"We Care and Remember"

Hi Ms J. Sorry I haven't written lately. I've been feeling like crap with a cold and just not really that interested in ... What? The trip? What tr..? Oh! THAT trip. Yeah, it was good. Brilliant, actually. I took a few photos. Pat took hundreds.

Yeah, we had a really nice time. My brother went too. Mum and Dad and Pat and I. We stayed at a posh hotel in downtown Ottawa.



The Lord Elgin. It was lovely. Marble floor in the lobby. Fresh flowers. Very comfortable accommodations. Very civilized. Our room had two queen size beds: one for Mum and Dad, and the other for my brother and me. It had been a long time since Pat and I last slept together, Ms J. Forty years or so, I guess. It felt a bit awkward, but what the hell. A man can tolerate nearly anything for three nights.

The last night, I was feeling more comfortable, I guess, and I remember reaching over in the warmth under the sheets and gently rubbing what I thought was Colleen's thigh. The rough hair under my palm woke me with a start and I quickly rolled over and pretended to snore. I don't think Pat even noticed it, for he had no silly remark to make in the morning.


Here's Mum and Dad making sure Dad's war medals were arranged properly. He looked quite handsome. And proud.


On Saturday, we visited the Canadian War Museum. Meagan and I had been there before. Last March. Remember? She'd said, "You should bring Granddad here sometime, Dad. This is his museum." So I did. I brought my dear ol' dad to the war museum. And he loved it. I knew he would. He wore his Legion blazer with his service medals and we had free admission. Saved us about eighty bucks. Free admission to veterans and three guests. Nice, eh?

The museum is massive with displays telling the story of every conflict in which Canada's been involved since ... well, since before Canada was Canada. I think the first display depicted a pair of Indians throwing rocks at each other. Yes, I know they're called Aboriginals, or First Nations people, Ms J, but they'll always be Indians to me. Dad calls 'em In-dins. Whatever. There was a lot to see in that museum. We made it as far as the liberation of The Netherlands in WW2 before the museum closed for the day. We'd been there nearly six hours, but decided to return again on Sunday after the Remembrance Day ceremony.




We rented a wheelchair for Dad. His old legs don't carry him far before they tire.

Remembrance Day, indeed Remembrance Week, is a time to remember the sacrifices made for us by soldiers, men and women, in the name of freedom. Canada came of age in World War One, where we showed the world that we could fight along with the best. The battle for Vimy Ridge in France was a decisive and significant Canadian victory. The Brits tried but couldn't win it. Neither could the Yanks. But Canada's soldiers somehow captured the ridge against overwhelming odds and helped turn the tide in favour of the Allies. Every army suffered innumerable casualties.

Dad's war was World War Two. He was a boy, not yet twenty, when he went overseas. He was a driver/mechanic in the Royal Canadian Corps of Signals. The truck he drove carried a wireless radio set and aerial. Signalmen travelled with him to send and receive coded telegraph messages. He went over a boy and returned a man.

Dad never expected it, but he was somewhat of a celebrity in Ottawa last weekend. As a veteran of World War Two, he was given special treatment. We were seated up front quite close to the Canadian War Memorial where dignitaries placed wreaths on little metal stands. We were so close to the Prime Minister, I could have spit on him. I considered it.



A police officer was behind us dressed for the occasion in the bright scarlet tunic of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and I asked her if she'd pose for a photo with me. She did and we chatted a little. I pointed across the square to a distant rooftop where two men stood with a tripod.

"Those guys up there," I asked, "Are they camera men?"

"What guys?" she said.

"Those guys. Over there. On the roof. Are they CBC camera guys?"

"No," she said. "They're ours. They're RCMP. Snipers."

I thought she was joking, Ms J.

"Yeah," I said. "Right."

But the Corporal was not smiling. She was serious.

"I'm not joking," she said, her face grave. "They're police sharpshooters. A spotter and a marksman. They're watching the crowd for suspicious behaviour. This would be a prime opportunity for an attempt to assassinate the Prime Minister or Governor General."

I was shocked, Ms Journal. Shocked and saddened. And disgusted.

"Holy ffff...."

I didn't say it. I wanted to but I didn't say it. I looked at Pat and he was incredulous. We both were. This country's getting more American every day, God help us.

After the ceremony was over, we waited a while for the crowd to disperse. It was estimated there were thirty thousand there. And we were right up front with the camera guys and the politicians and the withered, old veterans. Dad really felt special.



Many people stopped to shake Dad's hand and say thank you. Many people. Dad seemed a bit embarrassed by the attention. He was especially moved, though, by a little girl who offered him a small slip of paper. She and her daddy approached and the girl removed a small piece of paper from a stack she held. She'd made up a dozen or more of them at school perhaps, and she passed a pink note to Dad.

"Thank you very much," he said as he took the note.

The girl smiled shyly and pulled her father off into the crowd again. Dad read the note and his eyes filled.

"WE REMEMBER AND CARE" is all it said. It was written in red marker in the hand of a small child. It was signed on the back. "From Katrina 2007"

That's all we can hope for, isn't it? We hope to be remembered. We hope future generations will care.

I love my dad, Ms Journal. I felt so proud of him many times that weekend. So very, very proud to be his son.

But I'm feeling a bit emotional right now so I'll say good-bye. Maybe I'll write more about our Ottawa trip another day.

Colleen and I are off to Montreal on Friday evening. We'll spend a romantic weekend there and I'll tell you about it next week.

***