The older I get and the more I see of the terrible atrocities that go on in the world around us, the more thankful I am for the wonderful country in which I live.
When I was a little girl I would watch my grandfather proudly march in the parade on Rembrance Day.
And each year, while the last post played, I would watch the tears fill his eyes and slowly slide down his face.
While I couldn’t comprehend just what it was about, I realized that it must be a very important day, as it was the only time that I had ever seen this normally reserved man shed a single tear.
The years passed and my grandfather grew old and seldom left his home. One year, for whatever reason I can’t now remember, I was given the duty of driving him to the Remembrance Day service. Unknown to me, he was asked to read (recite I should say, no paper was needed) Flander’s Fields during the ceremony.
My grandfather passed away 20 years ago this year, but I can still so clearly remember him taking my arm, and telling me to help him to the front of the assembly. As we walked, he tightly gripped my arm, trying to steady himself as not to let everyone know just how weak he really was.
And when we got to the front, I was shocked at the loud voice that boomed from the old man’s chest, which was normally so soft and low.
He recited every line of the poem which was so sacred to him, and his voice was clear to the end belying the trembling hand that rested on my arm.
When he was finished, I guided his to the back where he took a seat ( he had no energy left to stand.)
No words were spoken, none were needed.
My youngest came home from school this week, telling me all about “Rembenec Day” and what it is about.
She never got to meet my grandfather, but I know he would be so very proud of her little stories and so very happy to know that this new generation remembers too.
