While I listen and wait for the moment of silence, let me tell you about a Veteran in my life. My grandfather. My father's father. His name was Helmut, and he was a World War II Veteran. He served with the Canadian Armed Forces, and was stationed in the Netherlands. His duty was to maintain the safety of the Dutch people. He was 23 years old. I remember a photo that sat with quiet pride on the desk in my Grandparents living room all of my life. It featured two boys, my Grandfather and his twin brother, in their service uniforms. Their gazes were steady and strong. In my Grandfather's eyes, there was a twinkle of optimism and the excitement I believe he was feeling as he prepared to deploy. That may seem like a strange word to use - excitement - but I believe for many young men at that time there was such a thrill of doing something *so* meaningful, leaving the family farm on the Canadian Prairie to set forth and be a force of change in this World. There is no shame in that.
Something I didn't learn about my Grandfather until after his death... oh, how tragically common this is - to only begin to know someone you love after they are gone... My Grandfather had a true traveler's soul. I knew that he and my Grandmother had purchased a camper van just a year before his death (he died of prostrate cancer when he was only 69). Being in my teens, I didn't think much about it - two old poots want to putter around the Prairie provinces in a camper? Good for them. What I see now is how much this meant to him - how hard he'd worked all of his life, and what it meant to him to have the open road before him. I learned later that my Grandmother wasn't all that keen on the van or the idea of puttering around in it ANYWHERE. It was my Grandfather's dream - - to travel, to see his Country. I'm so sorry that he didn't get a chance to do that.
Before my husband and I moved across Canada for him to attend Grad School, we visited my Grandmother at her home on a lovely summer day with one of those infamous Alberta blue skies overhead. She was sad that we were moving; Canada is a BIG Country, and - as I alluded to above - she's not much one for travel. She knew it might be a while before she saw us again. I remember her nervous energy, and I remember that she wanted to share with us things that were important. She brought out a stack of old, dusty photo albums. Most were full of old shots of my brother and I growing up, family birthday celebrations (with those - sorry, Grandma - horrid angel food cakes with bland whipped icing), and the like. Many photos of family members in the process of blowing out candles on their cakes. Incidentally? This is NOT a good look on anyone. Do yourself and your loved ones a favour - - take the shot either before or after the blow out, not during. Sucker mouth is not cute.
But anyway...
One the albums was extra special, and it caught and held my husband's and my interest above all the rest. It was my Grandfather's photo album containing the pictures he'd taken when he was overseas in World War II. My Grandfather, as it turned out, not only had a passion for travel, he took *beautiful*, engaging photographs. I was stunned. It was then that I first had the powerful realization that I had missed knowing my Grandfather - really knowing him. The photos were all black and white, and in being so they were timeless. They told a story of what life was like for him in the Netherlands that last year of the War. There was no horror in these images, instead there were smiling faces of the Dutch people he and his fellow soldiers were there to protect. There were captivating street scenes. There was sunshine. There was his broad, happy grin.
The Canadian service men who were stationed in the Netherlands were each given a "foster family" to live with. They were really welcomed warmly into these families and into the communities, and only on that beautiful Summer day back in 1998 did I learn what a tremendous impact my Grandfather had on the family he was living with. My Grandmother, sensing our genuine interest, brought out a letter that she'd tucked away. It was a letter she'd only received the previous year; it was from a woman in her early 60's, a woman living in Sarnia, Ontario. It was addressed to Mr. Helmut Roth, and it was received years after his death. The letter, if you haven't guessed, was written by the youngest Dutch child in the home that my Grandfather had been fostered by in World War II. She had been only 5 or 6 at the time of the War, and now - more than 50 years later - wrote with great joy and hope that she had at LAST discovered the address for Helmut Roth, the Canadian soldier who she remembered with great fondness. The girl, now a Grandmother herself, wrote of how she had tried so long and so hard to find contact information for my Grandfather, and how she thinks often of him and the kindness he showed to all of them. She wrote of how she looked up to him as she would an older brother, and the precious memories that live on in her heart of their time together. Through her letter, I could imagine my Grandfather and this young girl, no more than 5, walking hand in hand through the streets on some errand for her mother. How adoringly she would have looked up at him, and how easy his smile down to her would have been. In her words, she painted this image. The young girl had grown up, and emigrated to Canada herself - in no small part because of the heroic service of Canadian servicemen during the war.
My Grandmother had had to write that most difficult letter back to the young girl, now grown, in Sarnia. She had to explain that, yes, they had reached the right Helmut Roth but, sadly, he had passed away several years earlier. My Grandmother also filled the letter with the story of my Grandfather's life after the War - - how he'd returned to Canada, met and married my Grandmother, had two sons who have since grown into strong, accomplished men. She wrote of my Father, and of the family that he grew to have. She told of my brother and I, and how we, too, had grown up and were venturing forth on our own life paths. It was a letter with sadness, but also with joy - my Grandfather had died.. much too soon... but he'd had a good life and had left a loving family behind.
There was a second letter. The little girl, now a Grandmother, had written back. She greeted my Grandmother with warmth and love, then described how she had dissolved in tears when she learned of my Grandfather's death, and that she'd missed being able to correspond with him. She wrote, though, of how happy she was to know of his family *and* to be able to tell the tale of what a wonderful man my Grandfather was, and the important role he'd had in her life so many years ago. These letters brought tears to us all - on each side of the Country - but they were also a tremendous gift. My Grandmother and she continue to write to each other at least once a year, with letters filled with updates on both families.
My Grandfather. I knew him only as a small child knows their Grandfather, and perhaps even a bit less than that. You see, I would never have guessed that my Grandfather had this passion for travel or photography. I wouldn't have guessed how much he and I had in common. I look to his picture now, and I see that in his eyes. I feel our connection strongly. One thing I do remember: my Grandfather was very fond of me. I remember even when he was, to put it bluntly, kind of a grumpy old man, his eyes lit up when he would see me. He kind of freaked me out a little bit, to be honest... I was a shy child, and that much attention wasn't comfortable for me. I feel a bit sad about that - - if he'd lived longer, I believe we would have grown very close.
I have his Spirit with me, this I do believe. When I am out photographing something-or-other, I sometimes will stop and think of my Grandfather. I think to myself "You would have gotten a kick out of this, wouldn't you?" and, crazy as it may sound, sometimes I feel like I have him with me. He had an eye... I have that eye, or so I am told. I am grateful.
Today, on Remembrance Day, I am given the reason to think of him more, but he is always with me. Who would have known that the grumpy old man with the wild, hairy eyebrows - - who would have known that he and I would have such a soul connection? AND does this mean my eyebrows are going to grow all crazy one day?
I love you, Grandpa. I am proud of you, and I wish we would have had the chance to get to know each other better. Through my eyes, may you see.
NO, you may not send this photo to awkwardfamilyphotos.com.. yes, I realize it's hilarious, but no, no, no!! It's a lovely memory of my Grandfather, dangit! Ok... it's hilarious... *sigh*. LOVE my hair, and would you check out that sweater??? Hot. My Mom's got that 80's perm-mullet going on, and my Dad is stylin' with his full beard. My poor brother was 16, a full four years older than me, and about 1/2" shorter. Don't worry, he grew. He's now 6'1 and far less pasty. Hey, give the kid a break. We don't get a lot of sun in Canada in the winter, y'all!
*****
I wanted to include below, just for any who may be interested, a short clip I took leading up to the 11th hour this morning. This is on Capital Hill in Ottawa, Ontario. It's our Nation's Remembrance Day ceremony. I think it's lovely.
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