My father, cutting across a large corner lot in Guelph, Ontario, as a kid, was stopped by a tall, erect white-haired man of military bearing. He asked my father's name and school and favourite subject. When Dad said English, he asked if he knew poetry. When Dad said yes, he was asked if he knew In Flanders Fields. With a positive response, he asked if he would recite it for him. When Dad recited the poem, the man man said to my father, age 9, "John McRae is my son."