It's a tough life, but someone's got to love a sommelier

I like wine. A lot. (Hiccup)

So you would think that I consider myself one lucky lady to be married to a trained sommelier. I never have to worry about what wine to serve with what I am cooking, because Hubby takes care of that. I rarely run out of wine because we have a cellar. And I go on all of these great vacations to wine destinations, like Bordeaux. What the heck is not to love!

But I gotta tell you... It's not always easy to be married to a sommelier. For instance, I can't enjoy a glass of wine without first being forced to stick my nose deep into the glass to determine its "nose". And I get in trouble when my answer is "grapes". "Come on Jay," Hubby will say with some measure of exasperation. "You must get [insert green peppers or caramel or tobacco or jam or any other appropriate wine smell here]. It's so obvious!" And heaven forbid I have a Malbec when I'm not eating barbecue meat, even if I really just feel like a Malbec. "It doesn't go with white fish, Jay. You can't have a Malbec with that. Here. Try [insert name of wine that goes well with white fish here] instead." Oh, and that wine cellar we have? I'm not allowed to take a bottle from it without first consulting the house sommelier. Seriously. I'm a grown woman, and. I. am. not. allowed. to. choose. wine. from. the. cellar. on. my. own. But don't worry. I am allowed to touch the "every day" upstairs supply whenever I want. "Every day" being code for "the stuff that the dumb girl who doesn't understand wine can have."

Perhaps the most difficult thing about being married to a sommelier is that Hubby is a member of a wine guild (sounds positively Middle Ages, wouldn't you say). I end up going to an awful lot of wine events, where I am surrounded by a whole lot of people who know a whole lot more than me. With their sophisticated palettes and their love of debating one another about the merits of a super Tuscan over a Côte de Rhone, I haven't got a chance of being the life of the party, a role I hold dear. Because you see, when you are not a wine connoisseur, going to a wine guild event is kind of like being an antelope stumbling right into the lion's den. Chances are pretty good that you will be the centre of attention, but for all the wrong reasons. You're likely to get eaten alive. Especially if the most insightful thing you can say about the glass of wine you are sipping is that it tastes like grapes.

Yes, as much as I love wine, wine events make me feel positively insignificant. And oh so very out of place.

But I am a supportive wife. So the same way that Hubby humours my blue collar passions like Springsteen and football, I cater to his love of trying to be the smartest wine professional in the room by going to guild events with him.

Some of them are really quite fun. Like the "speed dating" event where we worked our way around a room full of wineries, 8 minutes per winery table, sampling their award winning wines. Pretty effective way to get a Tuesday night buzz on in less than an hour, if you ask me.

And then there was the reception at the Argentinian embassy, where not only did I get to taste about 25 of my favourite varietal (Malbec), but I also met a talented Argentinian artist and purchased some of his beautiful art, which, one of these days, I will actually hang on a wall...

But by far, the best guild event is the yearly holiday dinner, refreshingly held after Christmas instead of before, and hosted by one of Ottawa's premier chefs. It is a five course food and wine pairing that makes foodies, sommeliers, and even regular folk like me, weep. And this year's dinner was just last night.

The first year that we went, I was seriously intimidated at the thought of being seated at a table full of wine experts and being forced into conversations about wine with them. So I adopted a strategy. Trophy wife. I was going to play the part of a trophy wife. Surely that would earn me some attention. Hubby could regale our table mates with stories about wine and I would charm the pants off of them by being the best dressed person and by making people laugh. So I went out and dropped an absurdly high amount of money on a sparkly holiday outfit, complete with new shoes and jewelry. Surely my lack of wine knowledge would go unnoticed!

It did go unnoticed. But not because of anything I did to divert attention away from my ignorance. But because wine lovers are really, really, really focused on their wine. And they don't really concern themselves with the fact that you can't contribute to the conversation, because they are happy to fill the void with the sound of their own wine-soaked voices. So I spent most of the meal in silence, a remarkably different scenario than most dinners I attend where I can't be shut up.

Still, dressing up is not something that a football-loving Springsteen fan gets to do very often. It's nice to get all dolled up for a fancy event once a year, even if it doesn't result in me being the centre of attention. So we keep going back. If for no other reason than I like to wear pretty dresses!

