I'm not sure why I went. Hope I never have to go again. But I probably will. And I definitely would.
I'm not a joiner, by nature. Not gregarious, not especially patriotic and probably busier than God, but I walk to the overpass north of my house to see the fallen soldier's motorcade drive by on the 401. No expectations, but I'm surprised by the 40 people already there at 8:15. That was the time we'd been told the plane was expected at Trenton CFB. Then there'll be about a half hour for the ramp ceremony before the limos start their trip to Toronto. But we've all learned that the times can change without notice and it's better to be too early than too late.
There are already large flags hanging over the railing, already cars on the 401 below honking and flashing their lights, big rigs as well. Every now and then somebody in a passenger seat takes our picture. I wonder what they think they're taking a picture of. Probably not a wake. As the crowd on the bridge grows, people pick their way down the hill on either side to take snapshots. I wonder who will see them. Whether the soldiers' families will see them, these crowds of strangers standing and standing and standing in the heat, just wanting to be there, to be seen, to be seen to care and to mourn with those who mourn. Hoping it means something.
I didn't bring a flag, so I'm handed a tiny one by a woman who has obviously done this before.
It's strange to be floating over the 401. It's noisier than you realize, kind of scary. The exhaust is unpleasant and the ground vibrates. The long, top-seed-heavy grass in the ditches hardly moves when a car goes by, but the big trucks make it dance almost exactly the same way every time. Weird. The concrete and steel railing that fences us in has dents and rust and chipped paint but I'm sure it's up to all those leaning elbows. I'm facing east and a couple of times an eastbound transport shoots out from under my feet like an errant surfboard. A bit disconcerting. But for the most part, we're just watching the west bound lanes, way in the the distance, for flashing lights. Just waiting.
Pockets of people talk and laugh but I'm not social enough. So I eavesdrop and watch.
More people come, carrying Tim's cups, flashlights, more flags, police scanners, babies, little dogs, tiki torches or cigarettes. A fire truck arrives and the guys set up traffic cones front and back. The engine stays running the whole time and a few complain quietly about the fumes. Kids love fire trucks, so some young ones are given the chance to sit up front while they wait. But mostly we lean and wait and chat.
The group of seniors to my right are discussing connections. "My brother-in-law works with a guy who knows the soldier's father." "I have a cousin who lives in his home town." This is important. You don't mourn someone you don't know. And Canada is a small town, after all. So we wait.
I phone home. Tell my son to turn off the sprinkler. He says he's coming over in a minute.
A firefighter is going down the line telling people it will probably be about 9:45 when they drive by. About another hour. That's OK. We'll wait.
Couples, singles, seniors, babies, teenagers, young adults, SUVs, rattletraps, motorcycles, bikes, skateboards, trucks, women, men, a couple of well behaved dogs, people I know from church, the woman who taught my son for a couple of years, the guy who works at the library, the man who walks his schnauzer past my house twice a day, people from the open spaces north of town. The crowd we can barely make out on the bridge to the east. Waiting.
My husband arrives, and then my son. And we wait.
The bridge is filling up. I wonder how many people can stand shoulder to shoulder, two deep across 6 lanes plus the median and shoulder. Lots.
The firetruck radio informs us that they've just passed Colborne. Another 20 minutes. Good to know.
The sun's going down and it's lovely and pink and perfect, but it's behind us. We glance, but our elbows stay put. To the west there's smoke and that causes a few heads to turn, but still, it's behind us, and far away. Pretty soon it's out.
More people come. The truck's flashing red lights are on now, as are the flood lights at the front. To illuminate the flags and the people. We see the same thing happening on the bridge to the east and I picture a string of pockets of flashing red across the county. The firefighters put on their heavy yellow suits and helmets and climb up on top of the truck. I briefly feel vertigo on their behalf.
It's getting dark and the headlights below are catching the wake-up strips on the paved shoulder. It's a bit psychedelic. It's getting cooler and I'm glad I wore a hat, especially when the June Bugs show up. I hate June Bugs.
