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I remember my Grandfather.
He was an old man even back that far, with grey handlebar mustache — unchanged since his military days. He used to tell us that an elephant stepped on his head and pushed all his hair down past his nose. But it couldn’t get past his mouth so that’s where it stayed.
He loved to tell tales, did my Granddad. We’d sit around quietly. Egging him on. Listening intently as he spun one tall tale after the other.
But there was one set of stories that had to wait until he was much older. Or maybe it had to wait until I was much older. One set of tales that he avoided telling.
I remember one year when I was a teenager. A friend and I made the long drive up to spend a weekend in my Grandfather’s cottages. My friend was fascinated with my Grandfather’s collection of souvenirs and pictures. Bullets in the shape of crosses. A shell casing converted to tobacco tin. A handgrenade, its deadly cargo long removed. And my friend questioned my Granddad about each and every piece in that old white curio cabinet.
Finally, to get some peace, my Grandfather began to tell tales from his younger days. Tales that I believe he hoped to forget. Of why he coughed such a racking, harsh cough. And how the taste of the mustard gas lasted for days after. And mixed with the smell of the trenches.
He spoke of how his best friend in the Signal Corp had gone out for a short run one day. Of taking his Indian motorcycle — a motorized bicycle to our eyes — and going out to look for him when he was late returning. Of finding part of him on the road and part in the ditch. Of how they would clear the piano wire from the roads in the morning. Only to find it strung up again the next day. Neck high to a man on a motorcycle or a horse.
I remember him speaking of the next great war. Too old to serve, he stayed back home that time. Of how the Mounties, he said, would come to his home. Of how they would begin to speak to him in German. Him with his medals and memories. And his three sons and a future son-in-law fighting. Of how he would answer in Welsh and watch them try to reconcile his name with this strange language.
I remember my Uncle Bern.
In those days, memories of the war were strong. Television and movies played endless repeats of how the U.S. won the war. And the old men — my Granddad and one of my uncles — would argue about battles they fought. And three of my uncles would swap stories of the planes they flew. And of kicking their mates out of the bunk above.
I remember how my Uncle Bern would leave the room. How he never participated in any of the discussions. How he would turn off the television when we wanted to watch the squad from “Combat” conquer their way across Europe.
I learned much later that he remembered the taste of the sand of Juno beach.
Today, my son is walking that beach. In safety (I hope). In friendship (I trust). In reverence (I believe).
Every September for the past few years, I help my scout troop to remember an even older war. A chance to remember when my ancestors drove back an invader. I believe in the importance of teaching the young men and women of my troop about life in the army of that time. Especially as we enter the 200 year celebration.
Tonight, I hope to attend Rememberance Lodge where men remember their brothers who have lost their lives. Some to defend our freedom from those who would have stolen it away. Some to defend our world from those who now wish only to destroy it. And I will join my brothers in celebrating those who even now protect our world.
I do not believe in war. But I do believe in the young men and women who risk their lives to protect what I hold dear.
I will remember.
