The author, near Tuy Hoa, Vietnam, November 1966. The 5‑year-old girl sitting next to me said her name is Margot, but she quickly added for my clarification, ​“The ​‘t’ is silent.”I had lucked out by finding a free folding chair near the back row where the youngest person at Monday’s Veterans Day program at City Hall was also parked.Little Margot had a book with her, and for a time before the ceremonies began, read it aloud, as her father prepared to conduct the Music Haven chamber orchestra in a piece by Bach, and the various anthems of the Marines, Army, Navy, Coast Guard, and Air Force.After a time, we of struck up a conversation, as it always proves very hard for any smart 5‑year-old to ignore the nosiness of an old journalist who treasures what emerges from the mouths of babes.She filled me in on what her parents do for a living (both teachers, if I heard correctly) and that she has taken up the cello, like her dad, though she has a child-sized version instead of one so big that its soloists, such as Yo-Yo Ma, must reserve business class airline seats for their instruments.There were other youngsters in attendance, if you counted the high schoolers in the Music Haven ensemble, each of whom learn their art in tuition-free programs funded by donations.But in all, the audience members, aside from little Margot and the orchestra members, were in stark contrast chronologically to the occupants of the other seats. As I looked around the room, I saw men with caps representing various veteran organizations, though I noticed none that specified, as mine did, ​“Vietnam Veteran.”In all, this gave me a new lens through which to assess how this annual Nov. 11 commemoration, before 1954 referred to as Armistice Day, was different from all others.Here was one way: The featured speaker for the event, after a welcome from Mayor Justin Elicker and remarks by Governor Ned Lamont, who quoted Abe Lincoln at Gettysburg, was our State Senator Gary Winfield, himself a Navy veteran who served on the USS Enterprise aircraft carrier.As he delivered his talk without the aid of notes (“I never use a script,” he told me later, ​“as I always speak from the heart”) little Margot, now sitting on her father’s lap, strained to hear what he was saying.I did too, because the sound system at City Hall apparently makes use of technologies developed when the building was constructed in 1861 – 2, and, in my case for certain, the recent revelation that I have a 20 percent hearing loss suddenly seemed relevant.I could tell, however (and presume Margot, as well, could tell), what Senator Winfield later described in our brief conversation, that ​“so often this holiday is just for show.” When, in fact, there is a deeper message to deliver.During his remarks, I did manage to hear his reference to the high rate of suicide among veterans.In particular, I thought of the startling statistic from my own war. Nearly twice as many military personnel took their own lives than the number (58,276) whose names are etched onto the memorial in Washington, D.C., designed by Maya Lin, then a Yale architecture student.In one way, the three men featured at the podium – Winfield, Elicker, and Lamont – seemed to deliver the same subtext. Even though clarity in that cavernous space was an issue, I could make out the disappointment and worry about our new political reality.I could hear an effort by the three to buck us up even if, ringing in the background, was the phrase, ​“suckers and losers,” an assessment by the former commander in chief who is about to take that position again. (I know he has denied it. I am of the view, however, that Commander Bone Spur is lying once again, and choose to believe General John F. Kelly’s version of events.)But here’s the thing. Some readers of the Independent may recall that a few days ago I wrote about how encouraged I was about the 702 kids who showed up at our place on Halloween because of their courtesies and innocence.Parents here and around the U.S., of course, are worried that this once and imminent Commander is a terrible role model for children. His actions – constant lying, bragging, spouting racist views, unforgiveable treatment of women, etc. — deliver a devastating message to children.But then I think of little Margot, with her silent ​“t”, and the players of the Music Haven chamber orchestra, who now can say they’ve performed a ​“Brandenburg Concerto,” and who can be excused if these dour subtexts have escaped their notice.Most people in my generation have confessed our lack of follow-through and success on the mission of repairing the world. Perhaps the newest generations can do better.Maybe it’s just the damned optimist in me that government, to quote Abe and Ned, ​“of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.” Yet, maybe I also see it in the earnestness and quest to understand in the expression of a small child.