2013 dinner

2014 dinner - I don't know why I am squinting so much... This picture was taken before we started drinking all the wine...

And of course, there is the food. It is incredible. Where else would I ever try veal tongue pastrami. Yes, you read that right. And yes, it was delicious. This isn't a food blog, so I didn't take pictures of all of the courses so that I could describe them back to you in vivid detail. Just believe me when I say that no calorie was left behind last night. Even if I have to be in a bathing suit on the beaches of Jamaica in a mere ten-days time.

And you know what? Over the years, these events have actually become a little less intimidating. Partly because some of Hubby's knowledge is starting to rub off on me (but don't you dare tell him I said that). But mostly because those who know and love wine are simply very passionate people who love nothing more than to share their passion with you. They're not showing off. They're sharing their knowledge in the hopes that you will be as excited as they are and that you will find beauty in the sediment left behind in your wine glass just as they do. And when you finally accept that you don't have to be the centre of attention at each and every event that you attend, you can sit back, relax, meet some pretty fantastic people, laugh a little, and see a whole new and wonderful world unfold in front of you.

Oh yeah. And you can drink some damn good wine. Wine that tastes and smells like grapes. Damn good grapes.

Resolutions? They're not really my style...

Last weekend, my normally two-thirds-empty hip-opening-flow torture yoga class was packed. I couldn't salute the sun without hitting at least three people.

Hubby came home from the gym last Sunday morning, a generally quiet time, commenting on all the duos of brand new training buddies helping each other muddle through a workout using one strange machine after another.

Earlier this week, one of my colleagues left the office kitchen carrying a big ole' plate of lettuce for her lunch. With no dressing. And washing all those leaves down with water.

Yep. It's January. The month of self-improvement and resolutions. From spending less money to drinking less coffee to losing 5 pounds once and for all this year to vowing not to lose patience with the kids/husband/colleagues, everyone is making a resolution to be a better person.

I hate this time of year.

Okay. That might be a bit of an overstatement. I don't actually hate New Year's. The day itself is always quite lovely. One of my favourite traditions is hosting our annual Levée (a fancy word for open house), when all of our friends and neighbours stop by for some hair-of-the-dog and some made-with-love-by-me appies.

There is always too much food...

And cure your NYE hangover with another drink... or two...

And I don't actually hate being surrounded by all new people in my gym and in my yoga studio. Even though I almost got kicked in the head three times during last Saturday's yoga class. And even though I can't find an empty locker in the overly full gym change room. It's a great thing that people are joining gyms and yoga studios and getting more active. And besides, by February, most of them will be gone and I'll have room for full sun salutations again.

And I don't actually hate vegetables or eating healthy. See? This is an example of last week's lunch. Broccoli, celery, and even spinach hiding in my sandwich. Disgustingly healthy, isn't it?

No, it's not the day itself or the idea of new beginnings or the idea of being more healthy that I hate. It's the arbitrariness of January 1st as the day to decide to change your life. As though April 12th or July 27th or October 3rd weren't perfectly good days to decide to do something to improve yourself.

And so, I don't really make any big, meaningful resolutions at this time of year. 

It's not that I don't believe that I could be a better person. God knows that there are a million things that I could stand to improve about myself. For instance, I could stop nagging Hubby. I could stop eating so fast that I forget to breathe during ingestion. I could cut back on my wine consumption, even if Hubby is a sommelier. I could stop eating as much sugar as I do, even though I exercise regularly. I could be better with my money, and pause to consider whether I really need a 14th winter jacket before I drop a couple hundred bucks. I could clean my house more than once every couple of months (or at least hire someone to do it for me). I could stop procrastinating and use my time more wisely. I could be more patient, especially with my father-in-law. I could volunteer more. I could try to focus more on the positives in my day rather than the negatives. I could stop complaining. I could find ways to better manage my stress. I could...

...well, you catch my drift.

But ultimately, I won't resolve to do any of these things. At least not right now. Because, well, I don't like to fail. And of all the New Year's Resolutions that I have ever made - whether it be to stop smoking (something I eventually did in June, by the way) or to lose 5 pounds or to stop drinking wine on week nights or to be kinder to people - I've not succeeded in sticking them out much past January 23rd or so... And it feels awful when I cave. And I don't like feeling awful.

