I’m not sure when I first became aware of the significance of poppies for Remembrance Day as our family was conflicted about war.
The poppy which is the popular symbol showing respect for all those who fought in our wars is widely worn in Canada and the UK beginning in November and especially on the 11th, Remembrance Day. All commonwealth countries and some in the US although they more often mark Memorial Day in May.
My father, as a strict Quaker was a conscientious objector, and a farmer exempted from the services. The men in my mother’s family had always enlisted during war times and her younger brother, my Uncle Harry, was in Italy fighting in the army.
Every November when we wear poppies as a mark of respect to honour our veterans, my thoughts turn to Uncle Harry. His 8 X 10 black and white photo in a silver frame stood in the place of honour on the sideboard for all to see. Proudly standing in his uniform, this eighteen-year-old was tall, dark and handsome. Many stories were told about his war exploits and although I had not yet met him, to three-year-old me, he was a hero, a family favourite.
As families anxiously awaited their loved ones return when the war ended, some were luckier than others. I well remember the night he was due to arrive home in the fall of 1945. I was so excited and even allowed to stay up past my bedtime. Sitting by our coal fire in my pyjamas, hair washed and brushed, eagerly waiting to meet my hero. It grew later and later and still no Harry. Eventually I was told to go to bed, but not until I’d made my parents promise they would wake me when he came.
I was wakened by Harry kneeling beside my bed quietly whispering “Jill, I’m home.” As he gave me a big hug and lifted me up into his arms. Here was my dear uncle come to life. It was a very special moment.
At 22 he had never held a civil job, having gone into the army when he was a naïve 18-year-old. My father owned a small engineering company, making playground climbing equipment and “pick-up reels.” As soon as soldiers began returning, he offered them jobs, one of which he extended to Harry who became the general works manager, a position he held for many years.
Harry would often take me with him on trips in the company lorry to collect steel tubing, visit scrap yards and drop off equipment. I loved going with him, he was caring, had a wonderful sense of fun and always ensured I had a good time.
Throughout his life I felt closer to him than my father. I could tell him anything and he even acted as the midwife during the birth of my second daughter Helen, (a story for another day perhaps). This began a strong bond with Harry which lasted a lifetime for both Helen and me.
Once I started school, living in the country it was a two-mile walk into town, to be eligible for a ride on the school bus you had to be three miles away. But the countryside was beautiful in spring and early summers, the roadside ditches were filled with wild poppies and Harry taught me how to make poppy dolls. My friends and I spent happy hours making them.
For my 21st birthday after Harry had asked me what I wanted, I said a letter as I had never had a letter from him. On my birthday I received a huge 21-foot roll of 10-inch-wide wallpaper with all the reasons he had never sent me the letter which he claimed to have been writing for the past 21 years.
It was filled with stories of his army days, things my mother had written to him about my birth and my first few years. It was among my most precious possessions, that much to my regret, were lost during our move to Canada, but the feeling of being very loved and cared for by him was never lost.
So as today we honour all those who fought for our freedom in both Worlds Wars and others, I will recall the precious memories of my Uncle Harry, and the roadside poppies. The poppy I wear today to honour our veterans, will bring back precious memories.
