Lest We Forget

Whites Road, Highway Of Heroes.

No matter how you to look at it, people who make a living in uniform spend their careers preparing for events that we all hope will never happen. But bad things happen, and when it comes to the Military, I wonder if at various times in history we might have confused our feelings for the horrors of war with our feelings for the courageous Canadians who answered the call to arms. But I'm relieved to be part of a generation that has begun to reverse the trend of withholding pride.  I wish I'd never had to stand on the Whites Road overpass to pay my respects to fallen soldiers from Afghanistan, but I never want to forget the Canadians I met on those days; it turns out we are a fiercely proud lot, deeply moved by the plight of ordinary families in their darkest hour.

I was raised a Military Dependent, so respect for those who serve their country is something I learned firsthand.  My father chose his career path at an extremely young age, having to get written permission from both of his parents and his high school principal to join the Navy at just 17 years of age.  I remember as a preschooler - and a university graduate - seeing my Mom press my father's uniform shirts with such incredible care and detail that no dry cleaner anywhere could match her work.  I remember my father spit shining his shoes at night and taking the the adhesive lint picker to his perfectly creased uniform trousers after he got up from the breakfast table.  When he left the house every morning to go to work, he was impeccably put together to the letter of the dress regulations - without exception.  I thought this was the way the entire world worked back then.  When at the age of 11 we moved into a home that was not on a Canadian Forces Base, I was utterly confused to discover that other people's households did not include somebody in uniform.

Dad  receives a service commendation on the Bonnie, 1966.

If my Father's family is Canadian Armed Forces, my Mother's side is United States Army and Marine Corps. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws:  the uniform is everywhere in my family tree... and I couldn't be more proud.

So this morning I will attend Remembrance Day ceremonies and then make my way to my local Legion.  It's tradition, but perhaps also selfish.  I get to say thanks, which makes me feel good, and I get to hear veterans tell stories that rip my heart out or make me collapse in fits of laughter... or both.  There is an art to story telling, and I have yet to meet a veteran who hasn't mastered it.  Although on occasion rooted in the horrors of war, there is nonetheless always a light, a lesson, something to take away and use to make our own lives that much more meaningful.  I wouldn't miss it.

Today, please say thank you to anyone who has worn a uniform, be they military, police, fire, EMS, or any other branch of service.  Your gratitude will be warmly received, I assure you.

Three Hundred Forty-Three

     I’ve been thinking a lot about New York City lately, as has most of the connected world.  Why its residents are routinely made to show us what they’re made of escapes me but serves to restore my faith in humanity, and for that I offer a debt of gratitude.  Without faith (in something) we’d all be lost.  Faith in humanity is at times is a risky lot to invest in.  There are so many opportunities to lose faith in mankind, so to side step the crap is a lot of work some days.  But it’s the most honest work I do; having faith puts my heart and my head in perfect balance, allowing me to feel somewhat victorious against the odds... smug, almost.  But just 24 hours after Sandy kicked NYC and the Jersey Shore square in the teeth, and with the plight of its citizens firmly on my mind, I was reminded firsthand what it means to be touched personally by something that seems so much bigger than all of us.

     “What does this represent?” I asked, running my fingers over each of the numbers.

     “Three hundred forty-three… the number of firefighters lost in the World Trade Center on Nine Eleven.”

     I instantly took my hand off the graphic, feeling as though it was sacred and not to be disturbed.  The mood, for a few moments, shifted from carefree to reflective. Two things raced through my mind in a blur.

     The first was the memory of my fiercely proud American Mom and me standing at Ground Zero just a few months after the towers came down.  Mom and I are cut from the same cloth, and after spending hours reading heartbreaking hand written tributes to the fallen, we walked out onto the temporary viewing platform in stunned silence, tears running down our faces.  My Mom stood looking out at the site, which was still being excavated, and I remember walking up behind her, wrapping my arms tightly around her shoulders as though I might somehow lose her, nestling my chin against the back of her head and just staring at what was before us… desperately and silently willing the lives lost to somehow be returned to their rightful places.  It was devastating and so hopeless that it left an ache in me the intensity of which I’ll never forget.

