About 2 years ago, my father-in-law was diagnosed with Alzheimers. It was a big blow to all of us. He was 82 at the time, a fun-loving cockney Englishman through and through, and a proud veteran. November 11th was always his favourite holiday - he'd put on his uniform, go down to the local Legion, get together with his comrades and celebrate until late in the evening. Two days ago, when we got news that he was dying, we were told it would be mere hours. But on Sunday morning, he seemed to have recovered, and we all wondered if he was simply trying to hold on until Monday, November 11, trying to make it to his favourite holiday. He didn't make it. He passed away last night at 9 PM.
In addition to the sadness we all felt, and as stupid as it sounds, I was also disappointed for him that he died on the 10th. But then late last night, while I was looking through his pictures, it occurred to me that he was an Englishman, born in England. And last night at 9 PM in Western Canada, it was already 7 AM in England. So in my book, he got his wish. He made it to his favourite holiday, and so - at least for me - from now on, November 11th will be HIS holiday.
John Johnson, I never really understood anything you said with this bloody accent of yours, but I loved you anyway. I will try my best to keep your memory alive in my son. You've been a great grandpa, and we will miss you very much. Rest in peace, until we see you again.