There's less talking, more focus, more flags. The tiki torches are burning and we wait and watch until somebody up top says, "Here they come".
Still far away, but galvanizing, those flashing lights.
Now I'm glad I have a flag. At least I have something to wave. Something to do with my hands. A feeble gesture, but a gesture nevertheless.
Now they're closer and closer and closer. They pass the bridge to the east and now it's our turn. The motorcade passes below us. First the cops, then the hearse, then the limos. Some of the limos have flags flapping from the windows and I wave mine back, thinking it's probably invisible, but what the heck.
And they're gone. We've done what we came to do, so we all head home.
It's been kind of like church, I think, but not exactly. We're developing a liturgy of sorts on these Northumberland bridges. A liturgy of honour. Of expression. Of recognition. But not of worship. Of community, but a reluctant one.
As we walk home, with my tiny flag I can't help but wonder if it's the right symbol for this. It seems political, even jingoistic. But nothing better comes to mind.
Canada's always been seen as a pretty good country. Warts, failures, yes. Bad decisions, yes. Cranky, on occasion, but a pretty good old broad, on the whole. Most of us have lived better lives for living them here than we would have anywhere else.
But I think that for these soldiers, more than in any other fight or time, you can't say "They gave their lives for their country." Most of us standing on that bridge that night have nothing to lose if things go south in Afghanistan. They're not over there fighting for Ann-Marie back home. For old mom and pop on the farm. For Queen and country.
So what are they fighting for? They're fighting on behalf of strangers. For people whose language they don't speak. Whose culture they don't share or even agree with.
But for people who've suffered and who shouldn't have to suffer so much any more.
They're fighting for justice. For truth. For life. For equality. For basic human rights. For peace. For salaam. For all the things that Canada sometimes fails to live up to, but in failing, at least we're trying.
So maybe the flag works after all.
Maybe that's who we are. Maybe, being Canadian can be, if nothing else, a good excuse for doing good. And for trying to do better.
r
I'm not a joiner, by nature. Not gregarious, not especially patriotic and probably busier than God, but I walk to the overpass north of my house to see the fallen soldier's motorcade drive by on the 401. No expectations, but I'm surprised by the 40 people already there at 8:15. That was the time we'd been told the plane was expected at Trenton CFB. Then there'll be about a half hour for the ramp ceremony before the limos start their trip to Toronto. But we've all learned that the times can change without notice and it's better to be too early than too late.
There are already large flags hanging over the railing, already cars on the 401 below honking and flashing their lights, big rigs as well. Every now and then somebody in a passenger seat takes our picture. I wonder what they think they're taking a picture of. Probably not a wake. As the crowd on the bridge grows, people pick their way down the hill on either side to take snapshots. I wonder who will see them. Whether the soldiers' families will see them, these crowds of strangers standing and standing and standing in the heat, just wanting to be there, to be seen, to be seen to care and to mourn with those who mourn. Hoping it means something.
I didn't bring a flag, so I'm handed a tiny one by a woman who has obviously done this before.
It's strange to be floating over the 401. It's noisier than you realize, kind of scary. The exhaust is unpleasant and the ground vibrates. The long, top-seed-heavy grass in the ditches hardly moves when a car goes by, but the big trucks make it dance almost exactly the same way every time. Weird. The concrete and steel railing that fences us in has dents and rust and chipped paint but I'm sure it's up to all those leaning elbows. I'm facing east and a couple of times an eastbound transport shoots out from under my feet like an errant surfboard. A bit disconcerting. But for the most part, we're just watching the west bound lanes, way in the the distance, for flashing lights. Just waiting.
Pockets of people talk and laugh but I'm not social enough. So I eavesdrop and watch.
More people come, carrying Tim's cups, flashlights, more flags, police scanners, babies, little dogs, tiki torches or cigarettes. A fire truck arrives and the guys set up traffic cones front and back. The engine stays running the whole time and a few complain quietly about the fumes. Kids love fire trucks, so some young ones are given the chance to sit up front while they wait. But mostly we lean and wait and chat.
