stronger backbone with a male role model to help shape it.
My grandfather died when my father was only seven, and as I’ve written before it changed him into a man that was profoundly sad. My father drank most of his life, not being able to find happiness in his own skin, and every time he tipped his elbow, he cried out for his ‘dad’, the one man that would have helped him to be a better man, maybe a happier person who could have found joy instead of endless loss.
My grandfather’s portrait hangs in my upstairs hall. I look at it every morning as I emerge from my bedroom to begin the day. A beautiful photograph taken by the army and caked with irony, because if not for enlisting, we would not have this clear, lifelike image of him. It’s a bitter trade-off, his life for a piece of photo paper but it’s all we have to hang on too. His eyes follow me and seem to speak to me, as if trying to tell me something, as if when he posed for this picture he knew he would not return so he was sending a message through his eyes to comfort the loved ones who would hold it in their grief. Maybe I’m a romantic making up a story that doesn’t exist, but there is no denying how those eyes draw me in. There is a connection with that photograph that is undeniable...I share those eyes, they stare back at me in the mirror...........
This day of reflection is always difficult for me. I mourn not only the death of a man I’ve never met, I also mourn what could have been. How his coming home would have changed the course of our family’s history. My father may not be dead, driven into an early grave by his demons and sadness so palpable everyone who loved him felt it. War doesn’t only take men in the moment; the collateral damage piles up long after the weapons are laid down.
Although I am saddened by our personal loss, I am so very thankful to the fallen soldiers and the ones who returned home. All those men and woman, someone’s son or daughter, someone’s father, mother, brother, sister, husband or wife, ordinary people like you and me, have given us the great gift of freedom at a great expense. They have been and are tortured by the sights and sounds of war, in dreams and in flashbacks of the past. You see the flowing tears on their faces as camera’s zoom in for close-ups of the aging veterans at Remembrance Day ceremonies. They haven’t forgotten the horror of war, their fallen comrades, and the sights that only their own passing will quiet. We cannot convey enough gratitude to these soldiers. We owe them everything.
My grief is private. I don’t need to stand in a crowd to show how I feel. I’m embarrassed as tears redden my face as if news of my grandfather’s death is a fresh wound, and in a way it is, every year it opens the scar that will never heal. I stay home with my box of Kleenex and watch TV documentaries of that horrific time, searching the faces of the men for something familiar. As more footage is released each year, there is always the chance I might see his dirt soaked skin and those familiar eyes staring at me through the screen. See the flesh and blood man full of life, a stark contrast to the flat picture hanging on my upstairs wall.
Larry Willoughby Veinotte
Born 1908 Mahone Bay
Died and buried in Sicily 1943.
One of 116,000 Canadian soldiers that never came back home.
Maybe I’m a gloomy Gus, but of all the days of the year this is the one that I need to be morosely sad, bringing me closer to the reality of war, to the suffering and the anguish of it all. I don’t want to feel happy, hear birds sing, I want to wallow and linger in sorrow. This morning felt like I was in a beautiful, sun filled bubble, a shirt sleeve kind of day, uncharacteristically warm for this time of year. If only I could be happy, smile and appreciate the beauty around me, see it as a gift of their sacrifice, but not me, I have to be eaten by guilt and court shame for the fabulous life I lead that only exists off the hardship and the backs of so many that came and went before us. To me, suffering a little on this 11th hour, the 11th day of the 11th month, epitomizes the ‘Lest We Forget’.....
I didn’t go to the cenotaph again this year. I prefer reflecting on Remembrance Day in solitude. I am one of those that lost a family member, a grandfather. I can't remember him on this day of remembrance because I never knew him but he is very real to me. I am sad that I never got to sit on his lap and be tickled by his scruffy, five o’clock shadow, or his nimble fingers finding those spots that make little children squeal with delight. I never got to hear his voice or experience the warmth of his love. Like so many other families, ours missed out on what could have been. Maybe if the past had been altered by my grandfather surviving the war, I would not exist, but that would be fine, I wouldn’t know and my father might have been less sensitive, able to build a stronger backbone with a male role model to help shape it.
My grandfather died when my father was only seven, and as I’ve written before it changed him into a man that was profoundly sad. My father drank most of his life, not being able to find happiness in his own skin, and every time he tipped his elbow, he cried out for his ‘dad’, the one man that would have helped him to be a better man, maybe a happier person who could have found joy instead of endless loss.
My grandfather’s portrait hangs in my upstairs hall. I look at it every morning as I emerge from my bedroom to begin the day. A beautiful photograph taken by the army and caked with irony, because if not for enlisting, we would not have this clear, lifelike image of him. It’s a bitter trade-off, his life for a piece of photo paper but it’s all we have to hang on too. His eyes follow me and seem to speak to me, as if trying to tell me something, as if when he posed for this picture he knew he would not return so he was sending a message through his eyes to comfort the loved ones who would hold it in their grief. Maybe I’m a romantic making up a story that doesn’t exist, but there is no denying how those eyes draw me in. There is a connection with that photograph that is undeniable...I share those eyes, they stare back at me in the mirror...........
This day of reflection is always difficult for me. I mourn not only the death of a man I’ve never met, I also mourn what could have been. How his coming home would have changed the course of our family’s history. My father may not be dead, driven into an early grave by his demons and sadness so palpable everyone who loved him felt it. War doesn’t only take men in the moment; the collateral damage piles up long after the weapons are laid down.
Although I am saddened by our personal loss, I am so very thankful to the fallen soldiers and the ones who returned home. All those men and woman, someone’s son or daughter, someone’s father, mother, brother, sister, husband or wife, ordinary people like you and me, have given us the great gift of freedom at a great expense. They have been and are tortured by the sights and sounds of war, in dreams and in flashbacks of the past. You see the flowing tears on their faces as camera’s zoom in for close-ups of the aging veterans at Remembrance Day ceremonies. They haven’t forgotten the horror of war, their fallen comrades, and the sights that only their own passing will quiet. We cannot convey enough gratitude to these soldiers. We owe them everything.
My grief is private. I don’t need to stand in a crowd to show how I feel. I’m embarrassed as tears redden my face as if news of my grandfather’s death is a fresh wound, and in a way it is, every year it opens the scar that will never heal. I stay home with my box of Kleenex and watch TV documentaries of that horrific time, searching the faces of the men for something familiar. As more footage is released each year, there is always the chance I might see his dirt soaked skin and those familiar eyes staring at me through the screen. See the flesh and blood man full of life, a stark contrast to the flat picture hanging on my upstairs wall.
Larry Willoughby Veinotte
Born 1908 Mahone Bay
Died and buried in Sicily 1943.
One of 116,000 Canadian soldiers that never came back home.
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