Remembering a regular ol' Joe.

November 11th has rolled around once again. Most Canadians have a routine that follows the day. Some go to ceremonies, some take a few minutes to remember, and some make a pilgrimage. I usually attend the ceremony at the cenotaph outside Old City Hall. Unfortunately, I had a doctors appointment at 10:45 (what!?) and missed most of the ceremony. I had just got home and was watching the tail end of the wreath placing in Ottawa, when Peter Mansbridge let loose an unsettling stat.

Canada loses, on average, four hundred world war two veterans a week. There are only one hundred and forty six thousand veterans left alive in Canada; "You do the math," he put it.

It was a sad realism that most had in the back of their mind, but not many have dealt with. So, to keep the tradition alive and going, I grabbed my camera and headed for the Cenotaph to place my poppy on the grass.

When I got there, the chairs and barricades were all but folded up. The wreaths still remained on the grass, and just a few Torontonians wandered about, looking at the various tributes left on the grass. Then, something remarkable happened.
A wonderful man named: Joe was wheeled next to the grass. He wanted one last look, with his grandson, at the tribute the city had left. A small crowd began to gather, to thank and talk with Joe. A few people had turned into a handful, then a handful turned into small crowd, and then that small crowd kept growing.

CityTv was in the area, and saw Joe was still around, so they sat down and talked with him. They got his story, where he had fought, and how he felt today about the state of the world. There is a reason why he is from the greatest generation. Because he said the same thing hundreds of thousands before him had: "It just felt like the right thing to do."

The crowd was compromised of students and young kids. Their eyes were locked on Joe, only moving to see his medals, as he described what each one was, and what it meant. It began to look like a football huddle, with Joe directing knowledge and history into their minds. Everyone squeezed in tighter, just so they could make more room, so more folks could get in closer and hear Joe talk. We were all just people, gathered for the reason. No differences, no divisons, all united to hear one mans story.

We all remember things our own way. We all mourn, and think about conflicts past and present in a way that is unique to us. Joe made sure I'd have a strong memory of that day. When the crowd disperesed, and everyone was giving their thank yous and good lucks. I got to shake his hand and say: "Thanks." He waved me off and smiled and said: "No, no, thankyou!" I was a bit confused by this, and I asked: "What for?"

"You're taking pictures of this. It'll be nice to know I was here, and people can remember. I don't know if I'll make it out next year." The tears just came rolling out. I didn't know what to say except: "You're welcome."

That was the first time I ever cried at a rememberance day ceremony. This fills me with a want an urge to make sure the more people come out every year, and that folks are proactive in saying: thanks, and talking to our veterans.

You never know when you're going to get lucky, and run into an average Joe, just like I did.