Every Remembrance Day, I can’t help but always think of these two men.

My maternal Grandfather.  My Grandad.  Who served as a Dispatch Rider over in England.  Where he met a young British woman who was working in the Woman’s Land Army at the time, fell in love, married her, and eventually brought her back to Canada with him after the war to raise their family.

My paternal Grandfather.  My Grandpa.  Who served in the Canadian Infantry on the front lines in Italy and later, in Holland.  He saw many horrible things and likely had to do many horrible things.  Things which he never really spoke of.  My own father was only 6 months old when my Grandpa left to go to war, and by the time he finally returned, my Dad had become a 4 year old boy.  3 1/2 missing years.  Just another one of the many sacrifices.

I could listen to these men tell their stories for hours.  Literally hours.  And I always thought “They should write these stories down!”  Because although we’ve already lost my Grandpa, one day my Grandad won’t be here either.  And most of the stories will go with him.  Except for what I try really, really hard to put away in my memory vault.  Because they’re really great stories.  Stories of camaraderie and bad conditions.  Stories of triumph and defeat.  It was such a completely different time.  I can barely imagine it.

I appreciate all that they, and all the other Grandpas and Grandads did.

And I’m thankful.

And no – I’ll never forget.