Scott Ferris reads passage for Legion Magazine podcast
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
This is Scott Ferris reading for Legion magazine. This is James Hails Peace beyond Words Yours in three, two and one Driving across the fog shrouded Lions Gate Bridge to West Vancouver on Remembrance Day morning, I heard six high school radio debaters discussed the possibility of Canada ever having to fight another war. They're consensus that contemporary youth or to self oriented to fight would have raised more than a few bitter sweet smiles from the Veterans of West Vancouver branch. Sprawled along the coast between the Pacific and the last mainland stretch of the Trans Canada west, Vancouver is a small town corner of the metropolis. Little shops lined the main street, broken occasionally by compact shopping centers. And in keeping with this atmosphere, the veterans parade formed in this Safeway parking lot. They began arriving Singley on foot shortly before 10 warmly greeting those ahead of them. But soon tiny groups were filing down side streets to the plaza. There were handshakes, smiles and friendly jibes of closed the bar down last night, a Johnny they were going all around, several proudly pinned on long bars of metals and 1 87 year old world war campaigner stood quietly, embodying the term ramrod straight. The mid morning sun had melted. The last remnants of missed the day was crisp and clear was the color party formed from across the street. The tentative first notes of the West Vancouver Boys and Girls brass band section fluttered and fell. The band moved in front of the police barricade and came to a parade rest before the post office. Following commands learned by rote years ago, the legionnaires fell in behind and moved out. Dogs and small Children kept stride with the men. Down Main Street to the Memorial park, 300 townsfolk crowded the front of the municipal library, waiting. The men moved into place smartly, many with proud eyes on loved ones. In the crowd, a rock cenotaph arched over the entrance to the park. The official party gathered under it toe lead, the men in worship. Somehow, in small groups, the remembrance ceremony becomes more meaningful. The nervous, faltering notes of a cadets last post more poignant. The Children's hushed questions during the dead silence more real. A shattering rifle salute echoed between the mountains of a ridge of concrete high rises answered eerily by a bewildered child's cries. As the last of the shots sounded through the valley alone, girl began to pipe a Scottish lament and readily broke the crowds stark silence. There is something beyond words in the faces of veterans as they watch wreaths place to honor their comrades. In some, you can trace the years and the memories good and bad. In others, the fear and pain of another era is all too clear. Others cannot be read it all. One could not help but be moved by the pride and sorrow of these men. As they moved off in formation behind the band, the crowd broke into spontaneous applause, not that type of applause that follows a performance or a well placed pause in a skilled politician speech. But the type of applause that tightens your throat and avert your gaze. A young blond boy unself consciously saluted, is the legionnaires past. Many in the audience paused after the ceremony to solemnly placed there poppies on the grassy apron of the cenotaph. One man, too young to have fought but old enough to remember place the poppies of his many Children, one by one, pausing reverently after each is the reflecting on the spilled blood they represented. Others stayed behind in the memorial library across the street to read the lists of those who left communities like this behind forever. Like many small Canadian towns, West Vancouver seem to have given up farm or than its share of young people. The Legionnaires, walking lighter now, some playfully razzing others who had fallen out of step, paraded back to the branch for their annual open house. Hot rum took the chill off the day and started the memories flowing. As time passes, I plunged deeper into the mystery of war. Growing up in the sixties, I reflected the blind, youthful attitude that remembered today, and all other signs of war should be obliterated. Because I met veterans, though, began to think rather than react, I ceased my stereotyping and started to search for understanding. Perhaps it is most difficult for those who have never fought to comprehend how war for a young person could be both the best and the worst times of their life. For many, of course, particularly in the innocent early days of World War, it was the first great life experience will go over and beat those Germans and be home before Christmas. For others, it was a sense of duty, not so much a conscious sense of patriotism, a term that has received much denigration, perhaps, but a feeling of common purpose with ones peers, the bonds of comradeship forged in war last for ever. I still feel a touch of envy when I hear veterans speak of friendships struck in wartime, that air solid through the years and memories have fallen mates that remain fresh and alive. The memories certainly seemed fresh for the 87 year old veteran. He had proudly stated his intention to march to the Cenotaph side that there were a few of his buddies remaining, but declared that he was good for at least a few more ceremonies, stared hard after him, imagining him as a young man with hopes and goals fighting in the deadly mud of France. It's far too easy to forget that our elders were once filled with dreams and the determination to live a good life, only to be thrust holy into an uncompromising situation. No one wants to die. Very few want to kill. If the radio debaters could see the veterans reminisce with old friends or escape into song for a few brief moments by a piano with a glass of hot rum, and the satisfaction that they face to challenged and survived they might not judge them is harshly as a generation apart.