1:57 p.m. Remembrance day. I often find myself rather sombre on November 11th. Today I switched on the radio, at 11am, and listened to the solo trumpet play. I stood, half dressed, still listening. Hearing it never fails to bring tears to my eyes.

I have three distinct Remembrance day memories.

The earliest is reading my poem in grade 2 for a Remembrance day assembly. It written for a poetry contest and although I didn't win, I was asked to read it in front of the school. I started to read it and half way through I stalled. I remember hearing laughter and it distracted me. I continued to read but stalled on the second or third last line. I repeated the line three times although it was written only once. The audience laughed because the line sounded more dramatic than I intended (damn if I can remember the poem, or even that line!). My heart raced and my forehead was moist under the lights. At the end of the reading, I ran to my seat and was relieved to get out of the spotlight.

When I worked in Toronto, my second coop term there, Remembrance day fell on a Sunday (I think). I remember lazying around, flicking through the channels till I hit the history channel. For the next 7 hours I watched episode after episode of Remembrance day tributes. At one point I started to cry. Cried for the men and women lost in senseless wars, cried for the devestation the wars caused, cried for the elderly people who have to live with their memories, cried because I'm not so sure people have learned from the past.

My final memory didn't occur on Remembrance Day, but is certainly related and I can't help think about it on November 11th in particular.

My grandma's brother, known to everyone in Charlottetown as 'Babe', enlisted in the war in spite of being underage. He went and wrote letters home.

I'll never forget the day I held his letters between my fingers. Stored in a Pot of Gold box, his letters hid from the rest of the family. You see, I was in Marg's house, my gram's oldest sister. She never let anyone touch them.

Roni, Marg's niece, showed them to me while Marg was away. She handed me the box and left me alone in the bedroom.
It was a remarkable moment, to peek into the life of someone, family, I'd never got a chance to meet.

His writing looked rushed, or juvenile. Pencil. Manila paper. They were brief and only allowed insight on the 'good things'. Skating. Meeting young British girls. Thanking for care packages. Well wishes and words of longing for home.

The last letter was dated three days before he was killed. It was chilling to read his letter and then find the telegram notifying the family of his death.

Babe is now buried in Italy (is that part of my draw to Italy?) in a massive Canadian cemetary.

Lest we forget.

n@s