Last November 11 my 88-year-old father was asked to speak to some young people about his experience in the War. Funny, but WW2 is what I mean when I think of War although there have been many since. He, along with other veterans, were received with interest by people of an age of grandchildren. The event surprised and touched him and he has spoken openly about his time Overseas ever since, something he had not done across the last half century. I feel both the veterans and the youngsters benefited.
I just talked to him 3,000 miles away. He is getting ready to attend the Remembrance Day service in the Park across the street from his home; he waits on my brother who will accompany him; I am with them in spirit. “I’m thinking of you,” I tell him. “Thank you,” he says. “Are you going to wear any of your medals?” I ask him. “No,” he tells me. He will be in the company of others who will have marched from the Legion and they will be wearing theirs; that seems to be enough for him. He got out his War ‘souvenirs’ during the summer at a family gathering when we asked him to do so; the medals made me proud of my Dad; the dog tags gripped a different part of my heart.
At eight o’clock I’ll pause and share their eleven o’clock moment of silence and likely wonder at all our thoughts and feelings. One will be gratitude to my father, maybe mostly that he is still here.