Poppies…poppies…
Writing by treason on Sunday, 28 of May , 2006 at 11:06 pm
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
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.
– “In Flanders Fields,” John McCrae, 1915
I remember when I was a child we brought a fistful of change to school so we could purchase artificial red poppies with green wire stems. We’d hand over the coins to our teacher, and she would present the shiny red flowers. Each student would find a way to attach the poppy somewhere on the chest - either by wrapping the stem around a button, or pulling it through the stitches of a cardigan. We knew the flower was special, we just didn’t know why.
Decades have passed and adults ask one another:
“Say, don’t we have a three-day weekend coming up here pretty soon?”
Someone will say: “We sure do and I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some time off!”
People will describe their holiday plans. We’re going to go out of town and just relax. It’s the lake for us. Mountains and camping. Sticking around the house - eating, drinking beer, napping. Putting in some new flooring. Cleaning out the garage. Shopping. Probably see a ballgame…or take the kids to see that movie they’ve been advertising.
Someone will invariably ask:
“Now what holiday is this again? Labor Day?”
“No, that’s in November.”
“No, Labor Day’s in September. You know - the end of summer, back to school, beginning of fall and all that? Can’t wear white shoes.”
“Then what’s in November?”
“Thanksgiving.”
“No, the other one.”
“It’s Veterans’ Day.”
“I thought that was what this weekend was.”
“What?”
“Veterans’ Day. Isn’t that what this weekend is?”
“I don’t know. It’s one of them. All I know is I don’t have to be here, so call it anything you want. It’s a freaking day off.”
I’m usually the person who explains that it’s Memorial Day. The day of remembrance. The day we’ve set aside to take a moment to remember those who died in our nation’s service. I remember Memorial Day not just because I have a grasp of the major holidays, but because it’s easy to remember a holiday that reminds us to remember death.
I rarely look forward to this weekend because, inevitably, something awful happens. One year, I was rushing my mother’s ailing Basset Hound, Humphrey, to the emergency clinic; three years ago, my sister was dying. It’s rare that I get through this holiday without a medical crisis or tragedy.
Tonight, one of our dogs collapsed on our evening walk. I’m reminded of all the pets who chose a three-day weekend to have a health issue; I’m reminded of my sister; and I’m reminded of the countless bodies lying in fields throughout history. No festivities planned. Well, maybe some drinking.
We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.
– Moina Michael
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