Remembrance Day

It’s Remembrance Day. I’ve watched the ceremonies and observed my minute of silence, offering prayers of gratitude for past sacrifices and prayers of protection for my son’s best friend currently serving in the Canadian Navy. While I sat, remembering, I pulled from my bookshelf a volume of family letters that have been painstakingly translated from German by my father and his siblings. It is a collection of letters and diary entries from relatives in Germany and Canada dating from 1881 to the late 1970’s. They are really quite amazing to read and such a treasure.

A good portion of the letters were written just after the end of World War II. They tell of difficult times, sending care packages of lard, coffee, and needles and thread home to Germany. There is little talk of politics and much talk of the day to day activities of the family. The challenges of farming, the running of the house, the endless work to produce food for the winter…my granny said she knew how a squirrel felt getting ready for winter. She talked of canning vegetables, wild fruit and meat. I know how much work it is to can now and my granny was doing it over a wood fired stove, no electricity. She was proud of the fact that for her married life, they never bought store-made jam (except once at Christmas when she bought a jar of strawberry jam as a treat for my dad). She wrote of Monday Wash Days, that took hours to wash the clothes in the wringer washer (an improvement over whatever she washed clothes in previously), hanging to dry, ironing with a gas-powered iron, and mending because clothes needed to last as long as possible.

There are stories of spring floods, house fires, and farming accidents. There are stories of misbehaving toddlers, unfortunate haircuts, and comments on the price of grain. There is an underlying current of struggle, but always, there is hope. There is pride over the children’s accomplishments in school, Christmas celebrations, and always joy over a newly received letter from family.

It was a simple life. It was a physically demanding life. It was rich with experience and struggle and triumph. It was recounted with far more gratitude and thanksgiving than complaint.

Why is it do you suppose that despite the obvious challenges they faced, that my grandparents and great-grandparents faced every trial with determination, always mindful of their blessings?

Why have we become so spoiled and entitled that we can get caught up in something as trivial and meaningless as a controversy over the colour of a paper takeout coffee cup?

Maybe the horror of war (both World Wars) was so fresh in their memories that they truly felt grateful to be alive to face a challenge, and to complain was a betrayal of those who died.

Today we try to remember the enormity of events that happened before we even lived. We try to appreciate the sacrifices made to ensure our freedom. We need to keep trying to remember. God forbid we ever forget.