remembering...

As always in the lead-up to Remembrance Day, I find myself thinking about my Dad, about the brave and honourable man he was, about the sacrifices he made for Canada, and about the wonderful, loving father he became. I think, too, about my Mom, the separation and uncertainty she endured during the six long years of World War II, and the overwhelming relief and joy she must have felt when her soldier, the love of her life, came marching home.

At the end of 1939, Dad enlisted in the Irish Regiment of Canada. He trained at Camp Borden, north of Toronto, and was based there until his deployment to Europe in 1941. Here's a photo of Mom and Dad, taken on his last leave. Mom found his midnight pass with its poignant and hopeful "keep this for me" note, tucked into her pocket after they'd kissed goodbye.

Dad and The Irish served briefly as the Queen's Guard at Sandringham. Here he is, standing proudly at attention with the Queen and Princesses Elizabeth and Anne. If you follow stillpoint, you'll have seen this image before. It's one of my favourites. This was a proud moment for Dad, a bright spot in the darkness of war.

Dad's platoon was shelled while on a midnight reconnaissance mission in Italy and he was wounded by shrapnel. As a teenager, twenty years later, I began having nightmares about darkness, explosions, and pain. Only then did Dad share the story of that terrifying night. I can't explain it but we both believed I was somehow reliving his experience in that field in Italy. I described things he'd never shared, not even with Mom. After we talked it out, my nightmares stopped. I'd like to believe Dad's did, too. We never spoke of it again.

After a short stay in a field hospital, Dad returned to active duty and served in Italy until the end of the war. It was a snowy, mid-winter day in Toronto when the Irish Regiment came home. This was my grandparents' house on Norway Avenue, all decked out with flags and bunting. (You can't see it in the picture – and no other photo exists – but Dad was sporting a carefully cultivated strawberry blond handlebar mustache. Mom told him it would have to go if he ever wanted another kiss. Dad claims he'd never shaved so fast in his life!) 

Thank you Dad, for all you did and for all you were. And thanks to all the brave men and women who have served and sacrificed for Canada and for peace. 

On November 11th, remember them.

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

a lot to remember...

Every year when November rolls around, I pin a poppy to my jacket and think about my Dad. His stories of service with the Irish Regiment of Canada in World War II were often full of laughter – like the time he volunteered to teach cross-country skiing to fellow recruits at Camp Borden, north of Toronto. 

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," I remember him saying, "a bit of easy duty." Not so easy, as it turned out. Dad had never worn a pair of skis in his life and had to bluff his way through the lessons. Fortunately for him, and for the men of B Company, they never had to ski into battle.

Sometimes, while Dad reminisced, Mom would slip quietly out of the room. She understood that his laughter couldn't last. Some remembered escapade would bring to mind a good friend, a young man he'd trained and travelled and fought beside, a young man who hadn't returned from battle. And Dad would fall silent. That was Mom's cue to offer hot mugs of tea, a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits, and a gentle hug.

Those stories must have held painful memories for Mom, too. It's not only soldiers who sacrifice for our peace and freedom. The ones they leave behind sacrifice, too. How desperately, impossibly hard it must be to stay brave and strong when the one you love more than life itself goes marching off to war. Back in the early 1940s, Mom and her friends coped by working hard, playing hard, and sending a constant stream of letters to their absent lovers; letters full of home and hope and happier times, with photos like these tucked inside.

In her quieter moments, I can imagine Mom pouring over the evening newspaper for any mention of The Irish, carefully clipping and saving each story as she followed the regiment's progress from Toronto to Nova Scotia, then overseas to England and, finally, to Italy. 

Among the patriotic stories of long marches, flag-waving, and royal inspections, one little poem stands out: To Whom It May Concern - I like mink and crepes suzettes, and big fat dewy violets, I like hats at a pretty penny, Dresses fabulous and many, Long sleek cars and silver foxes, Perfumes in exciting boxes; In January, I adore Strawberries, but I'll settle for A First Class Private, blithe and bold, and a wedding ring, 10k gold!

Mom didn't just clip and save that one. She slipped it into a letter and mailed it away to her own PFC Philip Cooke. That's her hand-written "Phil" in the corner. 

Tucked into a pocket-sized folder beside Mom's photo, that little poem was with my Dad at Sandringham when he met the Queen Mum and Princess Elizabeth. He carried it into battle in Italy and eventually, thankfully, brought it home to Toronto and a happy-ever-after where Mom finally got that wedding ring.

Every year when November rolled around, my Dad would pin a poppy to his jacket. He had a lot to remember.

So to you, Dad, and to all the men and women who've sacrificed to keep Canada strong and free – the peacekeepers, those who fought, and those who stayed behind – thank you. We will never forget.


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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington