As a child in my day, growing up was pretty simple compared to today. No Internet, colour or digital TV, iPods, Blackberry and the likes of our computered, technologically advanced society. As I remember, one of the highlights of our existence was the family get togethers on special occasions like birthdays, anniversaries, etc. As I recall, I may have been seven or eight at the time. My dad's family consisted of three brothers and one sister small compared to a lot of others. But mom, well, that was another story - 12 in all three brothers and nine sisters. The brothers moved away to Ontario after the war in search of greener pastures and only came home on rare occasions. One aunt married an American and moved to the U.S. That still left eight sisters and husbands within walking or driving distance, so get togethers were a regular bash. They would take turns hosting, depending on what the occasion was and for whom. I remember one particular bash that we were the host. There were many more, but this one stands out in my mind and even today I reflect on it, as it gives me a clearer understanding of our veterans. Holy cow. The preparation that it took to get one of these shindigs up and running makes me tired to think about it. A few days before the "meet," a special grocery list had to be compiled - from jam jams, Ritz crackers, a pack of fancy biscuits as they were called, to fresh mammy's bread, sometimes Cheez Whiz, potted meat, the list goes on and on. Of course, the bottle of dark rum was also included, but that usually was bought the day of the "meet," along with the mammy's bread to ensure freshness. Finally the day arrived, usually on a Saturday when you looked forward to a few extra minutes in the sack. No such luck though. By 8 a.m., you was up and dressed, had breakfast, washed and ready for any chores that was given to you. First off, the house had to be cleaned top to bottom. My sister and I were responsible for our rooms. Everything had to be dusted, swept, bureaus polished bedside mats that were homemade hooked and had to be taken out and beaten with the broom and hung over the fence "to freshen up." Even the dust bunnies that hid under the beds had to be rooted out and disposed of. Closets were to be organized and all clothes neatly folded or hung in the closet. Me, being at a very young age and a male, I wasn't very much help in these tasks, so I guess I still owe my sister for helping me through the much tedious aspects of cleaning. Even the old dog had to be brushed. As Mom went through the house room by room, my sister and I would help in any way we could, though sometimes we were more of a hindrance, especially when sibling rivalry came into play. Floors had to be swept and washed, mats hung on the fence after a thorough beating, walls wiped down, chesterfield cushions aired out and fluffed back into shape, candleholders polished with Brasso. I remember one particular brass ashtray and candy dish that I would faithfully slather with Brasso and try and get a brilliant shine, but alas it was not to be, so I was promptly asked to clean up the yard. I always wondered why the yard - nobody was gonna see it in the dark. Yes, there was a lot of preparation for that night and I believe the preparation was as exciting as the main event. Later that afternoon Mom would start to prepare the snacks for that night. First was the sandwiches - no problem there. You had a choice of egg, potted meat, sometimes tuna fish or boiled ham though that was only sometimes. Eggs were boiled as hard as the hobs of hell deshelled, mixed with mayonnaise and green relish and meticulously spread on that mammy's fresh bread. Oh what a treat - baker's sop as it was called, and even the crust was cut off. Carefully placed on plates, wrapped in waxed paper, not tinfoil, and placed in the cool of the back porch. "Make sure that cat is out," Mom would always say. Heaven forbid that feline furball would ever get into those sandwiches. Next came the Ritz crackers, hard cheese pieces, jam jams and any other morsels that could be considered a treat. All this was also placed on plates and covered in wax paper and placed out by the sandwiches in anticipation of guests. Supper was a lttle early as everything had to be cleared up, clothes changed, crumbs wasted at supper to be swept up. We also had a large teapot that was kept high in the cupboard that was used for guests and special occasions. It had to be taken down, washed, dried and rinsed with boiling water. Man that was a huge teapot as I remember. It must have held a gallon of brewed tea that always tasted different than the everyday pot. At about this time Dad would go to the back room and bring out the old card table. It wasn't much to look at but it served its purpose. It had four fold-out legs and a green cardboard top. The legs were made of wood and not very big, but they were hardwood, so very sturdy. The top was a cardboard that held the scars of many fist slamming down the winning hand or in a lot of cases when 45's were played, the ace of hearts or five and jack of trumps was always slammed into the poor ol' top. The top was encircled with a hardwood frame and Dad, realizing the beating it might have to take, had the foresight to add some wood bracing with slats to absorb the pleasure of the five of trumps players also underneath the cardboard top. Oh how I remember that table and the joy and laughter it brought to those that played on it. As the night was fast approaching and the last beams of daylight disappeared, the clan soon started to arrive. Some walked a short distance and others came by car or truck, usually two couples in the same vehicle. In the kitchen at first, 'til it got too crowded so the men folk would retire to the living room. The conversations were light at first with everything under the sun as a topic, from ordinary everyday conversations such as the weather and when would be the first fall of snow, to uncle so and so got a new horse to use in the woods this year, and from there branched out into everything that could be talked about with me an my sister present. Bedtime for us was always 8:30 and we had to be reminded of this fact on several occasions, the last being sternly. While the men sat in the living room, the women congregated in the kitchen and talked about women stuff I guess like sewing, knitting, raising young ones etc. The menfolk, however, would set up that ol' card table and prepare to start a game of 45's. The living room not being all that big with a lot of seating, some uncles and Dad could be found sitting on the arms of the chesterfield or on footstools, but each content and at ease surrounded by good friends and family. Yes it could not possibly get any better, or could it? My bedroom was directly across from the kitchen and I waited and waited for that door to be shut knowing that Mom thought that I had finally fallen asleep. Not likely. After a few hands of 45's, I could hear my aunt bring in a plate of sandwiches to the menfolk and return to the kitchen shutting the door. By this time the bottle of dark rum had made several passes and the card game became more intense with the first few fists to the table as the five was slammed on the jack. Aha, finally my time to make a move. I would slowly and carefully, without a sound, get out of bed and sneak out the hall on hands and knees. I remember the cold canvas flooring on the hall floor and how the coldness would creep through my pjs. Silently I made my way to the archway that separated the hall from the room. The big ol' comfy chair that always sat in the corner would be my destination. I would quickly scramble behind it out of sight, out of mind of those present, or so I thought. I would hide and listen to the good fun and guffaws all were having while playing cards. Coke would come in 16 ounce bottles then, not the one and two litre plastic variety we have now, but 16 ounce glass bottles. There would be six bottles to a carry tray made of cardboard with Coca Cola and its logo plastered all over it. Unbeknownst to me at the time, for some strange reason the plate of sandwiches with a few left on it and a bottle of Coke would always end up by the side of that ol' chair, which I was hiding behind within easy reach of my lil' grubby hands. Always placed there by an uncle of mine. Thinking back, my hiding place was not so well hidden after all. The night wore on and I believe I may have dozed a few times because it seemed so short a period in my life. The bottle was again making its rounds and it never seemed to empty but the Coke was fast disappearing, so I believe there was more than one. As the night wore on the card playing began to slow down and conversation was the mainstay with so many stories being told. I wish I could remember them all. All but a few of them present were WWII veterans and it wasn't long before the war became the topic. They had served in the army, navy, air force and merchant marine and it wasn't long 'til they were recalling the people they served with, places they had been, the boats they sailed, the planes they flew, placenames they had been while serving. It all seemed so exciting, and they even joked about some of their experiences, not in any great detail, just ordinary military life that offered relief from the horrors that they had endured. I was enthralled when they spoke of places like Normandy, France, Italy, mere words that I had only read or heard about in books and magazines of the day. They would describe the places to the extent I felt as though I had been with them. The hedgerows of Belgium, fields of flanders, even walking the cobbblestones of London. Sometimes I would doze off but this night, I awoke to the sounds of my uncle's voice, which seemed different than his jovial tone. He was relating a terrible event he had endured while serving and still carried with him the scars of that episode which were not so easily seen by others. It was then that the others present began relating other instances that they had endured but kept locked away for so long. I didn't fully understand what or why they were talking about this, but I knew it was important for them to talk about it. My uncle took what was left in the bottle and dispersed it to all those present. He stood up and held his glass high and with a voice that I remember to this day said, "To all who pay the price." All there stood and done the same. It was then I seen the tear build up in his eye, roll down his cheek and splatter on the ol' green cardboard table top. I remember that to this day and if that ol' table were still here, I am sure the imprint of that teardrop is still there as it is in my heart. I guess soon after that