Small family things from four generations.
From the Great War, the Second, the Cold War, this Terror War.
The crude paper knife was made by one who saw the blood-red of a Vimy dawn reflect the shell holes beyond the wire.
One who fought past a little town that bore his name -- from whence his people had departed five hundred, and nine hundred, years before.
Etched in the brass of the blade's obverse is a Maple Leaf and the one-word legend: France.
It is enough -- for those who know the battle litany of that war: Ypres, Passchendaele, Mons, Amiens, Cambrai, the Somme.
And after Normandy, Caen and Falaise and the costal route, other names have joined the geography of family mind: Bihac, Velika Kladuza, Kabul and Kandahar.
Of this fourth generation, three of mine wear, or have worn, the uniform of our country.
Have been willing to lay their bodies down.
This Sunday, as always, I will stand near the cenotaph where shines the names.
While the colours dip and the wreath ribbons flutter, I will listen to The Post and Reveille -- and The Flowers O' the Forest.
And try not to weep.