The Way It Was
Frightened at first by their physical appearance, a young boy comes to appreciate the beauty within these war-ravaged vets
It was the late 1960s and I was six years old, living in Saint John, N.B. My father owned and operated a section of the market in town that specialized in fresh produce, particularly apples.
I was so proud when he gave me my first job selling apples. I was asked to go and stand at the hospital with a big wooden tray of apples hung around my neck. Not a bad tradeoff for the nickel-anapple profit I was going to earn. I just couldn’t keep my mind off all the candy I was going to buy afterwards.
So I stood at my post waiting and hoping for all the old women to come by and purchase my fresh apples. I recall all those women touching, smelling, prodding and doing whatever else old women do to apples before actually buying them. Some turned my apples away, yet many others just loved them. Could it be that it was the little sixyear-old salesman they actually loved? Regardless, I was on my way to making a candy fortune.
That’s when I heard a loud whistle from somewhere behind me. I turned around—and I’d never in my life been as scared as I was at that moment. All my six-year-old eyes could see were monsters. It was a group of really old men in wheelchairs—some with no legs, others with no arms, still others with half their faces gone and many blind or deaf. They were whistling at me to come over to them. Well hey, I was doing just fine with the old ladies, thank you very much. Finally, out of fear, I timidly made my way over to see those monsters.
The first one I approached had only one arm, yet he threw that arm out and snatched an apple from my tray. To this day, I still recall wondering which was worse, the big redand-white ribbon supporting my tray that was digging into the back of my neck, or the size of the goosebumps that were rising all over my little body.
He stared at me with dark-grey eyes set in his wrinkled, weathered face. Then he spoke in a deep and intimidating voice: “How much for this apple, young fella?” I whimpered, “15 cents, sir.”
Looking me in the eye while simultaneously twirling the apple in his only hand, he said, “I’ll give you no less than a quarter.” And he smiled. I think my eyes became as large as those apples at that moment.
From then on, these
men in wheelchairs became my best friends. They told me stories and made me laugh and giggle. What’s more, they made me feel good about myself. I wasn’t even thinking of candy or apples any longer. I was just having too much good old-fashioned fun with these amazing men.
It is 2016 and I’m in my 50s now. Only as an adult did I come to understand that these “monsters” were the men who sacrificed themselves for you and me. I didn’t know it at the time, but the apples weren’t the reason they called me over that day. I was. That little boy—i was their trophy.
You and I are the reasons they lost so much. Just ask the man with no legs, the man with one arm, the man who lost his sanity or the man who lost his sight. They are no longer monsters as I saw them through a six-year-old boy’s eyes. They are my heroes. They are angels in disguise.
They are the men and women who fought and sacrificed so much for the freedom we enjoy today.
They paid the ultimate price for everything we now have as Canadians. I sometimes find it sad when we sit in our cars and have the nerve to yell and scream when we get stuck in a lousy traffic jam or in a long line at the bank, wondering if we will get home in time to watch our favourite TV show.
The next time we get stressed over our little day-to-day annoyances, we may want to think of the 19-yearold kid who sat in a foxhole in France, thirsty with an empty canteen, surrounded by Nazis. Let us remember the boys alone in the Atlantic Ocean with only life jackets to cling to after a German U-boat sank their ship.
How dare we, as Canadians, ever become complacent. Never ever forget the poor mothers and fathers who received that most dreadful notification of their sons’ or daughters’ deaths. These brave men and women fought and died for us. For your freedom and for mine.
To all veterans from all the terrible wars, I will never ever forget and shall be forever grateful. To you angels, I say thank you. n