Not Again: An Edmontonian's reflections on the news of war, by Beatrice Daily Huser

News of the start of the Gulf War in 1991 reminds a grandmother of the suffering World War II brought to her family.

It is 4:50 p.m., January 16, 1991. My teenage grandson calls from the front room, "Grandma, it's started! They're bombing Iraq!"

I leave the "pigs-in-blankets" I have been rolling and join him in front of the television. Cold prickles run up and down my skin as I watch. An announcer states, "U.S. bomber planes are flying … we take you now to Baghdad…" And I see on a blackened T.V. screen the flashes of exploding bombs, the yellow tracery of other missiles criss-crossing the screen, hear the excited comments of a journalist speaking from a hotel within the city.

My god, it's happening - - again?

But I have supper to get. Shaking, I fork-prick the dough around the sausages. Close the electrical oven door…

That other time…it is a Sunday in September, the first Sunday. A warm autumn day. I am helping Mom get dinner. We build up the fire in the kitchen stove and put the potatoes on to boil. (Are women always preparing food when such news comes?) I lift the latch and open the homemade wooden door to cool off our little farm kitchen. The barking of the dog. The sound of buggy wheels. Company? It's my uncle, aunt and their two little boys.

I run out to invite them down from the buggy. My uncle stops in the kitchen doorway. He and his wife look at each other. Why are they so serious? Is something wrong? Uncle speaks. His voice is husky. "England declared war on Germany at 11:00 a.m. today."

Aunt Flossie, speaking quickly, the words tumbling over each other. "We just heard it at church. It came over the Morrow's radio. Everyone was talking about it."

A strangled cry from my mother: "Oh no! Not war - not again!" Her face crumples. She digs in her apron pocket for a handkerchief.

My father's voice, slow, controlled: "Canada will support England. Just as in 1914. And that means our boys - Forest and Glen - the right age." He walks out into the yard, his face away from us, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

WAR. I couldn't grasp the enormity of it, couldn't imagine it. Not then.

Six death-filled years later, I knew. I knew. I know. I want to shut off the sound of the television, turn off the radio. Put my hands over my ears. Say it isn't true.

It can't be happening. Not again...