So instead, I like to focus this time of year on the things that I am looking forward to in 2014. Like:
- our family trip to Jamaica at the end of the month;
- our trip to Croatia later this fall;
- a new Springsteen tour likely to be announced any week now;
- my fifth wedding anniversary, which we plan to spend at the same winery where we spent our honeymoon;
- some key renovations we want to do to our house;
- more runs through the Arboretum with Fergus;
- more laughs with friends and family; and
- more yoga and gym-going and healthy-eating to continue to keep me strong and healthy and fit, even though I don't sleep nearly enough, carry far too much stress, and binge on too much sugar every now and then.

As for when I'll decide to stop nagging Hubby... Well, I guess that depends when he resolves to stop driving me crazy.

Were you paying attention in 2013?

About a month ago, I found myself trying to write a holiday letter to send out with our Christmas cards. I gave up and wrote a quiz instead, which I thought might be more fun and quirky than the overly formulaic "2013 was quite the year..." type letter.

For the past hour, I've been trying to write a blog post about 2013 in review. An exercise about as formulaic as writing a holiday letter. So I'm giving up and sharing the quiz with you instead. Also, I'm too lazy to be creative because it is Friday night and there is wine to drink.

At any rate, play along and let's see if you were paying attention in 2013!!!

************

A Holiday Quiz

How well do you know Jay, Hubby and Fergus? Take their holiday quiz and find out! If you creep them on social media, this should be pretty easy! Answers below!

1.     In Spring 2013, Hubby and Jay embarked on another European adventure. Which of these cities was not featured on their tour?

a.     Vienna,Austria

b.     London,England

c.     Bratislava,Slovakia

d.     Prague, Czech Republic

e.     Munich,Germany

2.     Why did they go to Europe in the first place?

a.     To see Springsteen in concert

b.     Jay had never been to Vienna

c.     Planning for their retirement

d.     To see if there is good wine in Austria

3.     Which musical acts did Hubby and Jay see in concert in 2013?

a.     Pearl Jam

b.     Bruce Springsteen

c.     Imagine Dragons, Mumford and Sons, the Lumineers and the Cure

d.     Patti Smyth and the Avett Brothers

e.     All of the above

4.     In 2013, Fergus took his love of herding to new heights when he chased which big game animal?

a.     Black bear

b.     Our neighbour’s 16-year old

c.     An elk

d.     A deer

5.     Our first road trip in our new car was to see Pearl Jam in…?

a.     Boston

b.     Buffalo

c.     Philadelphia

d.     Brooklyn

6.     Jay and Hubby travelled to which cold prairie city for the Grey Cup this year?

a.     Winnipeg, Manitoba

b.     Calgary, Alberta

c.     Edmonton, Alberta

d.     Regina, Saskatchewan

7.     Who played and who won?

8.     Jay started a new job this year with which department?

a.     Canada Revenue Agency

b.     Parks Canada

c.     Canadian Heritage

d.     Public Health Agency of Canada

9.     Hubby won the lead role in a play at the Ottawa Little Theatre. What was the name of the play?

a.     Lost in Paradise

b.     Still Lost in Paradise

c.     Just Another Day in Paradise

d.     Paradise City

10.  For most of 2013, we welcomed a long-term visitor into our home. Who is she/he?

a.     Sadie the cat

b.     Fritz the cat

c.     Bella the husky

d.     Hobbes the French bulldog

Answers: 1(d); 2(a); 3(e); 4(a); 5(c); 6(d); 7(Saskatchewan beat Hamilton); 8(d); 9(b); 10(a)

Happy (belated) holidays!!!

Cold snap

When I woke up this morning, it was -22C, -29C with the windchill.  

People think I'm nuts because I love this weather. I'm outside all the time in it. I walk to and from work in it. I walk the dog in it. I even run in it. 

"Why on earth would you want to go out in that cold?!?" they say.

This is my answer:

These photos were snapped this morning at sunrise, while Fergus and I were wandering around the Arboretum at 7:00 am. There was no one else around. We had the place entirely to ourselves. All we could hear was the hard snow crunching under our feet (well, my feet and his paws...). Neither of us were bothered by the cold. I was bundled up in layers of merino wool and my Canada Goose parka, and Fergus has puffed out nicely in his winter coat (which means less dog hair all over my floor!)

