Lest we forget...

As we observed two minutes of silence, from across the street I heard the gentle tinkling sounds of a child’s toy playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
I thought to myself, “how perfectly appropriate.”
What could be more indicative of the poignant sacrifice so many men and women made in defense of our freedom? A perfect remembrance: a child, happy, healthy and free.
I know I was not the only one who smiled when the song drifted softly out to the crowd gathered at the cenotaph in Invermere.
Beside me in the parade line my children stood straight, my sons looking handsome and stoic, and when the silence was done, my lovely daughter (step-daughter really, but it is a minor distinction) straining to see the cenotaph and those laying wreaths, her curiosity overcoming the solemn nature of the morning. It was for all intents and purposes the first time she had ever been to a Remembrance Day ceremony and we were representing the Summit Youth Centre.
My sons, particularly my eldest Justin, are old hats at this. They know the drill, and what I expect of them.
But for Hayley this was new territory.
I announced the night prior that we needed to be up early to get to town in plenty of time to pick up our wreath.
She looked at me with an eyebrow raised.
“Um, okay.”
The next morning, the Remembrance Day diatribe went something like this:
“No ripped or ragged jeans, no dark eye make-up, no hands in your pockets, make sure you all have your hair brushed, don’t slouch, brush your teeth, did you shave? don’t pout, no gum, wear a nice jacket and make sure your poppy is on the left side, don’t talk or look bored, be respectful, try to walk in time and remember to start with your left foot.”
At one point my youngest son walked into the kitchen with faded blue jeans on. I looked at him and said, “You don’t think you’re wearing those do you?”
Sighing, he heads back to his room to change, passing his sister in the hall who has a sort of overwhelmed “Stevie has lost it” look in her eyes. Scott responds with an encouraging “you’ll be fine” look.
And of course, they all did very well. I was proud of all three.
I am big on formality. Dinnertime in our house has a specific set of guidelines as well. We talk about our days over dinner and it is essentially a relaxed family time, as long as table manners are adhered to.
The mealtime diatribe, if I were to put it all together, would run along these lines:
“Hold your knife and fork correctly, napkin on your lap, sit up straight, take that hat off, no elbows on the table, do not slurp, smack or gobble your food, no talking with food in your mouth, eat at least some of everything on your plate (one day you’ll thank me for teaching you to politely eat food you don’t much care for), wait until everyone is seated before you dig in and when you are done you may take your plate away but please come sit back at the table as you are not excused until everyone is done.”
I rarely have to actually say any of these things as our kids are more than accustomed to the rules.
Of course, the rules pretty much go for any friends our kids have over as well, and for the most part, it’s no big deal. I think this is because my kids forewarn their friends of what to expect the way the guard warns Clarice Starling as he takes her down to Hannibal Lector’s cell.
I firmly believe it is our responsibility as not just parents, but adults, to make sure our youth have some concept of manners, tradition, respect, and gratitude. It is up to us to be sure they know how to be polite, how to respect other people, how to behave appropriately in the right situations.
It is up to us to teach them to shake hands properly when they meet someone, and most especially, to look our elders in the eye and know to put them first, hold open the door for them, offer an arm when it seems appropriate, and of all things, take the time to say hello.
It’s just manners. And if we fail them, we have only ourselves to blame.

As promised, Ian's column... it made me cry. And it made me love him even more.

Forever grateful and proud
Every year at this time I think of my mother.
Most people don’t think of their mothers on Remembrance Day.
It’s more common to contemplate the sacrifices made by family or friends in any of the wars or peacekeeping actions that Canada and our Commonwealth brethren have been involved in. Mothers are considered when we think of them losing their sons.
Being the son of English immigrants who arrived in Canada shortly after the end of the Second World War, I have known numerous family members who fought in the two world wars.
I was even lucky enough to meet a great-great uncle who, as a mutton-chop-fashioned Sgt. Major in the English Army, led supply caravans across the Khyber Pass at the start of the 20th Century. He was still a large, imposing man when I met him at the age of 11. He was 94 and was long retired from being Harrogate, Yorkshire’s top cop but his mind and memory were razor sharp.
A large, jewelled scimitar (curved sword) hung over his fireplace and it caught my attention, as did numerous other mementos from his military service, which also included time spent in France during the First World War.
I asked him where the “sword” came from and he sharply responded, in a most typical, booming British Sgt. Major’s voice: “Well, that came from a woggie I killed.”
That’s all it took. I wanted to know more. He explained that his caravans were commonly attacked by raiders on both sides of the Khyber Pass — in Afghanistan and Pakistan. One day he was attacked by several tribesmen and one brandishing that sword ran at him screaming.
“I pulled my service revolver and shot him between the eyes. I took his scimitar to honour him.”
They just aren’t made like that any more.
We were visiting him because he was quite ill and ancient and my mother loved him quite dearly, as he played a role in raising her after she lost her entire family one horrible night, May 10, 1944.
My mom was 16 when an Australian bomber, with five Aussie and two English crewmen aboard, clipped the top 30 feet off the 140-foot spire of St. James Church in Selby, Yorkshire and crashed into the back of her childhood home.
The seven airmen and eight civilians were killed when the Halifax bomber, returning from a bombing run over Germany, crashed. Another seven civilians on Portholme Drive were injured, including my mother.
Because her bedroom was located upstairs and at the front of the house, she was blasted out with the wreckage as the plane slammed into the back of her home. Its wings destroyed the neighbouring homes.
Her mother Doris and father William, aged 36 and 37, her 11-year-old brother Brian and six-year-old sister Patricia had bedrooms in the back of the house. They were likely killed instantly, my mother reckons.
It was miraculous that she survived as she was buried in the rubble — with almost every bone in her body crushed or broken.
She has only spoken about the incident a few times. It was something that happened to thousands of British families, she said once.
Luckily, she had family in nearby villages who raised her, with the brusque but kindly Sgt. Major also there for her — a soft spot in his heart for the scrappy girl who survived.
We cannot comprehend the horrors that people in Europe or in Asia endured during that terrible time when our world came within a few bad military decisions of falling into the hands of evil narrow-mindedness.
Millions of people died — military and civilian. I still have a difficult time trying to realize the fact that my mother was so badly impacted by that war — after having already endured about five years of blackouts, food shortages and continuous terror.
If anyone ever had an excuse to chuck it all in and give up, it was Jean Cobb — who did the opposite.
She became a doctor, specialized in podiatry and married a young Fleet Air Arm Spitfire mechanic named Jack, a lad from nearby Doncaster. Soon after the war they immigrated to Canada with $50 each, suitcases and my 18-month-old brother — who like my sister and I was also adopted.
Jean honoured her family and the other people killed that night by becoming a success story — by becoming a woman who charged into a male dominated world — with her purse tucked up against her solar plexis held by a dock-worker’s grip — and became the first woman to open a foot clinic in Western Canada.
Like the kind Sgt. Major who taught her how to drive and imparted his particular wisdom on her — they just don’t make them like that any more.
My mom would likely be a bit put out from me writing these words — for briefly telling a story that a book could only do justice to because she does not consider herself heroic. Her practical nature and extreme intellect would not allow such egotism.
But she’s my hero.
And this Remembrance Day, like all those before it and all to come, I will remember her sacrifice and suffering, like the countless others of her generation who paved the way to this time of luxury and relative ease.
William, Doris, Brian and Patricia would have been so proud of her — just as the old Sgt. Major so clearly was and I have always been.
~RIC~