Making the vigil - Part II

Normally, strange men don't speak to me on Halifax sidewalks and generally I don't carry matches to give them, but Nov. 7 was an exception.

It was midnight. I was up way past my bedtime for the second time in three days due first of all to the glorious U.S. election. Walking alone on the far side of Argyle St., I steered clear of the huddled smokers outside pubs. Pulling out a couple of matches for the stranger, I made a beeline for the Grand Parade.

It was a soft night and I was the only one outside old St. Paul's church, ready to hold a vigil. Taking a look around I could see a telephone booth-sized kiosk that held a projector. It was sending names high on the wall of the church.

In the peak were the numbers 1914-1918 then there were two large print names in lights for a matter of seconds. Underneath, in two columns, were six other names in smaller print. I soon saw the names that started big and drifted down before disappearing.

The wash of names was mesmerizing. There were lots of Georges, Alberts and Jameses. Most were good, strong Anglo-Saxon names, but about every 10 a Francophone or eastern European immigrant name would appear. I remember an Aladin and an Epsley, a Japanese name and a name that looked like French nobility. Some 68,000 names over seven nights, yet after just an hour the senselessness of war was compelling.

Images of cemeteries in France and Belgium

About every 15 minutes an image of one of the 940 cemeteries in France and Belgium was projected briefly. I recall one that I think was called Sailly-sur-la-Lys, which lies west of Armentieres. Nine Canadians are buried there. Then there was the New Irish Farm Cemetery near Ypres.

Orchard Dump Cemetery surprised me. A communal cemetery, it was literally a dumping ground when about seven smaller cemeteries were consolidated. Of the 3,023 soldiers buried there, 326 are Canadians.

I lit my candle with what was left of the matches. A slight breeze threatened the flame for the next half-hour. Occasionally the spotlights on the spire would light up seagulls passing.

The Grand Parade felt like a kind of oasis between Argyle and Barrington streets, although why they let cars park right in front of the historic church I could not figure. Raucous young voices hollered on either side most of the time. It sounded like Wolfville on a party night. There was a continual dull bass thump coming from The Dome.

A young woman walked in front of me talking full tilt on a cell phone. She didn't look up or over at my candle. I was bug-eyed at her bare arms, impossibly short skirt and killer heels. Later, three older guys, obviously out on the town, rolled by loose-limbed with alcohol.

One belched loudly, noticed me, and apologized. Then a couple, who were probably in their thirties, came and stood beside me. They raised their eyes to the church wall.

What are you doing?

The dark-haired woman said, "what are you doing?" I told her I was waiting for my ancestor's name to appear.

"Oh, what a good idea," she cooed. Her partner was more interested in the nearby roses, still pink and blooming. "Schmell these," he told her, swaying as he bent to sniff. She obliged, half holding him up.

"Have a good hug," I said, thinking all the Georges and Alberts would want life to go on.

Just then a pack of university-aged males knocked over a garbage receptacle on the harbour side. They bellowed and tried to climb young saplings that couldn't take their weight. What would the men who died in senseless battles 90 years ago think of these shenanigans: the cheap beer nights and rampant vandalism?

Finally the name I had been waiting for appeared; Hugh A. Munro. Rest in peace, I told the spirit of my great uncle, lest we forget.

As I left the Grand Parade three young things were getting out of a cab, squealing. "This is so exciting," one kept repeating in a high pitch.

Suddenly I felt old and tired, yet grateful all the same that my sons' names aren't likely to go up in memorial lights.