Eleven - Eleven - Eleven
I was at the cenotaph this morning with Dad, Mum and my brother John. Dad was seated in his walker for most of it, but stood and uncovered his head for the prayers and the Silence.
We had a bit of snow toward the end of the observances.
A field artillery piece marked the beginning and the end of the Silence.
Women near us jumped and shrieked each time it sounded -- I take this as a good thing: it means that the sound of guns is not familiar to us, in the lives most of us lead.
Among our local veterans: the oldest marching vet was 92; the youngest was 24; the most colourful was a Desert Rat, celebrating his 90th birthday today. The farthest-travelled for the observances was a visiting 93-year-old British vet.
We had a fly-by by the Mynarski Lancaster.
I had to explain to people nearby that this is one of two left flying in the world, an example of an aircraft that once darkened the skies with their numbers. It was eerily like trying to explain the Passenger Pigeon or the American Bison to modern schoolkids. I told them that they should go up to Warplane Heritage and see it close up.
The last few years, it has struck me that the line about, "Year after year, their numbers are fewer, soon no one will march there at all", is no longer true. Alongside the WWII and Korea War vets are now the younger crop of vets. The Silver Cross Mothers' Wreath was laid by a local woman who lost a child in Afghanistan. There were perhaps 200 soldiers, vets and cadets marching today. There were groups of schoolchildren. There was a crowd in attendance of perhaps a couple thousand. There were 55 wreaths laid at the cenotaph.
And the Dundas Pipe Band played "The Flowers of the Forest" ... (adding another link with pipes for my US friends, since the rest have been all British Commonwealth related.)
As Sigfried Sassoon said, "Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget."
We had a bit of snow toward the end of the observances.
A field artillery piece marked the beginning and the end of the Silence.
Women near us jumped and shrieked each time it sounded -- I take this as a good thing: it means that the sound of guns is not familiar to us, in the lives most of us lead.
Among our local veterans: the oldest marching vet was 92; the youngest was 24; the most colourful was a Desert Rat, celebrating his 90th birthday today. The farthest-travelled for the observances was a visiting 93-year-old British vet.
We had a fly-by by the Mynarski Lancaster.
I had to explain to people nearby that this is one of two left flying in the world, an example of an aircraft that once darkened the skies with their numbers. It was eerily like trying to explain the Passenger Pigeon or the American Bison to modern schoolkids. I told them that they should go up to Warplane Heritage and see it close up.
The last few years, it has struck me that the line about, "Year after year, their numbers are fewer, soon no one will march there at all", is no longer true. Alongside the WWII and Korea War vets are now the younger crop of vets. The Silver Cross Mothers' Wreath was laid by a local woman who lost a child in Afghanistan. There were perhaps 200 soldiers, vets and cadets marching today. There were groups of schoolchildren. There was a crowd in attendance of perhaps a couple thousand. There were 55 wreaths laid at the cenotaph.
And the Dundas Pipe Band played "The Flowers of the Forest" ... (adding another link with pipes for my US friends, since the rest have been all British Commonwealth related.)
As Sigfried Sassoon said, "Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget."