There is something delightful in the concrete underpass of the Appleby GO station this time of year.

“We’re gonna hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line, If the Siegfried Line’s still there,” sings Bill Reid in his rich baritone as he pins poppies on smiling commuters.

Every November, the 80-year-old veteran — part Vera Lynn, part Mister Rogers — stands beneath the fluorescent lights of the transit tunnel and belts out hits of the blitz, reminding the Toronto-bound “There will always be an England …” and offering hearty encouragement to the late and the rushed.

“There’s still time!” he bellows theatrically as the 7:21 a.m. train thunders overhead. Wearing his beret, raincoat and sunglasses, with a wooden poppy box around his neck, he bursts into song: “The train’s a-coming! Get on board little chillun, get on board little chillun.”

“You might make it!” he says as men and women sprint up the stairs. “Just stretch it out! Wow, you’ll be fit as a fiddle!”

The retired teacher and principal takes a seat when the train leaves and talks about how, in his second year pinning poppies at the station (1989), a man told him his father had been a prisoner of war in Germany for three years. The father used to sing a song, but the man couldn’t quite remember the words.

“It wouldn’t happen to be, ‘Coming in on a wing and a prayer,’” Reid sings, raising his fist like Céline Dion in the retelling

“I’ve been singing ever since.”

He comes for the morning rush, arriving in darkness at 5:50 a.m., leaving after the 8:21 train. He finds the acoustics surprisingly good: “No reverb.”

In his 26th year, he is an institution, the poppy pinning is a ceremony, and the songs and stories a welcome change from the monotony of the commute. People line up, eight-deep on this Thursday morning. “God bless you,” he calls out to those who pass with poppies already on their jackets. “It looks good on you!”

He asks “May I,” as he gently holds the lapel, scarf, or jacket, pins the poppy and twists the pin so it doesn’t fall out. The twisting leaves an indent in his thumb. As he works, some people stare ahead and listen to his songs, others smile at the diligent hands, many chat about life outside the tunnel. Some walk into the underpass with a $5 bill pre-folded in their hand.

Most wear suits, but some are in work boots covered with dust. They are old and young — nearly all too young to know the words to most of the songs, but it doesn’t matter.

“Kiss me goodnight Sergeant Major, tuck me in my little wooden bed,” he sings.

“I only buy my poppy from him,” says Jill Ingram on the platform, noting she woke her son up early a few years ago for the experience. “I hadn’t heard about him before, and he brought tears to me eyes.”

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“He’s so sweet,” says Karen Hanshaw, holding a double double coffee in her hands. “Everybody’s got their heads down, it’s nice to be able to smile.”

Born in 1934, Reid grew up in wartime Halifax, and shares his memories with commuters. His father Billy Reid had a famous radio show and Reid sang on air as a boy, learning all the old tunes. He also went with his dad to concert parties — he grew up a professional entertainer.

After university, he trained as an officer and served with the army, stationed in Montreal, out west, and in Belgium. He taught high school physics and theatre. He has sung with the Canadian Opera Company, the Hamilton Opera Company. He is married with children and grandchildren — his wife does most of the behind the scenes work with the poppy accounting.

His first collection day last Friday ended with the heaviest donation box he has received.

“People didn’t say a lot — some did — but the events of the last weeks affected them,” he says, referencing the deaths of Cpl. Nathan Cirillo and Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent. “An awful lot of people said, ‘Can I give you a hug? Can I shake your hand?’”

Many missed their trains.

As he packs up to leave, a young woman stops him. He sets down his bags and plucks out a poppy. He pins it on her lapel, and, almost as though he has forgotten a crucial step, sings,

“All the nice girls love a sailor...”

The morning rush hour is over and so is Reid’s yearly stint — he is busy taking care of veterans and helping with Remembrance Day ceremonies.

“Thank you for your generosity,” he’s been calling out all morning. “See you next year, God willing.”

And then, of course, he can’t resist.

“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.”

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