I’ve racked my brain and still cannot remember a time in my life when I celebrated Veterans' Day. I’ve always enjoyed my day off of work/school with little thought of what the holiday really meant. And, regrettably, I’m sure there were times I didn’t even know what holiday was warranting my treasured day off (which I made apparent as I kept calling it “Memorial Day”).
A couple weeks ago, I witnessed what I should have been witnessing my whole life. And it happened in Canada-go figure. Now, I realize that many Americans do celebrate Veterans' Day and there are even parades and ceremonies to celebrate our military, past and present. However, for some reason or another, I’ve succeeded in being completely oblivious to such things. Not anymore.
It happened on a Sunday (as do most good things). However, I didn’t realize I was in for such a treat. Church was even pushed back a few hours-that’s how you know it was important. Apparently every city in Canada has their own gathering to commemorate the fallen soldiers and those who sacrificed everything for the cause of freedom. We donned our poppies (which I didn’t know the meaning of, naturally), and joined with hundreds of Cardston-ites to “remember”. I was amazed at the number of people there, each wearing their own red flower pin. It was strange to stand while everyone sang the Canadian Anthem. I didn’t know the words, but joined in at each “Oh-Canada”.
We then listened to the speeches of several notable members of the community and enjoyed the chorus of young school children all wearing- you guessed it-red poppies. The best part of the program though, was the speech of a young girl who had been on a sort of remembrance tour of Europe for school. She shared her stories of visiting the lands where so many men fought and were either killed, or changed forever. I found myself thinking of my grandpa, who was on the front lines in the Battle of the Bulge. One of the few in his company who survived. I longed to read the book of his life my mom had given each of us kids, but sat unopened in Idaho. I called my parents later that night and asked about the sacrifices their fathers had made for their country. I never knew my grandpas, but it made me yearn to meet them and speak with them about what they had to endure.
I listened to the rest of the program gaining a deeper understanding of the ugliness of war and the courage of those soldiers who did something that, hopefully, I will never fully comprehend. I listened to the words of “In Flanders Fields” and finally understood the meaning of the poppy I had pinned to my coat. Then we stood once more as audience members laid wreaths in memory of the men from their town who had fallen. Suddenly the past wasn’t so far distant, and I could feel the hurt of those family members whose sons, fathers and husbands didn’t make it home.
For a week or so after Remembrance Day (as they call it in Canada), and while I was recovering from surgery, Max and I read several of the letters his grandfather wrote to his grandmother while at war. Okay, he read, I listened. But once again I felt the reality of war and the toll it had on those who lived through it. We lay on our nice warm, comfy couch, reading the very vague hints he would give at the challenges he faced, and cried as he professed his undying love for the woman who would await his return. Max has been dedicated since then about getting to know a grandpa he never knew.
I had a dream a couple nights ago that I was fighting in a war. I don’t remember the details, but I remember being absolutely terrified and feeling like I could never endure the physical, but more so the psychological stress. I woke just after I decided to leave the country because I could not take it anymore. I suppose I would never make a good soldier.
I have found myself thinking less and less about this new-found holiday as days pass by. I’m starting to get caught up once again with the stresses of work, the upcoming Christmas holiday, and trying to figure out how to stay entertained in Browning while Max is in Vegas. I want so desperately though to keep those feelings in my heart, which is why I decided to write a couple thoughts down-lest I forget.
A couple weeks ago, I witnessed what I should have been witnessing my whole life. And it happened in Canada-go figure. Now, I realize that many Americans do celebrate Veterans' Day and there are even parades and ceremonies to celebrate our military, past and present. However, for some reason or another, I’ve succeeded in being completely oblivious to such things. Not anymore.
It happened on a Sunday (as do most good things). However, I didn’t realize I was in for such a treat. Church was even pushed back a few hours-that’s how you know it was important. Apparently every city in Canada has their own gathering to commemorate the fallen soldiers and those who sacrificed everything for the cause of freedom. We donned our poppies (which I didn’t know the meaning of, naturally), and joined with hundreds of Cardston-ites to “remember”. I was amazed at the number of people there, each wearing their own red flower pin. It was strange to stand while everyone sang the Canadian Anthem. I didn’t know the words, but joined in at each “Oh-Canada”.
We then listened to the speeches of several notable members of the community and enjoyed the chorus of young school children all wearing- you guessed it-red poppies. The best part of the program though, was the speech of a young girl who had been on a sort of remembrance tour of Europe for school. She shared her stories of visiting the lands where so many men fought and were either killed, or changed forever. I found myself thinking of my grandpa, who was on the front lines in the Battle of the Bulge. One of the few in his company who survived. I longed to read the book of his life my mom had given each of us kids, but sat unopened in Idaho. I called my parents later that night and asked about the sacrifices their fathers had made for their country. I never knew my grandpas, but it made me yearn to meet them and speak with them about what they had to endure.