     I carefully placed my hand back on the numbers, tracing them.  Three hundred and forty-three.  “I have a story to tell you about this sometime,” I said.  From within the second flash emerges that story.

     Just six weeks after 911, I was in Boston racing with the Argonaut Rowing Club crew in the women’s club eight event at the Head of The Charles Regatta.  Although we were long in the tooth for that race category (our average age was forty years, among crews full of collegiate-aged women), we arrived well prepared with great hull speed.  Seeded third among a huge field of crews, we knew we had a good starting position and were optimistic that we could convert that into a really good race. And race well we did, powering up the three mile section of the Charles River that makes up the race course with confidence, skill, and speed.  While we knew winning would be very unlikely given the quality of the field, we were hopeful for a top three finish and the medal that would accompany it.  So we were shocked to discover that we had in fact placed 16^th.  A closer examination of the results softened the blow when we saw that in what was one of the tightest races ever seen in that category, good numbers of boats crossed the line within a virtual heartbeat of one another… but we were not at the head of that very tight pack.  In rowing circles, finishing a mere 2.5% off the winning time in such a talented field would be considered a fantastic result.  But we expected more and left the race course pleased that we'd done everything we could but disappointed to place so far down the standings.

The 2001 HOCR Argonaut Rowing Club Women's Club 8+ Crew

     We went out for supper in Boston’s Back Bay that night and as things progressed and the wine flowed freely, we began to switch gears from disappointment to a real appreciation for how lucky we all were to be in the soup together; great friends and fabulous teammates, all nicely wrapped up in laughs, hugs, and a weekend in the never-anything-but awesome city of Boston.  Later that night we searched at length for a dance club that would take our group of nearly 20 life-loving, giggly rowers, as by this time we’d hooked up with our club’s men’s crew, who also felt they came up short on the race course that day.  After an hour of traipsing around the city, we gave up and poured ourselves into a small Irish pub on a back street just off Boston Common.  We took up residence at a few stools at and around the bar, and the manager cleared a couple of tables so that we had a place to dance, because frankly there was going to be dancing whether they supported it or not, and the staff recognized that creating a dance floor was better than having us dance wherever and whenever the mood struck. By then we were putting a bit of beer into our collective soul, and were dancing shamelessly to whatever came out of the jukebox.  It was so fun and so funny; we were enjoying a sense of freedom and gratitude at being able to suck up the sheer pleasures of life without a worry in the world.

     At some point in the midst of our revelry, I noticed a lone patron seated at the bar, playing with the glass in his hands and watching us with a look that I couldn't quite register   He appeared to be half amused and half tormented, so deferring to the possibility that he might be tormented, I smiled at him and shrugged my shoulders as I glanced at my posse, who by this time was dancing haphazardly to “Blister In The Sun”.  He cracked, like an egg rapped on the edge of an iron skillet... it was all over.  He smiled back and began to laugh.  I asked him if he wanted to move down a few stools and join us.  It was at that moment I saw on the bar beside him his uniform peak hat, with his gloves folded impeccably and resting on top of it.  I looked closer at him and was embarrassed that up until that moment I had failed to realize he was in full dress uniform with his tunic still buttoned, and his tie still tightened. As he distractedly played with the glass he cradled in his hands, I saw from his insignia that he was a firefighter with the Boston Fire Department.

     “Have you just arrived from somewhere?” I asked, fearful of his reply.

     “I've been here for a few hours,” he replied.   “I was in New York for a funeral today.”

     “Nine Eleven?” I queried, knowing that’s where he was but feeling that presumption would be somehow disrespectful.

     “Yes, he paused. “Not my first... and not my last,” he offered without looking up.

