I was chagrined to learn that some of my friends on Open Salon seem to think I'm a veteran.

I'm not.

Yes, I have an abiding interest in and have written extensively about things military, whether it's the lore and traditions of various branches of the service or the impact of certain battles and wars or the stories of real veterans. That's undoubtedly from growing up around ex-servicemen and women, and from reading T.E. Lawrence at an impressionable age.

And, yes, it's true I was a reservist, back in the 1960s. We called it the militia then, but that term has taken on a negative connotation; current usage for those not in the permanent force here in Canada is the reserves. These are men and women who, on a part-time basis, undergo much the same training as the regular forces and can volunteer for duty, for example, in Afghanistan as part of the Canadian brigade there.

Back in the day, the militia was a much-scorned and derided bastard child of the Department of National Defence. The regulars loathed us. We had clapped-out and not infrequently dangerous vehicles, Second World War and Korean War issue uniforms and unreliable equipment. The dispatch riders used to drain the oil drip pans under their motorcycles back into the crankcases each time they were to be used.

Weaponry, until mid-way through the 1960s, consisted of Mark IV bolt-action Lee-Enfield rifles, Sten guns and Bren guns. Later we got the wretched semi-automatic FNC1. I qualified on all of them, learning that I was a crack shot in the process. Except with the Sten. I don't know anyone who mastered that nasty piece of work.

I developed some permanent hearing loss and tinnitus -- a constant ringing sound -- from hours on outdoor and indoor ranges without hearing protection. Yes, I was too stupid even to use wadded tissues to bung up my earholes.

And certainly no one ever suggested we should take part in peacekeeping ventures in places like Cyprus -- that would have been risible, considering the level of competence, training and experience we had.

So to Older/Exasperated; Six Foot Skinny; Sgt. Mom; Torman; Scanner; my father; my uncles; my grandfather and great-uncles and all those who actually served their countries, my apologies. I thought I'd always made it clear what I really was: The Canuck version of Thomas Paine's sunshine soldier and summer patriot.

I'm not ashamed that I was in the militia ... but I certainly can't -- and won't -- claim to be a veteran.