On my walk to work today, I counted three people wearing those red poppy things. One was a bus driver, one was a gay lawyer, and the last was an old lady walking her dog. I walked past around a hundred people. This duplicates the observations * I made when I lived in Toronto. Remembrance Day is forgotten in Canada. You can argue with me, if you wish. Disagree. Those ninety-seven percent of the population are really quite full of thoughts about whatever it was Remembrance Day was supposed to get you to think about. When I was a kid we had assemblies in school; I do not know what they do in the Toronto District School Board now. The products of that school board do not seem to have picked up the habit. Remembrance Day is forgotten.

Now, I am not a journalist. I am neither gay, nor illiterate, nor an atheist. My knowledge of statistics is limited to the stuff you learn in a Mathematics degree from Waterloo. Compared to the coloring book or scratch and sniff training that our own ability challenged (even invisible * ) journalists get now a days, I do not compare. You too may have observed the majority of Canadian residents have forgotten the sacrifice of those dead white males, but let us face it, dead white males are scum. The wars they fought in were in vain. The died for naught, but to extend slavery, prolong rape, and deny vegetarians the rights to a meat free entree at the burger joint.

Now that our once glorious dead are now forgotten, is it possible to talk to them without the filter of political correctness? All my life, well since Trudeau, I have been brain washed (first with phosphates, then with phosphate free) that the Canadian military are scum. The main stream media coverage of that sociopath who happened to be an Army colonel emphasized his connections to the military, but not his homo-like taste for cross dressing, or his connections to Paul Bernardo. The socialists direct hatred at the Canadian military – Army, Navy, and Air Force. It shows. As a country we have forgotten. I only counted three in a hundred; and the media turns a blind eyes to this. In a country without free speech, that is about as far as I can go. Instead, I would like to explore the possibility to talking to them, the dead, now that the ruling elites have gotten my fellow Canadian residents to forget them, the dead.

You can understand why our elites, the aristocrats, hate, direct hate at, and encourage others to hate the now forgotten dead. There is a diversity of reasons, rooted in the compost of political correctness. Take your pick: I guess it depends on which shade of red the Marxist, Alinskyite, or self-described admirer of Lenin you are. Who cares about them. I care about the dead, not the sticky faced gobblers of white guilt. As Canada is no longer a Christian country, I presume there is some non-Christian (and hence, more politically correct) religion I can embrace to have conversation with these forgotten dead?

I like to walk in graveyards. Our racist Canadian forebearers liked their graveyards to be quiet and tree lined. Much like the Greenies like factory parking lots. Great place to eat lunch. You can find veterans head stones: the John, Jack, and Jeffrey so despised as racists, rapists, and wife beaters by our modern progressives.

I ate my lunch beside a young corporal of the Royal Artillery. He died in France, a few days after D-Day. It was dark out (I eat my lunch at midnight, as I am working the night shift because socialist spending on services that are not provided has destroyed the economy and with it my hopes for the future planned by my father, a living survivor of the war that killed the young corporal) and I could not quite make out all the details on his stone. Maybe he had the acquaintance of Michael Wittmann * or the Hitler Jugend Division * . Maybe only once. But the artillery corporal has company: his is not the only stone with that, or those, particular end dates. But in this graveyard in Acton, there is only one I have found. That is where I ate my lunch. There are some lights, lighting there. Street lights, and that night, there was the moon, nearly full, a few days back.

The young corporal would have an opinion about fascists. Did he bump into them in little boys washrooms? I wonder what our young corporal, who died at age 18 in June of 1944, would think of fascists, or about people who say they fight fascism by lurking in little boys washrooms? I would like to know. And to do that, all I need to do is ask, just like I could ask you. Of course, to contemplate a conversation with the dead, or reclothing that spirit with flesh and letting it loose, would be unChristian. Which is good, but I will not discuss further as it is rather morbid.

I did write the Corporals name down, I wrote it on something – a scrap, a paper, a parchment. The name of our Corporal, forgotten by 97 percent of Canadian residents. He, what’s his name, made a bargain: he gave his life for his country. Does his country still exist, to his satisfaction? This is a contract, after all. Have the dead been cheated? If this bargain was broken, his blood shed in vain, would he not want his blood back, since what he paid for was no more?

Good customer service rep that I am, says let the Corporal decide himself. Let him be judge and jury and such. These veterans of the grave, who would recognize them? Oh, that fellow, he is just dressed retro: maybe the Corporal likes going to bars and talking to girls. Missed out on that so he could get blown up in Normandy; maybe he wants to sew his wild oats. Nobody would notice a thing. Yes, bring him back, back from the dead, to walk in the dark, seeking out the companionship of those he loved (or kinda look like them), and the life force of those that cheated him.

Lest we forget; else, someone will remind you.

Ne obliviscamur, alioquin aliquis suggeret vobis.

This entry was posted on Thursday, November 11th, 2010 at 7:00 pm and is filed under Mitchieville Remembers. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.