My father was in the military, so I witnessed a lot of military ceremonies. The only one (at that time) I enjoyed was an air force change-over of command in France in 1963. At the end four F0104 Starfighters made a fast, loud, and low pass directly over us. At that time it was THE hod-rod rocket, manned by bushy-tailed kerosense cowboys full of the spice of life who put on a darn good show of skill, bravado, and low flying.
At the age of 16 I joined the Naval Reserve in Ottawa, and quickly learned the art of marching. I joined the ceremonial guard, we practiced and learned every week. A year later (1967) we celebrated our Centennial and naturally, there was a massive parade in front of our Parliament buildings. Thousands of troops, and since I was both tall and a good marcher, chosen to be the right guard. And since the Navy was the “senior service” after the band and some officers waving their swords, I was the who led it all.
As we marched up the road leading to Parliament Hill, I saw a large grandstand full of dignitaries. But front and center in the place of honor were ex WW1 vets. And as we passed and went “eyes right”, they applauded us. US, awkward kids being honored by those who truly served. I will never forget that moment, and whenever I hear “In Flanders Fields” I tear up.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Some ceremonies suck, some have tremendous impact.