It was fantastic.

I wish every morning could be this spectacular. 

Get out there and enjoy winter, folks!

Mourning a hero

I once stood in the presence of Nelson Mandela.

It was 1998. Mr. Mandela was President of South Africa. He was on a state visit to Canada. He was invited to address the House of Commons. And I was a page in the Senate. 

There are few things glorious about fetching water and papers for members of the Senate. Save this one thing. Parliamentary pages are members of the honour guard of a visiting foreign dignitary.  

I will never forget that moment. Not for as long as I live. There we were. A group of 20 or so House of Commons and Senate pages, gathered in the basement of Centre Block. The Clerks of the respective Houses of Parliament were giving us our instructions. In a few minutes, we were to head upstairs to the foyer. We were to form two lines, through which then-Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Jean Chrétien, and his guest of honour were to walk on their way to the House of Commons. We were to make no noise. No applause, no talk. We were just to stand there like statues and respectfully watch as the greatest man of our time walked by. 

As we waited, we watched the news coverage of his visit. He had spent the morning meeting with Aboriginal leaders. Fitting given the parallels between Canada's reserve system and South Africa's apartheid regime. Cameras rolled as the Prime Minister's car pulled up to the front door of Centre block. We watched as Mandela emerged from the car. That image is forever etched into my mind. Mr. Mandela was wearing a Métis sash, given to him earlier that day by a Métis elder. I was so very struck by this, my own family history being intricately connected with the birth of the Métis Nation in Canada. Somehow, in that moment, I felt connected to this great man. 

On cue, this gaggle of pages of which I was a part made its way to the foyer to form Mandela's honour guard. As we stood there waiting, we were all so nervous. The solemnity and the importance of the occasion was not lost on any one of us. We had all been born into a world in the grip of apartheid. We had all grown up flipping through the pages of our parents' Time Magazine, which, during the late 80s, featured a story every few weeks about the tumultuous South Africa. We had all struggled to understand how it came to be that Nelson Mandela could be thrown in jail, simply because he believed that his people should be treated equally. We all understood the triumph that was finally his when apartheid died. 

And then, after standing around for what seemed like an eternity but what was probably really only five minutes, we heard footsteps coming down the hall. We heard voices murmuring in excitement. We saw the millions of flashes from the herd of reporters mulling about the foyer. 

And then we saw him. 

Nelson Mandela. 

The man who spent 27 years in prison for being black. 

The man who never stopped believing in his country's potential. 

The man who had an unending faith in humanity. 

The man with a heart so big and a spirit so indomitable that he forgave those who betrayed him, choosing instead to rebuild a nation rather than to let it be destroyed by hate. 

There, a mere few feet away, stood a hero. Still wearing a Métis sash. 

I am quite sure that I stopped breathing. Beyond all other sounds, I could hear my heart pounding violently. 

The Prime Minister, barely noticing that we were there, tried to lead his guest of honour quickly through the foyer. But Mr. Mandela paused. "Hello," he said, nodding in our direction. None of us said a word, having been warned that we were merely to melt into the background. "You are a quiet bunch," he said, his lips curling upward into a smile. 

And then, he stepped away from the Prime Minister and came towards his honour guard. His hands extended in friendship. "Thank you for your hospitality," he said, before turning back to his host. 

As the Prime Minister led him away, our eyes met. He had the warmest and wisest eyes that I had ever seen. He nodded at me. I fought an urge to reach out my hand to touch him. Instead, I mouthed "Thank you" as I shed a silent tear. 

And just like that, as suddenly as he came around one corner, he disappeared around another, whisked into the House of Commons to deliver what must have been an inspiring address. Although I can not say for sure. I honestly don't remember what he said. I only remember the overwhelming sense of awe that came from being only a few feet away from true - and humble - greatness.  

Today, the awe is replaced with an even more overwhelming sense of sadness that this bright light has been taken from the world. This world where there are so many trivialities. This world that, amidst stories about crack-smoking mayors and over-spending Senators, can seem utterly void of inspiration, direction, and hope. 

How will this world go on without him?

I do not know. 

