On the eve of Canadian Remembrance Day I read the above poem by Emily Dickinson.

My first thought is of transplanting a rose from the ground to a pot in late spring (should not be done) and somehow thanks to my aggressive spade work not much of the plant’s root is left and it quickly dies.

On a second reading I have especially interpreted the first two lines.

In my family as far as I can look back nobody fought or died in a war. I had an uncle who was not my real uncle. His name was Leo Mahjubian. He was an Armenian adopted (not legally) into the family by my grandmother Ellen Carter. He fought in the famous Black Watch (did he ever wear a kilt? I was too dumb to ever ask him).

With my father and on my own until recently I have seen every war movie around. I knew I had to read Pierre Berton’s Vimy. I did. When I photographed Raymond Burr (twice) I asked his boyfriend about a tie that he (not Burr) was wearing. It was about the HMCS Sackville which was the last (in existence) Canadian corvette from WWII. These very small ships mostly manned by Canadians from the prairies had a tighter turning circle than the German submarines that were sinking allied shipping in the Atlantic. These heroic sailors (probably seasick most of the time) made the delivery of materiel to Europe possible. Burr was involved in the saving of that last corvette. It was.

But since I live most of my early life in Argentina I had no real contact with people who had actually fought in any of the two world wars. I was limited to history books and hearsay.

In my two year stint in the Argentine Navy in the mid 60s I worked as an assistant and translator to the Senior US Naval Advisor. There was a Marine Corps pilot colonel who often came to visit who had the shakes. He explained to me that it was the result of having flown in the Korean war.

I see proud old men selling artificial poppies on the street on the week leading to Remembrance Day. I have heard on the radio or seen on TV the ceremonies held at the Cenotaph on Hastings and Cambie. I have heard the mournful bugle and witnessed once (in person) the ceremony under a gray rainy sky. The optics and the visuals are melancholic and I might shed a tear.

But it is not in my heart. In Argentina we were far from that war. The government favoured the Axis but I was too young to know all that.

I may have been 6 (1948) when I remember my mother combing my hair and telling me, “With that hair you look like Hitler.” I asked who Hitler was. I don’t remember her answer.

WWI was definitely a bloody war but the majority of those living do not remember why it was fought and the presence of Hitler was only as a nondescript corporal who was an average watercolourist. This is the war that was celebrated in great poetry and by great novels.

WWII was a lot more messy. This one we remember and we can discuss. We have seen the movies - D Day, Leyte Gulf, Hiroshima, etc.

This is why I will try to have a quiet and silent day today (I am writing this yesterday) but like Emily Dickinson writes, I perhaps have no root to lose.


 More Emily Dickinson: 
November