Lest

The gale turned the harbour white and tore at flags. Hats flew in the biting, icy blast. Yet steady, level and commanding the mighty military aircraft dropped from the southern sky, seemed to skim the waves then thundered resolutely straight up King Street and through the hearts gathered below.

In a town with just 2,263 souls, a thousand or so turned to watch the great gray bird shudder past then bank elegantly west into a cloudless sky. The continuum was complete. Old warriors, child sea cadets, citizens, infants, firefighters, cops, paramedics, politicians and dogs all gathered to remember the dead heroes of a war a century gone, reminded of eternal conflict. Those who serve are revered here. The stone monument to Vimy, Ypres and Passchendaele is laden with names of fishermen’s sons who never returned.

The crowd was deep. The parade long. One by one almost a hundred wreaths were laid, marking the lives of individual soldiers, kin, and the gratitude of everyone, from micro business owners who lined up at the foot of the statue to the entire Government of Canada, represented by a garland, but not a person.

The bitter wind whisked away the words of two hymns, but stilled for the national anthem. In these parts everyone knows the words. “In thy sons’ command.” And then, The Queen. Emotional and raw, this could have been a November morning in 1919 just as easily as it was a few hours ago. On the cuffs and shirttails of Canada, where the wars remain as embedded in generations as the shrapnel in many Halifax doors, remembering is daily. Of the 59,000 Canadians who fell in the Great War and another 45,000 who perished in the second, the greatest proportion came from little specs like this one. Nobody has yet forgotten. The hole remains.

‘You may place your poppies now,’ the Legion chaplin said. ‘The children first.’ And the eternal stone warrior was solitary no more as the crowd pressed forward, surrounding him, gently handing off their small scarlet gifts.

Another parade, RCMP cruiser at the head, questionable band in the middle, poor marchers at the tail. All lustily applauded. Lest we forget.