I was discovered in my hiding place and whisked off to bed where I dreamed the good dreams all young boys dream when living in a free society of plenty and surrounded by loved ones and friends. Fast forward now 50 years or so to this past summer. As a member of cav for the past four years I have had the honour and privilege of meeting and socializing with many of our vetrerans and supporters. I have listened to a lot of their experiences, both military and personal. Last year after a day of riding and comeraderie a get together was held at the dawg's where we had plenty of food, snacks, wobblies, even some local entertainment courtesy of the Singin' Cobbler and his buddy a Mr. Mercer. The lys unit as well as some members of Beaumont Hamel and our national president were there. It was a gorgeous night with little wind and warm temperatures. We were a motley bunch made up of veterans and veteran supporters but all sharing the same good food, drink, peace, freedom and above all, a brotherhood. All was well in the world and the pressures of everyday life seemed so unimportant at that time. We lived for the moment, no worries, no stress. Earlier that day I had been told of a young soldier recently back from Afghanistan who had been having trouble reintegrating back into life as we know it here in Canada because of the horrors he had experienced. Other topics ranged from the charities that cav supported to the rolling of the capelin, which was delayed this year. There was no shortage of topics. Soon the snacks were brought out which ranged from crab to sandwiches, fresh shrimp, lobster, fresh fish and an array of biscuits and cheeses. For a table to layout this stuff a scaffold with boards was hastily arranged to support all the stuff. A green tarp was used also to cover the makeshift table to make it look presentable. At last the bottles of joy juice were laid out for anyone who wanted to partake of the elixir. After a few drinks a fire was lit in the pit and many of us gathered there to partake of its warm glow. Fire is a magical hypnotic entity that breathes relaxation and emotional warmth into those that peer into its flames. As we sat basking in the heat of the flames, small talk was consumed by the flames. We spoke of the things we hoped we would accomplish, the weather, where we would like to ride, etc. As the elixir was passed around, veterans began speaking of their time in service like where they had lived, places they had been, people they had served with ordinary stuff that supporters could relate to. One veteran told of things he had done and to be honest, they were a bit on the comical side or at least that was the way he presented them. Suddenly I was back in my hiding place behind that big ol' comfy chair listening to my uncle speaking and reminiscing of his time in service to this country. Like a child I felt warm, safe and happy with no worries or cares. Each person there had a story to tell with a special meaning to the storyteller. One veteran spoke of an instance that he was a part of that seemed to be the defining moment of his military career, something that he carried with him and very rarely spoke of. I watched as he spoke, his eyes stared into the fire as if he was reliving it. Suddenly all was quiet, each in their own thoughts on what he had just revealed. A long few minutes and again the veteran spoke of another time and place somewhat like tonight when he was sitting with an old army comrade, or maybe it was a relative or good friend. I am not quite sure as to who it was but they eventually began talking religion. He spoke of when the Bible was translated into its modern day version the commandment of "thou shalt not kill" was indeed in the ol' hebrew language cited as "thou shalt not commit murder." As I gazed at him I could once again see my uncle who was a large man with greying hair, receding hairlines, wrinkled faces and middle age spread. No longer were they young and robust of muscular build who could walk or run for miles, fight their way through dense hedgerows. I gazed at all present. Each one wore a black vest with the insignia of a dispatch rider on their back as an honour to those that had ridden before them. All wore small biker patches on the fronts saying little silly biker things. Most had lapel pins embedded in the front of their vests or pieces of coloured ribbons pinned to their chests. Every pin or ribbon held a special significance or meaning to those that wore it. The vests were windworn from countless miles that were driven either from the exuberance of freedom or some charitable event that the rider was helping to raise funds for. As the fire died down to embers and those present were about to call it a night, someone said one last drink for all. A line up to the makeshift table to grab the last of their magic elixir of the gods. As I was the last up I had to take what was left but to my surprise there seemed to be enough for all. As I poured my drink, an arm with drink in hand was lifted and the words "to all who pay the price" the words echoed and resounded in my inner thoughts and deep into my soul. As I looked on at those present I could see a tear in the eyes of our veteran swell up roll down his cheek and splatter on the green tarp tabletop. Yes, teardrops on the table for those "who pay the price."   Submitted By: john bickham