The group of seniors to my right are discussing connections. "My brother-in-law works with a guy who knows the soldier's father." "I have a cousin who lives in his home town." This is important. You don't mourn someone you don't know. And Canada is a small town, after all. So we wait.
I phone home. Tell my son to turn off the sprinkler. He says he's coming over in a minute.
A firefighter is going down the line telling people it will probably be about 9:45 when they drive by. About another hour. That's OK. We'll wait.
Couples, singles, seniors, babies, teenagers, young adults, SUVs, rattletraps, motorcycles, bikes, skateboards, trucks, women, men, a couple of well behaved dogs, people I know from church, the woman who taught my son for a couple of years, the guy who works at the library, the man who walks his schnauzer past my house twice a day, people from the open spaces north of town. The crowd we can barely make out on the bridge to the east. Waiting.
My husband arrives, and then my son. And we wait.
The bridge is filling up. I wonder how many people can stand shoulder to shoulder, two deep across 6 lanes plus the median and shoulder. Lots.
The firetruck radio informs us that they've just passed Colborne. Another 20 minutes. Good to know.
The sun's going down and it's lovely and pink and perfect, but it's behind us. We glance, but our elbows stay put. To the west there's smoke and that causes a few heads to turn, but still, it's behind us, and far away. Pretty soon it's out.
More people come. The truck's flashing red lights are on now, as are the flood lights at the front. To illuminate the flags and the people. We see the same thing happening on the bridge to the east and I picture a string of pockets of flashing red across the county. The firefighters put on their heavy yellow suits and helmets and climb up on top of the truck. I briefly feel vertigo on their behalf.
It's getting dark and the headlights below are catching the wake-up strips on the paved shoulder. It's a bit psychedelic. It's getting cooler and I'm glad I wore a hat, especially when the June Bugs show up. I hate June Bugs.
There's less talking, more focus, more flags. The tiki torches are burning and we wait and watch until somebody up top says, "Here they come".
Still far away, but galvanizing, those flashing lights.
Now I'm glad I have a flag. At least I have something to wave. Something to do with my hands. A feeble gesture, but a gesture nevertheless.
Now they're closer and closer and closer. They pass the bridge to the east and now it's our turn. The motorcade passes below us. First the cops, then the hearse, then the limos. Some of the limos have flags flapping from the windows and I wave mine back, thinking it's probably invisible, but what the heck.
And they're gone. We've done what we came to do, so we all head home.
It's been kind of like church, I think, but not exactly. We're developing a liturgy of sorts on these Northumberland bridges. A liturgy of honour. Of expression. Of recognition. But not of worship. Of community, but a reluctant one.
As we walk home, with my tiny flag I can't help but wonder if it's the right symbol for this. It seems political, even jingoistic. But nothing better comes to mind.
Canada's always been seen as a pretty good country. Warts, failures, yes. Bad decisions, yes. Cranky, on occasion, but a pretty good old broad, on the whole. Most of us have lived better lives for living them here than we would have anywhere else.
But I think that for these soldiers, more than in any other fight or time, you can't say "They gave their lives for their country." Most of us standing on that bridge that night have nothing to lose if things go south in Afghanistan. They're not over there fighting for Ann-Marie back home. For old mom and pop on the farm. For Queen and country.
So what are they fighting for? They're fighting on behalf of strangers. For people whose language they don't speak. Whose culture they don't share or even agree with.
But for people who've suffered and who shouldn't have to suffer so much any more.
They're fighting for justice. For truth. For life. For equality. For basic human rights. For peace. For salaam. For all the things that Canada sometimes fails to live up to, but in failing, at least we're trying.
So maybe the flag works after all.
Maybe that's who we are. Maybe, being Canadian can be, if nothing else, a good excuse for doing good. And for trying to do better.
r