“You’d better watch out, You’d better not pout, you’d better not cry, I’m telling you why” floated through the morning sky like some sort of sick joke. Abby sang along in the back seat until I told her to please shut her mouth. Catching my stern expression in the rear view mirror, she quickly obliged. “Stupid ,fucking parade.”
I have never enjoyed parades. Sombre Remembrance Day parades in cold November rain, an obligatory event that I never dared to evade for fear of disappointing my Pop. He would march alongside his aged comrades in full military uniform with an air of quiet dignity born of sacrifice. The last time I was home for the occasion, I was startled to see his lonely silhouette on the parade square, head held erect and proud as the last post and chorus was carried by the bitter Newfoundland wind.
This year he was supposed to meet Prince Charles and Camilla on Remembrance Day, but at the palliative care unit, where they would visit the last of our living veterans, my Poppy among them. I smiled at the memory of Poppy sheepishly admitting that he never cared for the Prince after the way he treated poor Diana. He spoke of the monarchy in the same reverent tone he reserved for the cast of the Young and the Restless and the irony of it made me laugh at the time. “Still”, he remarked, “Mauri would have loved it. She would have bragged to all the girls.”
The “girls” were pushing ninety now but they retained their raucous sense of humour and a sense of style reminiscent of a young Jackie Kennedy. I remember, years ago, my grandmother telling me that age had turned her body into a traitor. She said that some days she still felt like she was 40, maybe 35. But certainly not 83. I didn’t get it then, but I’m starting to now. When did I become the grown up?
Poppy wasn’t too disappointed when the visit was cancelled because of the H1N1 flu virus. “Prince Charles is afraid he’ll catch the flu so he’s staying home out of it. Never did think he had much of a spine, that one.” Pop’s doctors wouldn’t permit him to attend the parade so he passed what would be his last Remembrance Day at the hospital. I called a few minutes after 11 to read him the poem that my daughter Abby had written about him that had won the Legion’s Remembrance Day contest. He asked if I had attended the service in Nova Scotia. At the school, I told him, guilt agitating my conscious.
Agitated. That’s what I felt now. Agitated. Like the agitator in a washing machine just churning and spinning at a frenetic and frantic pace but going nowhere. We were grid locked. The cars around us boxing us in like Christmas presents not yet ready to be opened. An ugly green vision in a red Santa Claus suit breezed past us muttering his hatred of the whos. I understood exactly how he felt. Abby did not dare to smile so she sat quietly in the back seat with her poem clutched tightly in her little hands. She was nervous, I could tell.
My cell phone continued to buzz persistently in my pocket. I chose to ignore the damned thing, remembering the expression about what to do if you had nothing nice to say. We were going to be late. The realization punched me in the gut. “Is he almost here yet?” Abby asked tentatively. “Soon baby, how long can it take.” How long, indeed. We’d already sat through at least 137 floats and about as many screeching high school bands and assorted groups of community do-gooders. So it had to be almost over. It just had to.
Watching my nine-year old daughter pretend not to enjoy the spectacle, I allowed my mind to wander back to my own childhood experiences with Santa Claus Parades. I remembered with an ache the long, usually cold walk back to Nan and Pop’s house where my cousin and I would gather for hot chocolate. It had been forever since I’d last seen any of them. Nan would be disappointed to know the way we’d scattered like seeds across the country, taking root in places that would mean nothing to her. I vowed to keep in touch better, knowing as I promised myself (or maybe my grandmother), that facebook would likely remain the only tie to bind us together.
Glancing back in the rear view mirror, I catch sight of my little girl mouthing the words to ``Santa Claus is Coming to Town`` in quiet dissonance. Perhaps she`s too young to be here, I think to myself knowing it is too late to do anything about it now. If we even get there, which we probably won`t, I fume. Sensing me looking at her, Abby glances up and flashes me her crooked smile. ``Pop-Pop knows we`re here, `Mommy. Don`t worry. He probably just wanted me to enjoy the parade first.``
As if on cue, I catch sight of the giant sleigh in the distance. The crowd is excited, and seem to be willing him to move forward with their deafening cheers. Tiny children scurry to the front of the parade like little mice scattering in search of cheese. `Jesus Christ, it took him long enough, I mutter, but I`m smiling now, too. It`s going to be alright. We wave back at Santa as he rolls past us, his jolly laugh ringing in the morning sky. Finally, we are free from the parade, and I have never felt so ecstatic to see the back of the jolly red elf.
We drive toward our destination mostly in silence. Once in awhile, Abby breaks it by recounting her favourite floats or trying to count up how many swear words I said during the 40-minute wait for Santa. Some she`d never heard before, she boasts, and warns me that she hopes the big guy wasn`t listening when I called him a few choice words. ``He can`t help it if he is fat, Mommy`` she admonishes, ``and you leave him cookies, too.`` She never knew a parade could be in the daytime, she tells me, and somebody should tell Halifax to have the parade of lights in the morning when everyone is awake and alert. Newfoundland is more sensible, she remarks with the wisdom of one who knows just about everything because she is almost ten.
As I pull into the driveway, I glance at the clock wincing at the realization that we are at least 40 minutes late. I clutch Abby`s hand in my own as we enter the formidable building. Our arrival does not go unnoticed as I had hoped, and I am startled when the priest bellows his welcome. You are worse than your grandmother, he scolds me, always having to make an entrance. But his eyes are smiling and he meets us in the aisle of the church, taking my daughter by the hand and leading her to the altar. I take my place beside my father who grips my hand tightly, fighting back his tears as he tells me how glad he is that we made it.
I take a deep breath as I watch the priest introduce my daughter to the congregation of mourners. He describes how proud her Pop-Pop was of her and all of his great-grandchildren. She is the only great-grandchild able to make it to the funeral mass, and I am proud that she will represent that part of his life.
Poppy loved children and related to them through Wii games and treats, the two generations between them be damned with their opinions of junk food and too much time spent on video games. Abby is old enough to carry his memory with her through life, I think with satisfaction. As long as someone alive still remembers you, you are not really gone, my Poppy used to say when conversation would turn to death. He will live on in our memories I realize as I hear Abigail begin her poem of remembrance:
Violets are blue, but Poppies are red.
They help us remember all our war dead.
They sacrificed everything for you and for me,
They gave it their all so we could be free.
My Pop is a proud veteran of WW11,
My family is glad that he made it through,
During the war he married my Scottish Nan,
She could tell he was a brave and strong man,
This Remembrance Day, Pop will meet a prince and say hello,
While on Flanders Field the Poppies still blow.
On Remembrance Day, I am willing to bet,
My Pop will lay a wreath so that we
never forget.
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