But I do know this. Our lives - my life - is better because he walked this earth.

Rest in peace, Nelson Mandela. You have suffered long enough. It's our turn to demand change. 

Quirky Canadiana at its finest - 101st Grey Cup in Regina

Last Friday, Hubby and I were relaxing at the Ottawa airport bar, having a beer and waiting for our flight to Regina, connecting through Toronto. Flying in winter can be dicey in Canada, but the weather looked good in all three cities, and I had checked the status of the flights before we got to the airport. No delays were reported, and all looked to be clear sailing.

And then, midway through my beer, I got an alert on my iPhone. AC465 to Pearson delayed. "Oh shit," I muttered. "What's wrong," said Hubby. "Our flight to Toronto is delayed, and we've got a really tight connection to make it to Regina." "Let's go see what this is all about," said Hubby.

And so off we went to the RapidAir desk. Where an Air Canada agent informed us that heavy winds in Toronto had closed down all but one runway - for inbound and outbound flights - at Pearson. "But don't worry," he said, "we still think you'll make the connection, and we're working on back-up plans just in case. We'll at least try to get you to Winnipeg tonight. And if you don't make it all the way through, we'll put you up in a hotel."

There was nothing to do but wait. So we waited. We waited while boarding was delayed by 30 minutes. We pulled away from the gate and then waited on the tarmac for another 30 minutes before leaving. We waited while we circled Pearson a few times because the one open runway wasn't ready for us to land yet. Finally, we landed. And it was 9:15 pm. One hour and twenty minutes later than intended. And five minutes after the flight to Regina was scheduled to depart.

As soon as we could turn on our cell phones, I checked to see if the flight to Regina was delayed. It was showing on time. "We missed it," I said. "Maybe they can get us to Winnipeg tonight and my sister can drive us to Regina tomorrow. It's only a 6 hour drive. I'm sure she won't mind."

Before Hubby could tell me what a stupid idea that was, one of the air flight attendants announced that the pilot of AC1119 to Regina was holding the plane. She kindly asked those not trying to make this connection to sit back and let those of us who were exit the plane first. This, of course, did not happen. But we made it off the plane quickly enough, and ran through the terminal to the right gate. There were about a dozen of us, all breathlessly handing our boarding passes and i.d. to the gate attendants.

We've all been on a plane stuck at the gate because it is waiting for the couple of stragglers. I admit it - I hate it when that happens. I usually mutter under my breath at the jerks responsible for making me sit in a plane a minute longer than I have to. So I was quite sure that we would face some fairly surly people when we boarded that plane. I put my head down - to avoid making eye contact - and shuffled onto the plane. But there was no grumbling. Only cheering. "Yay! You guys made it!" and "We were worried you wouldn't get to Regina in time!" and "Thank goodness the pilot held the plane for you!" Hubby and I got high-fives all the way down the row as we made our way to our seats at the back of the plane.

At any other time of the year, I would be willing to bet that the pilot would not have held the plane. That the passengers would not have so patiently and willingly waited for us, nor cheered us as we boarded. And that Air Canada would not have offered to put us up in a hotel were we not to make it to our destination. But at any other time of the year, the whole nation is not converging onto one city to celebrate that most Canadian and most quirky of events.

Yes, welcome to Canada in the days leading up to the Grey Cup.

Those of you with nothing better to do who follow this blog know that I am a regular Grey Cup pilgrim. Even when my team doesn't have a hope of making it there (it's okay, Winnipeg. I know we're rebuilding). And even when it takes me into the arctic chill of Regina in November. After all, that was my excuse for finally purchasing one of these bad boys:

I might have spent a small fortune on this Canada Goose parka...

The tight connection through Toronto was not my only challenge in getting to Grey Cup this year. First, there was booking a hotel. Hubby and I tried to book a hotel back in December of last year. But all these Grey Cup tour promoters bought up large blocks of rooms in advance so they could sell ridiculously overpriced ticket-and-room-packages. And with Regina being as small as it is, that meant buying up all the rooms in town. They even bought up all the rooms in hotels that were yet to be built! There was not a room to be had in all of Regina. Even neighbouring Moose Jaw, about 70k down the TransCanada highway, had no rooms available. For a while, it looked like Hubby and I were going to sleep in a snowbank outside of the stadium. Luckily, through a friend of a friend of a friend, we found the one Regina-ite who was leaving town for Grey Cup weekend, and we rented her townhouse. Which turned out to be much better than staying in a hotel anyway. Take that! - all you suckers who paid thousands of dollars to stay at the Super 8!

