More
      Than
      Synthetic
      Poppies
      and
      a
      Day
      Off
     
    
   
   
    
     
      By
      Jonathan
      SMITH
     
    
   
   
    
     
      This
      year
      on
      November
      11,
     
     
      just
      as
      in
      years
      past,
      people
      will
      have
     
     
      gathered
      at
      their
      local
      cenotaphs
      to
     
     
      commemorate
      and
      remember
      all
      those
     
     
      who
      gave
      their
      lives
      fighting
      the
      dev-
     
     
      astating
      wars
      that
      ravaged
      the
      world
     
     
      over
      the
      last
      century.
      Unfortunately,
     
     
      each
      year
      there
      are
      fewer
      and
      fewer
      of
     
     
      those
      whose
      memories
      are
      personal
     
     
      and
      first-hand.
      With
      each
      passing
      gen-
     
     
      eration,
      it
      would
      seem
      that
     
     
      Remembrance
      Day
      has
      taken
      on
      a
     
     
      more
      ritualistic
      meaning
      and
      has
      lost
     
     
      some
      of
      its
      original
      emotional
      content.
     
     
      Television
      and
      other
      media
      sources
     
     
      remind
      us
      to
      "remember
      those
      who
     
     
      made
      the
      ultimate
      sacrifice"
      and
      "wear
     
     
      a
      poppy".
      To
      some,
      it
      has
      become
     
     
      merely
      another
      day
      off
      from
      school
     
     
      and
      work.
      Has
      it
      really
      gotten
      to
      the
     
     
      point
      where
      we
      as
      a
      society
      have
      to
      be
     
     
      reminded
      of
      why
      we
      celebrate
      the
      11?
     
    

    
     
      To
      truly
      understand
      the
      mean-
     
     
      ing
      of
      Remembrance
      Day,
      perhaps
      we
     
    
   
   
    
     
      need
      to
      associate
      it
      with
      our
      own
      lives.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      We
      know
      that
      "thousands
      died",
      but
     
     
      that
      has
      little
      meaning
      to
      us
      these
      days
     
     
      beyond
      a
      statistic,
      albeit
      a
      horrifying
     
     
      one.
      We've
      all
      heard
      the
      same
      lectures
     
     
      while
      growing
      up.
      That
      we
      should
      be
     
     
      thankful
      for
      our
      freedom,
      that
      we
      live
     
     
      our
      lives
      the
      way
      we
      do
      because
      of
     
     
      their
      sacrifices,
      but
      we
      as
      a
      society
     
     
      rarely
      seem
      to
      stop
      and
      actually
      think
     
     
      about
      it.
      Perhaps
      what
      we
      need
      is
      to
     
     
      put
      a
      face,
      or
      at
      least
      a
      name
      and
      a
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      “
      [6]
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Flander’s
      Field
      taken
      on
      a
      stereograph,
      showing
     
     
      Scottish
      soldiers
      wearing
      kilts
     
    
   
   
    
     
      background,
      to
      some
      of
      the
      statistics.
     
     
      Arthur
      Haliburton
      King
      was
     
     
      born
      on
      June
      28,
      1924,
      and
      had
      he
     
     
      lived
      long
      enough
      he
      would
      have
      been
     
     
      my
      great-uncle
      on
      my
      mother's
      side
      of
     
     
      the
      family.
      Known
      as
      "Sunny"
      by
      fam-
     
     
      ily
      and
      friends,
      he
      was
      the
      youngest
     
     
      child
      and
      only
      son
      of
      my
      great-grand-
     
     
      parents.
      An
      army
      cadet
      sergeant
      grow-
     
     
      ing
      up,
      he
      had
      a
      passion
      for
      the
      sea.
      In
     
     
      1941
      he
      left
      school,
      and
      at
      the
      age
      of
     
     
      17
      became
      a
      merchant
      mariner
      on
      the
     
     
      SS
      Cathcart.
      In
      1942,
      he
      was
      called
     
     
      into
      active
      duty
      and
      was
      posted
     
     
      onboard
      the
      HMCS
      Ottawa,
      which
     
     
      served
      as
      an
      escort
      for
      convoys
     
     
      between
      Canada
      and
      Britain.
      Arthur
     
     
      wrote
      his
      last
      letter
      to
      his
      mother
      in
     
     
      August
      1942,
      informing
      her
      that
      due
      to
     
    
   
