Remembrance by Alistair MacLeod Page A

there was no immediate need for these sticks, as he had a supply of well-measured dry ones neatly stacked behind his stove.
    He could smell the smoke from his already lit fire as it wafted forth from his chimney. The smoke comforted himin a way he could not fully understand, as if it had been part of him for as long as he could remember. He recalled that when he was still a small boy he would look at the smoke to make sure of the direction of the wind. If the smoke drifted toward the ocean, the wind would be from the east, and if it slanted a certain way, from the southeast, he knew that this was the direction of the most serious storms. If the smoke was directed inland, the wind would be off the ocean and the waves would be higher, and perhaps more dangerous.
    He had heard that, in the suburbs of Montreal, there was a ban against the burning of wood because the odour of woodsmoke annoyed some of the residents. But Montreal was another, mysterious world.
    He saw the headlights of the car, piercing the darkness and coming through the trees. He straightened himself into an almost military posture and remained standing, resolutely, near his woodpile.
    When the car door opened, the dome light illuminated for a brief instant the elongated form of his grey-haired son who lived on a farm nearby. The man got out of the car with some difficulty. Instead of using his left foot to “set” himself and bear the weight of his body, he first shifted to the edge of the car seat and then stood up. His left foot was encased in an oversized boot, and when he stepped forward to shake his father’s hand he did so with a pronounced limp.
    “How is your foot?” said his father, his question weighted with concern.
    “Not bad,” came the answer. “I took some pills. I see you’re already dressed. You have your poppy on and everything. Where are your medals?”
    “I laid them out on the table for the last time,” said his father. “We will wait for a while in the yard.”
    “Yes,” said the younger man. “We’ll wait for a while. He’ll be along soon. We’ll see his headlights coming through the trees. All three of us are early. The ceremony is not until this afternoon.”
    The grey cat moved toward him.
    For some years, David MacDonald had been ambivalent about Remembrance Day. He had been attending the ceremonies for more than fifty years and had outlived all of his comrades. He had visited the schools and marched in the parades. He had ridden on the backs of trucks to the various cenotaphs and participated in the laying of wreaths. In the earlier years there had been some survivors from World War I and they had always been given the place of honour in the parades. But now they were all gone. Sometimes, he was told, their medals were for sale on eBay. Now there were sometimes younger men, veterans of Korea, or Vietnam, and even, recently, Afghanistan. David MacDonald felt that this would be his last appearance. He smiled at his son in appreciation of his company.

– 2 –
    WHEN DAVID MacDONALD went to war, it was in 1942 and he was twenty-one years old. He had been married for a year and a half to a girl from a farm two miles away who was sexually precocious. He himself was reserved in that part of life. On their third date, she said, “I’d like to marry a man with a big one, let’s see what you’ve got.” He had not expected anything like this to happen at such an early stage in their relationship and was bothered by the fact that he had not changed into clean underwear.
    She was the oldest in a family of six girls and it seemed that all of them spoke constantly of the opposite sex. As the oldest, she seemed to feel that it was her duty to marry first and more or less lead the way for her younger sisters. She spoke of “being married” as if it were a job or, perhaps, a place. Sometimes she mentioned Montreal, which was a city she had never visited but where two of her aunts resided. She seemed on a much faster track than