I listened to the rest of the program gaining a deeper understanding of the ugliness of war and the courage of those soldiers who did something that, hopefully, I will never fully comprehend. I listened to the words of “In Flanders Fields” and finally understood the meaning of the poppy I had pinned to my coat. Then we stood once more as audience members laid wreaths in memory of the men from their town who had fallen. Suddenly the past wasn’t so far distant, and I could feel the hurt of those family members whose sons, fathers and husbands didn’t make it home.
For a week or so after Remembrance Day (as they call it in Canada), and while I was recovering from surgery, Max and I read several of the letters his grandfather wrote to his grandmother while at war. Okay, he read, I listened. But once again I felt the reality of war and the toll it had on those who lived through it. We lay on our nice warm, comfy couch, reading the very vague hints he would give at the challenges he faced, and cried as he professed his undying love for the woman who would await his return. Max has been dedicated since then about getting to know a grandpa he never knew.
I had a dream a couple nights ago that I was fighting in a war. I don’t remember the details, but I remember being absolutely terrified and feeling like I could never endure the physical, but more so the psychological stress. I woke just after I decided to leave the country because I could not take it anymore. I suppose I would never make a good soldier.
I have found myself thinking less and less about this new-found holiday as days pass by. I’m starting to get caught up once again with the stresses of work, the upcoming Christmas holiday, and trying to figure out how to stay entertained in Browning while Max is in Vegas. I want so desperately though to keep those feelings in my heart, which is why I decided to write a couple thoughts down-lest I forget.
And in case you're curious about this poppy poem...
John McCrae was a poet and physician from Guelth, Ontario. He developed an interest in poetry at a young age and wrote throughout his life. His earliest works were published in the mid 1890s in Canadian magazines and newspapers. McCrae's poetry often focused on death and the peace that followed.
At the age of 41, McCrae enrolled with the Canadian Expeditionary Force following the outbreak of the First World War. He had the option of joining the medical corps due to his training and age, but volunteered instead to join a fighting unit as a gunner and medical officer. It was his second tour of duty in the Canadian military. He previously fought with a volunteer force in the Second Boer War. He considered himself a soldier first; his father was a military leader in Guelph and McCrae grew up believing in the duty of fighting for his country and empire.
McCrae fought in the second battle of Ypres in the Flanders region of Belgium where the German army launched one of the first chemical attacks in the history of war. They attacked the Canadian position with chlorine gas on April 22, 1915, but were unable to break through the Canadian line which held for over two weeks. In a letter written to his mother, McCrae described the battle as a "nightmare": "For seventeen days and seventeen nights none of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except occasionally. In all that time while I was awake, gunfire and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds ..... And behind it all was the constant background of the sights of the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety lest the line should give way." Alexis Helmer, a close friend, was killed during the battle on May 2. McCrae performed the burial service himself, at which time he noted how poppies quickly grew around the graves of those who died at Ypres. The next day, he composed the poem while sitting in the back of an ambulance.
According to legend, fellow soldiers retrieved the poem after McCrae, initially unsatisfied with his work, discarded it. "In Flanders Fields" was first published on December 8 of that year in the London-based magazine Punch.
John McCrae was a poet and physician from Guelth, Ontario. He developed an interest in poetry at a young age and wrote throughout his life. His earliest works were published in the mid 1890s in Canadian magazines and newspapers. McCrae's poetry often focused on death and the peace that followed.
At the age of 41, McCrae enrolled with the Canadian Expeditionary Force following the outbreak of the First World War. He had the option of joining the medical corps due to his training and age, but volunteered instead to join a fighting unit as a gunner and medical officer. It was his second tour of duty in the Canadian military. He previously fought with a volunteer force in the Second Boer War. He considered himself a soldier first; his father was a military leader in Guelph and McCrae grew up believing in the duty of fighting for his country and empire.
McCrae fought in the second battle of Ypres in the Flanders region of Belgium where the German army launched one of the first chemical attacks in the history of war. They attacked the Canadian position with chlorine gas on April 22, 1915, but were unable to break through the Canadian line which held for over two weeks. In a letter written to his mother, McCrae described the battle as a "nightmare": "For seventeen days and seventeen nights none of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except occasionally. In all that time while I was awake, gunfire and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds ..... And behind it all was the constant background of the sights of the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety lest the line should give way." Alexis Helmer, a close friend, was killed during the battle on May 2. McCrae performed the burial service himself, at which time he noted how poppies quickly grew around the graves of those who died at Ypres. The next day, he composed the poem while sitting in the back of an ambulance.
According to legend, fellow soldiers retrieved the poem after McCrae, initially unsatisfied with his work, discarded it. "In Flanders Fields" was first published on December 8 of that year in the London-based magazine Punch.
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.
Thanks again to Wikipedia.
