Remembrance

Even though I was born more than three years after the end of World War II, I feel a personal connection to it, both as a Jew, and as the descendent of brave men who risked their lives, and steadfast men and women who kept the home fires burning and the factories churning.

My father, Louis Lutsky, served in the Canadian army’s Quartermaster Corps, driving supply trucks in Italy and in the Netherlands. When the mood was on him (which wasn’t often), he would tell the story of being part of a truck convoy that had to stop repeatedly and dig in (literally) to shelter from expected shell fire.

His younger brother, my Uncle Moe, lost both his feet during the battle for Hill 195 north of Falaise in August 1944. He was pulled from his burning tank by Sergeant John Andrews, who was awarded a Military Medal for his heroism.

Several other members of my family also served in the military. My mother’s brother, Joe Quint (army), my great-uncle Reuben Lapidus (army), and my cousin, Maurice Vineberg (navy) come immediately to mind.

For as many years as I can remember, I have worn a poppy on November 11th. 

When my husband and I moved from Canada to the USA in the fall of 1991, I saved that year’s poppy in my jewelry box, knowing that Remembrance Day is not marked with poppies in the United States.

Each year, in the days leading up to November 11th, I retrieved the poppy from its resting place and wore it to honour those who fought to keep us safe and free.

In May of this year, we moved back to Canada. Last week, for the first time in 28 years, I was able to drop a donation in the collection box at my local bank branch, and pin a new poppy on my coat.

I have retired the old poppy after its many years of service, but I have not discarded it. It will remain in its little nest inside my jewelry box, and will be joined by this year’s poppy. I am starting a new tradition. Henceforth, all of my poppies will live on together in remembrance of those who are no longer with us.