In Flanders Fields...

As a child, Remembrance Day was more than a date on the calendar in my house and the small town where I grew up. It was a solemn observance, a day steeped in reverence and gratitude.

In the days leading up to November 11th, my school would immerse us in the significance of the day. We would read and recite "In Flanders Fields" by John McCrae, a powerful poem that has stayed with me through the years. Its first stanza echoes in my mind, a timeless reminder of sacrifice and valor.

Growing up with my grandparents, Remembrance Day took on a deeper meaning. My grandfather, a World War II veteran, was a man of few words about his service but profound in his actions. I remember him securing a poppy over my heart each year, instilling in me the importance of wearing it with pride. And if ever I misplaced it, he was quick to replace it, a small but significant gesture of remembrance.

One of my fondest childhood memories is watching my grandfather prepare for the Remembrance Day ceremonies. He would dress with a quiet dignity: a neatly tied tie, a crisp sport coat, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Then, with a steady hand, he would attach his war medals to the left breast pocket of his coat (seen in the picture above - third from the right. Navy blazer, grey pants, no hat). It was a ritual that spoke volumes, each medal a silent testament to his bravery and service.

He seldom spoke of the war. Whether it was the pain of remembrance or a wish to shield me from the harsh realities of conflict, I never knew. But what was evident was his pride in serving his country. His silent reverence was a lesson in itself, teaching me more about honor and duty than any words could.

As Remembrance Day approaches, I find myself reflecting on my grandfather's legacy. His quiet strength, his unspoken sacrifices, and the solemn pride with which he carried his past. In his memory, and in honor of all those who served and continue to serve, I share the words of "In Flanders Fields," a poem that captures the spirit of remembrance and the enduring legacy of those who gave their lives for our freedom.

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."

~ John McCrae