     I put my hand on his shoulder, which in hindsight was so incredibly forward that I’m blushing just thinking about it. But nonetheless, he looked up and I asked if he’d allow me and my friends to buy him a drink.  He quickly accepted and leaving his hat, gloves, and scotch on the bar, joined our group standing a few feet away.  He protested with great fanfare when I asked the bartender to put his drink on our tab, and further, he insisted on putting the pints I ordered for my pals on his tab.  A lengthy, animated discussion ensued about who was buying drinks for whom but in the end I won out and his drink went on our tab.

     For the next few hours we carried on just as the first, but now with all of us completely unaware of which drinks were going onto which tab.  From time to time I’d lean over the bar and ask the bartender if all the drinks were going on our tab and he just winked at me. So I winked back believing that the non-verbal conversation went exactly as I was hearing it in my head.  As for the rowers and newly minted hangers-on, we took turns chatting and laughing in small groups on bar stools or dancing on our now very popular dance floor.  It would appear that our spirit had ignited that of the other patrons, and several people were dancing.  Our uniformed friend had by now removed his tunic, and I noticed that his hat was perched atop the head of my friend Sue, whose long blond hair was flying all over the place as he whipped her around on the dance floor.  I smiled smugly, but on the outside.

     A few minutes later my friend Judy, who by now was wearing our friend’s tie, grabbed my arm and dragged me to the dance floor.  This?  This was not the essence of life, but rather the stuff that makes it so simplistically gratifying. I recall looking around the room at my friends in various stages of outright happiness thinking that we’d stumbled upon utopia…even if only for a few hours. I watched our adopted firefighter laughing as he spun Sue around the dance floor, and taking in everything that was happening around it knew that I’d just been schooled in the art of opening oneself up to being happy in the face of the gravest adversity. I was humbled.  I mean, admittedly I was also high on life, but no less humbled.

     When last call came, I once again leaned over the bar but this time asked the bartender for our bill.  He looked a bit pained, which perplexed me.  We stared at each other, and then he looked away and said very quietly, “It’s been looked after.”

     “What do you mean?” I said, knowing full well what he meant.

     “It’s been paid in full and please don’t ask me anything else about it.”

     “By whom?” I asked knowing full well by whom.

     “He insisted.”

     “I can’t let him do that.”

     “He really wants you to let him do this.”

     “I can’t.  Our bill must be several hundred dollars.”

     “He really wants to do this for you guys. I tried to talk him out of it but he insisted.”

     “Can I collect cash from everyone and leave it with you so that the next time he comes in he’s drawing against a credit?” I asked.

    “No,” he said firmly.

    At this point I didn't know what to do.  By now a few of our group had caught wind of what was going on.  They too joined in the chorus to allow us to reverse the tab.  Sensing our well-meaning but combative spirit, the bartender finally said, “Look. He needs to do this.  Please let him.”

     Well that’s different.

     And as our comrade in revelry put his tie back on, donned his tunic, picked his white gloves up off of the bar and placed his hat under his arm, we each hugged him with sincerity and warmth… not just for the life affirmation we’d shared with him that night, but for the gift of knowing that for a brief moment in time we were all bound by the ties of a small, closely knit family mourning the loss of one of its own.

Bonds form under the watchful eye of Sam Adams

     I have no idea which of the 343 fallen firefighters we’d had an impromptu wake for that night, but it was an honour to have been a part of it.  To this day a flicker of the life force I gleaned from that experience still lives in me.  It’s been over ten years since I’d reflected on that weekend in Boston, and that embarrasses me somewhat.  In hindsight I realize that the gesture not only of the firefighter but of the bartender who had his back was one of the more subtle but no less important life lessons I’d learned.  Had I not found myself exposed to the random but extraordinarily personal tribute of a firefighter (who like me had never met any of the 343) all these years later, I’d not have taken the time to reflect on that night and how much it shaped the person I became.  So to him I offer my heartfelt gratitude... for other than time itself there is no luxury greater than that of perspective.