Poppies

In Flanders Fields
by
Lt. Col. John McCrae, M.D.
1872-1918

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.

I’ve been a bit thoughtful of late concerning veterans, memorials, battles and banners. I’ve had this disposition for a while, but with the posting of the video (The Stone) and my perception of a Republic drifting off course (my opinion); well…I’ve been thoughtful. Over the last couple of weeks I have become somewhat familiar with two veteran organizations; these being the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) and The American Legion. Although I do have the “veteran” tag, my time of service disqualifies me from these bodies…and rightly so. They have the distinction of catering to those who have served in time of conflict. Anyway, in my studies and correspondence I have learned the meaning of the little red “poppies” that are handed out by these groups (usually stationing themselves by storefronts) after a donation of any size, at certain times of the year. It seems that in the Belgium battlefields of World War I, red poppies would grow…even amidst the carnage. An officer in the Canadian forces, a Lt. Col. John McCrea, in 1915 (the United States not yet in the fight) penned the poem, “In Flanders Fields.” It speaks of handing the torch…to the living. Well, the “poppy” has become a symbol of remembrance and reminder. It should help us remember the sacrifice given, and a reminder that each bloom is touched by a veteran (disabled, or in some other way impaired) and that one hundred percent of the donation goes for the help of these.

I was driving my old GMC Vandura down a back street when I saw him. There, seated in a metal folding chair, a graying veteran with a red coffee can in one hand, and red poppies in the other. I didn’t need anything at the drug store that day, but I had a “need” to be thankful. So I stopped, walked up to him (he was busy with another) placed a buck in the bucket and asked, “American Legion?” “VFW,” he replied. I shook his hand, said, “Thank you, for your service.” And then I walked away. The little red poppy is now attached to my tool pouch. And there it will stay until it falls off…or it is replaced by another.

The Stone

From “The Stone”
(by R.P.Edwards)

At last I learn
What I’ve been told
That “treasure” lives
But not in gold
So to the stone
I come to see
And hear the words
“Remember me!”

The journey of the song began nearly twenty years ago. A recent arrival to “flyover country” my young family (just four of us then) joined a church that would, a couple times a year, rent a “memorial hall” for the purpose of holiday gatherings. On one such occasion (perhaps the first) I noticed the plaques, the inscriptions…and the stones. I don’t know what steered me, ever so slightly, away from my obsession with “self,” --perhaps the benefit of age, or some lesson my “Pop” had dropped into my subconscious decades earlier-- whatever the reason, I began to be somewhat appreciative that these names, these many, many names…represented young men whose lives were cut short…deprived of family, fortune, heritage…that I, bloated from a Thanksgiving plate, could carry on. I remember, vaguely, trying to convey some of this sentiment to my two young men. How much they heard…I know not.

Fast forward a few years. The fiftieth anniversary of the end of World War II was quickly approaching. I picked up my Appalachian instrument (autoharp) and composed a song that expressed my diluted sentiment (diluted, because my motives are not always “pure”). Well, nothing came of it (perhaps nothing was supposed to) and now, fourteen years later, with the aid of a technology not easily accessible at that time, “The Stone” is born anew. If you haven’t viewed it yet…now would be a good time.

This entry will be posted on Memorial Day . I probably won’t watch the parade…but I will remember them. I, most likely, won’t attend the ceremonies…but I will remember them. I won’t be terribly caught up with the “feelings” of the moment…but I will remember them. Instead of pausing this one brief season, I will, as God enables, stand daily--in their stead-- for their “values.” No, not the manufactured and massaged values of Academia, or Hollywood, or a wayward Judiciary. But the values of the Marine who, clutching his pierced chest, knelt into the black sands of Iwo Jima and then stood up to take the hand of his Lord. The values of the sailors whose lifeless bodies sank beneath the waves at the Battle of Coral Sea. Their bodies succumbed to the depths, but their spirits rose unhindered. The values of the thousands, upon thousands, upon thousands who knew that courage began at an alter with a bowed head and a resolute heart. Yes, it “is” time to remember them. But more than that…it is time…to “be” them.