Then there was getting the tickets. Season ticket holders in the host city always get first dibs, followed by season ticket holders across the league, followed by the rest of the country. I hold season tickets with a good friend of mine in Montreal, and so I wasn't too worried about getting four tickets. But I didn't realize that we would be offered the worst seats in the whole place. I don't want to complain because at least we got tickets. But those who entered the lottery for the third wave of seats - you know, the guys who get to go after league season ticket holders and who weren't supposed to have any guarantees of even getting tickets - got great seats along the 40 yard-line. Ours, on the other hand, were in the corner of the end zone. In the temporary stands. Where there is absolutely no coverage from that cold, howling, prairie wind. Cra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-p-py! Here's the view:

Hard to see from way back here... At least that sky is spectacular!

It gets cold in those stands! Bundle up!

Okay, so the game-day view kind of sucked. But Grey Cup - even for the most hardened fan of the game like me - is about so much more than these four quarters.

It's about two great teams who battled hard all year to play in the big game. This year, the Saskatchewan Roughriders in the West, and the Hamilton Tiger-Cats in the East.

VS.

It's about their fans who come from across the country to see them play. In this case, Saskatchewan ex-pats returned to their home province in droves. And the infamous "Box J Boys", who've held season tickets in Box J of Ivor Wynn stadium in Hamilton since its construction, donned their kilts and descended on the prairies.

Photo courtesy of the Hamilton Spectator

It's about all the other devoted (and crazy) CFL fans who don their team colours with pride. Even when their team isn't playing. Even though their team had a horrible re-building season. Even when their team doesn't even exist yet (Hubby represented you well, soon-to-be Ottawa RedBlacks).

Representing our teams!

It's about spending time with old friends, and making new ones along the way. Both of which always seem to involve beer...

Finally meeting my fellow Twitter trash-talker. Of course, he has to be a Rider fan.

Taking a break from the cold outside to come into the Underground Tent and enjoy some music - and beer - with friends.

It's about meeting some rather interesting characters... Like this guy:

Green Simmons. I can't make this up...

...or this guy, who must have frozen his arse off in those temporary stands:

Cowboy Saskatchewan?

It's about RiderNation, the members of which are the craziest of the crazy CFL fans (you saw the picture of "Green" Simmons above, right). Especially this year - when the game was on their turf and you could not turn around without running into a wall of green or stumbling over a watermelon. They even got their storybook ending. Hosting only their third Grey Cup, and winning only their fourth, their team - which they so passionately love and support - gave them an early Christmas gift. RiderNation, I'm sure, has never been so pumped. And while it pains this Bomber fan to say it, Congratulations, RiderNation. I really am happy for you (and my fingers aren't even crossed behind my back... mostly because I wouldn't be able to type if they were).

The Green Mile - RiderNation takes over the streets of Regina after the game
Photo courtesy of the Regina Leader Post

Dwight Anderson hoisting the Grey Cup during a victory parade at the Saskatchewan Legislature
Photo courtesy of the Regina Leader Post

Even Fergus, who faithfully watches every Bomber game with me, became an honorary member of RiderNation this year. Of course, that's because he was brainwashed by the people who care for him while I'm away... But if sharing this picture doesn't show you how happy I am for you, Rider fans, I don't know what will!

Photo courtesy of Dogs at Camp Ottawa

Grey Cup really is that one week of the year when we all put aside our team rivalries and support one another in our mutual love of Canadian football. We take a time out from our regular lives to embrace our quirkiness. We meet each other again, or we see each other for the first time. We share a few laughs together. We drink beer together. And we do it all in a parka and a pair of sorels.

Is there anything more Canadian than that?

Probably not.

See you next year in Vancouver.

Lest we forget

When I was in the first grade, I memorized the poem In Flanders Fields by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae.