   
    
     
      circumstances
      letters
      would
      be
      few
      and
     
     
      far
      between,
      but
      assuring
      her
      that
      he
     
     
      would
      be
      fine
      and
      hoped
      to
      be
      home
     
     
      before
      Christmas.
      Aside
      from
      a
      final
     
     
      telegram
      from
      Britain,
      that
      was
      the
      last
      ©
     
     
      his
      mother
      would
      hear
      from
      him.
      The
     
     
      HMCS
      Ottawa
      was
      torpedoed
      and
     
     
      sunk
      on
      the
      night
      of
      September
      13-14,
     
     
      1942,
      hundreds
      of
      miles
      of
      the
      coast
      of
     
     
      Newfoundland.
      There
      were
      many
      casu-
     
     
      alties,
      including
      the
      captain,
      three
      offi-
     
     
      cers,
      over
      one
      hundred
      naval
      ratings,
     
     
      and
      Ordinary
      Seaman
      Arthur
     
     
      Haliburton
      King.
      He
      was
      just
      18
      years
     
     
      old.
     
    

    
     
      Now
      I
      look
      at
      my
      own
      life.
      At
     
     
      18,
      I'm
      a
      student
      at
      the
      University
      of
     
     
      Prince
      Edward
      Island.
      If
      things
      work
     
     
      out,
      I‘ll
      have
      a
      future
      that
      will
      suit
      me.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      ‘gage
      es
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Life
      is
      just
      starting
      to
      open
      up
      its
     
     
      doors,
      and
      I
      have
      a
      chance
      to
      choose
     
     
      which
      one
      I
      will
      go
      through.
      Arthur
     
     
      King
      never
      had
      that
      chance.
      His
      life
     
     
      was
      just
      beginning
      too,
      but
      he
      was
     
     
      robbed
      of
      it
      by
      circumstances
      well
     
     
      beyond
      his
      control.
      He
      never
      had
      the
     
     
      chance
      to
      make
      something
      great
      and
     
     
      memorable
      of
      himself.
      Now,
      as
      time
     
     
      passes
      and
      history
      moves
      forward,
      he
     
     
      is
      but
      a
      branch
      on
      my
      family
      tree
      that
     
     
      regrettably
      extends
      no
      further
      than
     
     
      himself.
      How
      dare
      I
      ever
      complain
     
     
      about
      the
      hand
      that
      life
      has
      dealt
      me,
     
     
      compared
      to
      the
      hand
      it
      dealt
      him?
     
    

    
     
      It
      is
      for
      Arthur
      King,
      and
      oth-
      —
     
     
      ers
      like
      him,
      that
      I
      celebrate
     
     
      Remembrance
      Day.
      They
      are
      the
      rea-
     
     
      son
      that
      I
      wear
      the
      synthetic
      poppy
     
     
      available
      at
      any
      number
      of
      local
      busi-
     
     
      nesses
      that,
      on
      the
      eleventh,
      can
      almost
     
     
      seem
      as
      real
      as
      the
      actual
      flower
      that
     
     
      blooms
      on
      the
      graves
      of
      the
      soldiers
     
     
      who
      lie
      in
      the
      ground
      below.
      Yes,
      this
     
     
      is
      another
      one
      of
      those
      be-happy-for-
     
     
      what-you-do-have
      essays,
      but
      what's
     
     
      wrong
      with
      that?
      What
      would
      be
     
     
      wrong
      would
      be
      to
      allow
     
     
      Remembrance
      Day
      to
      become
      simply
     
     
      another
      day
      on
      the
      calender,
      another
     
     
      day
      that
      we
      don't
      have
      to
      go
      to
      class.
     
     
      Fortunately,
      I
      don't
      think
      this
      has
      hap-
     
     
      pened
      yet,
      and
      regardless
      of
      how
      you
     
     
      celebrate
      it,
      we
      should
      strive
      to
      make
     
     
      sure
      that
      it
      doesn't
      become
      "just
      anoth-
     
     
      er
      day
      off".
     
    
   
   
    
     
        
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Rt
      eh
      ene
      eH