As today is November 11, 2007, I feel I must say a few words about what it means to me. I have never been in the military, and the only conflict I have seen is the odd argument with other people. Ninety-nine percent of them ended without violence (the odd one was escalated, but generally, not by me). I have however, known people who served in World War II, and various other conflicts including Bosnia, Golan Heights, and Cypress. I also know many people who currently serve in the armed forces of Canada
I respect each and every one of these people. They
chose to place they're lives and bodies in the path of danger to ensure I can sit here, in my house, and place whatever I want in a blog. I encourage these people to tell me of their experiences, so that I can understand and express a true thanks for the sacrifices they made to guarantee my life as it is.
Allow me a bit of your time. A man named John Z. (my great uncle) served with the Regina Rifles in the second World War. John was in the first wave up Juno Beach. He was one of the lucky ones to make it to the shingle with his officer. He looked back, with bullets whining overhead, at people who had become his close friends through training. He saw many of his friends for the last time that day, because they didn't make it to the shingle with him.
He was a communications operator, or as is more modernly known, intelligence. His job was to assess, compile, and disperse to the various people he answered to, all of the information that was brought into his unit. He did his job meticulously with pride and care, because he knew that a single mistake could well cost not only his life, but also the men who depended on his information.
Through his war time experiences, he had many adventures. As he used to say, "I liberated a lot of congac in France!" Even to his final days, he enjoyed congac immensly. When he returned to Canada, John would remember his friends who did not return, and the ones who did. He remembered the people who died beside him, and the ones who died fighting him. When I was very young, Uncle John explained what Remembrance Day meant to him. Why he would always say the same toast, and drink a glass of congac in silence, tears running down his face.
John's gone now. He left us almost 9 years ago. To this day, on November 11, I remember the words he told me, and the feeling he showed. I think of my friends who put their lives on the line, and the people past who lost theirs. Ever year, on Remembrance Day, I have a drink, I raise my glass, and I say
John's Toast to the Soldier:
"To all the friends who fought, to all the people who died. To all the soldiers who gave their lives so that we can live and remember."
To you, Uncle John.
After an afternoon of trading off on the hammer, and carting cement out of the basement, we were down to the dirt. Rob, one of my room-mates, plumbed in the sewer pipes. He roughed in the pipes for a shower, sink and toilet. All in all, the whole process took us about 8 hours. We still have to fill in the trench, and pour the cement back on top.