Courtesy of the Canadian War Museum

I don't specifically remember how I came to learn this poem by heart. I doubt that my teacher would assign a memorization assignment of this scale to a bunch of six year olds, although surely she read it to us. But I do remember the big blue book in which it was published, that I used to carry with me around the house. And day after day after day after day, I would read and re-read and re-read and re-read this one poem, until I knew it's every word without needing to glance at a page. And then I would recite it to my mother, to my father, to my sister, to my baby brother, and to anyone who would listen to me.

Where did this come from? I honestly don't know. There is no tradition of military service in my family. Grandpa was too young to have served in World War II, and Pepère was so arthritis-ridden that his service was refused. I have no siblings, no uncles, no aunts, no cousins who chose to join the forces. I myself never considered it. 

And yet, for whatever reason, this 15-line poem captured my young girl's imagination like nothing I had read before it. Perhaps it was because it left me with so many innocently child-like questions about why men and women kill each other. Whatever the reason, from the time that I was but a young girl, I have loved this poem. And Remembrance Day has long held a special place in my heart.

When I was 19 and attending university as a history student, I enrolled in a cooperative education program. My first placement was with the Canadian War Museum as an interpretive tour guide. My job was not only to give tours of the museum, but to do so in period garb to demonstrate the various wartime roles that Canadian women performed throughout our history. I was a colonial camp follower, a World War I nursing sister, a World War II Rosie-the-Riveter, and a member of the Canadian Women's Army Corps. And in these various states of dress, I would lead bus-loads of school-aged children and senior citizen tour groups through Canada's military history. It was a great way to spend my first summer away from home.

What made this job so special was not the fact that, for the first time in my life, my pay cheque was derived from something other than waiting tables for minimum wage. It was not that I was marrying my deep love of Canadian history with earning my keep. It was not even seeing the look of delight on children's faces when they turned the corner and saw the Spitfire. It was because of the many veterans who I had the honour to meet.

Like the Korean War veteran, who, in response to a young boy who asked him what all his medals were for, humbly replied, "Those, son, are for eating chocolate bars."

Like the best friends - both World War II veterans - who were at Dieppe together. One day, I caught them shedding silent tears as they followed me through the Dieppe memorial section of the museum while I gave a tour to a group of grade 7s. When they thanked me for my retelling of this tragic battle, I not-so-silently fought back tears of my own, overwhelmed with the ridiculousness of them thanking me.

Like the World War II veteran who, when he saw me dressed as a nursing sister, came in the following week with the veil that his wife, a real nursing sister, wore, asking me to wear it the next time I chose this particular costume.

Like the American naval veteran who, when he saw me dressed as a member of the Canadian Women's Army Corps, started singing to me "All nice girls love a sailor" and proceeded to regale me with stories about the pretty girls he dated when he was in the army.

Like the World War I veteran, one of only twenty-five remaining in Canada at the time, who told us stories of how, in the trenches of Vimy, he used to have to kill rats with his bayonet.

Like the former UN Peacekeeper, whose jeep had been overturned by a land mine in Bosnia, but who lived to see the unveiling of the new (at the time) Peacekeeper section of the museum.

Like the women who could not sign up for combat roles, but who joined the forces to help out in other ways because they wanted to support the Canadian troops.

It was these brave men and women who made this job the most rewarding that I have ever had. With their humility and with their quiet strength, they touched my heart, each and every one of them.

Fifteen years later, the make-up of Canada's veteran corps has changed dramatically. The last World War I veteran has passed away. There are fewer and fewer World War II veterans with each passing year, and at the national remembrance ceremony, their dwindling numbers can not but be noticed. There are more blue berets - from Korea and other peacekeeping missions - to be seen in the parade. And of course, there are the men and women who have served in more recent conflicts such as Afghanistan. These veterans are my age. They are younger than me. Some of them are friends of mine.

They are fewer and fewer in numbers.

The Veteran's parade

And so, like so many others, on November 11, I pause to remember. To remember my six-year-old's infatuation with a starkly beautiful poem. To remember Norm and Jerry and Nelson and all the other veterans I met during that long-ago summer. To remember the friends of mine who have, much more recently, done a tour of duty in Afghanistan. To remember the sons and daughters who gave their lives so that we could be free.

And to thank them.

Lest we forget.

The National Remembrance Day Ceremony