November: A Month of Autumn, Storytelling, and Remembrance

It’s November.

Many of you are probably looking at me with raised eyebrows and heads cocked to the side, ready to say, “Yeah. Your point is?”

And for many folks, November is simply another month. Perhaps it’s merely the month when the vibrant autumn leaves have left many of the trees bare and Mother Nature delivers the year’s first dusting of snow. Perhaps it’s nothing more than the month during which we turn our clocks back an hour in order to conserve and save daylight. (Can you actually conserve daylight? Can you save it? Anyway…) Perhaps it’s a transitory month between the October festivities of Thanksgiving and Halloween, and the coming December festivities of Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and many other holidays. At least for those of us in Canada. For friends (and readers) in the United States, it’s the month of Thanksgiving and Black Friday sales. And much more, I’m sure. (Yes, Hallmark movie lovers, I see you over there. It’s one of your favourite months. Enjoy it!)

But for some of us, November is more than just the thirty days that separate Halloween and the Holiday season. It is the month when several million writers around the world stockpile coffee and discounted Halloween candy, create a writing playlist, and sit down at their computer feverishly writing first drafts of a novel that they hope they can eventually turn into the next best seller. And they don’t emerge from their foxholes until midnight December 1st, looking a little frazzled and just a smidgen wild around the eyes.

For another group of us, it is a month of reflection and of Remembrance. Especially for those of us in, or with family who are or have been in, the Armed Forces. It is a time of reflection.

For me, it’s a mix of all of this. November is the month when I miss the vibrant autumn colours of October, but look forward to that first magical dusting of snow. It’s the month when I (try to) feverishly write as many words as I can in one, two, maybe three different writing projects. It’s the month when I cringe slightly when Christmas music starts permeating the soundtrack at the mall (please, please, PLEASE wait until at least November 12th?). And it’s the month when I reflect on the sacrifices made by those who have served, and are currently serving, in the Armed Forces.

Throughout my 36 years of life, I have met a lot of people. Some of them became people I saw, and still see, multiple times a week; people I sang with, and still sing with; people I shared stories with. People I consider friends. A handful of these people are veterans. One or two of these people are still serving. Every single one of them has a story or two to tell, and they all carry with them the memories of comrades who never made it home. They all possess scars – physical, emotional, and mental. So do their loved ones past, present, and future.

My cousin and his wife both currently serve in the Canadian Armed Forces. This cousin served in Mosul 2017-2018. He told his grandmother (my aunt) he was there training troops. It wasn’t until he came home for his father’s funeral that we found out he’d actually been boots on the ground getting shot at. He carries those memories and scars every day.

A good, and longtime, friend of mine served in the Canadian Armed Forces Reserves from 2000-2016. He never saw combat, but served with several who went overseas and never made it back home. He carries their memories with him.

My father served in the Canadian Armed Forces Reserves with the Royal Regiment of Canada in the 1970s. (The Royal Reg. are the ones who wear the red coats and black bearskin caps.) He never saw combat, but he had habits that, looking back, I recognize as holdovers from his five years of service. The two glaringly obvious ones were his almost march-like gait and his brush-cut hairstyle. Oh, and he won what I can only describe as the most epic game of Hide And Seek ever by hiding in a pile of leaves.

My great-uncle and grandfather both served in World War II. My great-uncle contracted the measles while in England and was sent home. My grandfather served with the 48th Highlanders of Canada and saw service in Germany (and possibly Holland) in 1945. He never talked about his time overseas because he likely saw things he couldn’t talk about. Before his active service, he was part of the crew that built the Alaska Highway, which began life as a supply route during World War II.

And lastly, but most definitely not least, my great-granduncle, Harry Peers, possibly lies in a mass grave in Lens, France. I say possibly because he was hit by shell fire, and your guess is as good as mine as to whether there was anything left of him to bury. His name is engraved on the Canadian National Vimy Memorial that commemorates the Canadian Expeditionary Force personnel who died in World War I. He lied about his age in order to enlist. He served with the 29th Battalion and was part of the Pioneers, essentially Engineers. He served with the Artillery and held the rank of Bombardier. (In WWII Infantry terms, he was a Private doing a Lance Corporal’s job). He was two weeks shy of his nineteenth birthday when he was killed on August 21, 1917 during the Battle of Hill 70.

Pte. Harry Peers, pictured in a late-September article from either the Toronto Evening Telegram or the Toronto Star.

It’s for the previous five paragraphs that my soft start for anything Christmas is November 12th. Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. It’s my favourite time of year. But, I, and many others, need time to share stories, to wear the poppy, to reflect, to Remember.

To those who have served, regardless of how long that servitude was:

To those who are currently serving:

To the kids in Cadets:

To the spirits and memories of those who never made it home:

Thank you.

Lest We Forget.

And to my readers:

Thank you for being here. I’ll see you next time.

And until next time: Stay safe, stay well, and keep on keeping on.

Jen