10/13/2026
As November 11th draws near, over 70 banners bearing the names and faces of men and women will line the road between the Campobello school and the crossroads.
Sometimes it can be difficult to put into perspective the lives represented on these telephone poles.
We go about our daily lives, trying to get through the day, and somehow the respect and connection we feel toward those who sacrificed for our freedom becomes something we reserve for a single day each year.
But these names belonged to people who lived ordinary lives. Just like we do.
So, before you scroll past, I want you to imagine something.
Imagine it is 1917.
There is no text message waiting to be answered. No phone call home. No photograph sent in seconds from one side of the world to the other.
There is a piece of paper.
And sometimes, even the paper is running out.
“Paper is getting scarce so will have to write on both sides of this sheet. You wanted to know about socks. Well we are pretty well fixed just now. We got the ones you sent all right.”
— Major Hudgins to his “Dear Ollie,” Aylsford, Nova Scotia, March 11th, 1917.
Read that again.
Not the history. Not the date.
The socks.
Someone at home had wondered if he was warm enough. Someone had taken the time to send them.
And somewhere far away, a man sat down to write back and reassure her that they had arrived.
It is easy, from where we stand now, to think of those who served as belonging to another world. Their photographs are black and white. Their names are carved into monuments. Their uniforms belong in museums.
But their lives were not made of history. They were made of ordinary things.
They worried about their families.
They missed their wives.
They wondered how their children were doing in school.
They waited for letters.
They counted the days since they had last heard from home.
And sometimes, they were afraid.
On December 26th, 1917, Tom wrote to his “Dear Lulu” from Digby, Nova Scotia:
“But all the time I am wondering how you are. I have had no mail for over a week now & I cannot help but wonder whether some went up in the explosion at Halifax.”
Imagine being him for a moment.
It is Boxing Day and everyone you love is somewhere else. You have no way to simply reach for your phone and ask if they are safe.
So, you wait.
A day passes and then another.
You don’t know if your letter is on its way. You don’t know if theirs is. You don’t know what is happening at home.
And all you can do is wonder.
Another letter, from Gerry to his “Darling Sweetheart” in Saint John, brings us even closer to home:
“Hope you are both well and not worrying. I am fine except for being very lonesome for you. Hope to hear from you soon. How is everybody at the plant, give them my regards. Will you send some ci******es to the address I gave you. How is Marjorie doing in school do you think she will grade. Ruby dear don’t let this get you down it will be over soon and we’ll be in our own place as planned.”
There is something almost startling about reading words like these more than a century later.
Because we know what they did not.
We know that some of these men and women would never come home.
But when Gerry wrote those words, he was not writing as a name on a future memorial.
He was writing to the woman he loved.
He was thinking about Marjorie at school.
He was wondering about the people at the plant.
He was asking for ci******es.
He was imagining the house they would have together when all of this was over.
He was making plans for a future he believed he would live to see.
And this is where we can stop and think about what these banners really mean. Because if we only see the uniforms, the dates, the medals, and the names, we miss the people.
They were not born knowing they would become part of history.
They were living their lives.
They had mothers who worried.
Fathers who waited.
Brothers and sisters who missed them.
Wives and husbands who folded their letters and read them more than once.
Children who went to school while wondering when their mom or dad would come home.
They were lonely.
They were hopeful.
They were frightened.
They were bored.
They were homesick.
They laughed.
They worried about things that probably seemed very small in the middle of something so enormous.
They were, in other words, human.
And maybe that is what I hope we can remember when these 70 faces begin lining this road.
Not only that they fought for our freedom.
But that they had something to lose.
They had people they loved.
Homes they wanted to return to.
Ordinary lives that were waiting for them.
So, as you drive by on Route 774, look at these names. And just for a moment, let history become personal. Because these were not simply 70 people who died. They were 70 lives that were being lived.
And more than a hundred years later, we are still here remembering their names.
So, when you pass these banners, I hope you will pause for a moment.
Look at a face.
Read a name.
Think about the person behind it.
And remember that this little stretch of road is holding something much bigger than a collection of banners.
It’s holding pieces of people’s lives.
Lest we forget.
And as we remember them, please help us care for the place where their stories are being told.
Please do not litter.
- Emily Henderson
🤍🇨🇦
✨ A special thank you to everyone who has helped make this project possible. From coordinating to banner design, installing and cleaning the area of litter, we appreciate you!
✨ Letters from The Canadian Letters and Images Project
