STORY BY RICHARD FOOT
Every year as Remembrance Day approaches, memories surface of my childhood growing up in the shadow of war.
One memory stands out. It’s Christmas eve in the late 1970s, and I’m with family gathered outside the front door of my grandparents’ cottage singing Christmas carols by candlelight. Some of the adults among us have semi-automatic FN rifles slung over their shoulders and emergency radios on their belts, in case we get attacked—in the midst of “Good King Wenceslas”—by guerrilla fighters lurking in the darkness.
Those rifles are locked and loaded as our merry group of carolers walks back across a field to the main farmhouse where my aunt and uncle live. Once an attractive, colonial-era home with large windows and spacious verandahs, the house has now been turned into a fortress, with a high brick gun tower and outer defensive walls designed to protect against possible grenade attacks.
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