minute of silence

I was sitting in a coffee shop called Second Cup (yes, a chain - - but at least it's Canadian???) drinking a chai latte with Kyle when 11 a.m. rolled around. Being 11 a.m. (according to my watch), we decided to take a moment of silence, while everyone around us chatted, laughed, and continued slurping their coffees.

I thought about that - that there I was, in a coffee shop, drinking chai latte with people all around me, chatting, laughing, slurping coffee, while veterans gathered around cenotaphs to remember their fallen comrades, and their own experiences at war.

Is this what they died for? I pondered to myself. Yes, ironically, I think it is.

I'm so fascinated by these men, and their stories. I want to call them stories of bravery and courage, but in fact many of them didn't have a choice. They were kids, a lot of them, on a battle field, fighting someone else's war. Their stories are, in my opinion, stories of survival.

This year, leading up to Remembrance Day, I interviewed a Japanese PoW who helped build "The Death Railway" (because the soldiers that died on it were as many as the ties they put down) from Malaya to Burma, and an infantry vet who was nearly decapitated after his tank took out a German Panther tank in Italy and the two anti-tank guns beside it fired back (the last words his gunner spoke were "I got him, sir!" It's him this sgt remembers every Nov. 11). I also spoke with a Korean War photographer and several war brides. Their stories are riveting.

But before I get too deep, my minute finished on a rather light, amusing note this year. You see, the coffee shop didn't forget to remember after all, and at c. 11:01 (obviously their clocks are not set to the CBC) a barista got everyone's attention and announced she was going to set the timer for one minute, and would everyone in the crowded shop please respect our veterans with silence. The whole shop - those at the full-up tables and the long line in front of the counter, did so. The chatter stopped. The blenders and grinders behind the counter were quiet, as everyone began to reflect.

And then.

A man walked in, unaware of what time it was. All eyes fell on him, as everyone continued their micro-vigil of quiet. He felt the awkwardness, and didn't know how to respond. It was like the room went dead upon his entry. No one moved. Everyone watched.

"Wow, that's one hell of a line-up," he offered.

Silence.

"I guess I'll just get in line."

More staring.

Then, I think, he realized what was happening, and fell into step. When the timer sounded and the barista said thank-you, he was the first to speak - "sorry, I didn't realize at first what was going on," he said to no one in particular and everyone in general.

I'll bet that's one Remembrance Day he'd just as soon forget.