Remembering George

When I was a boy I was fascinated by war stories. I read book after book about World War II. I had the great privilege of visiting with my Great Uncle George every Sunday. He landed on Juno Beach with the Canadian Expeditionary Force in Europe on June 6, 1944. He was a tiny man (which is probably why he survived). I remember sitting in the living room with him–he sat quietly, his fat black cat stretched out on his lap. We didn’t say much but those afternoons were formative. As I grow older finally, finally, I’ve reached the only conclusion available to a reasonable man about war: I hate it. Yet, we need familiarity with it. We need to learn about it. We need to remember what it cost. For if war remains strange or abstract to us it will continue to be a viable option for people inured to its cost. War, I hate war.

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