In Flander's Field

The VFW people were selling poppies outside of Cub yesterday.

I bought one.

They remind me of my dad because I always thought it was so cool when he would bring one home. I'm guessing they sold them at the VA where he worked and, dumb me, until a few years ago, I had no idea that they were related to this poem.

Here's the history of how it was written. Followed by the poem.

Flander's Field

Summer, 1915. World War I. English and French armies had dug in their heels against the bulldozer onslaught of the German army as it ploughed its way across the plains of Flanders. After a day of ferocious fighting following the second battle of Ypres, the sun rose on a relatively quiet battlefield.

Col. John McCrae cautiously poked his head above the security of his trench to be met with the horrifying sight of row upon row of makeshift crosses littering the plains before him: ghostly reminders of the grim aftermath of the earlier battle marking the graves of the fallen.

McCrae, a Canadian veteran of the Second Boer War and professor of medicine at McGill University in Montreal, was struck with admiration at the courage of the dead and overwhelmed by awe at their selflessness as he caught sight of the tiny, red poppies dancing lazily in the gentle breeze among the grave markers of his fallen comrades. Inspired by the sight, and by the memories of the previous days of vicious fighting, McCrae grabbed a pad of paper and pen and quickly began to write down the words that had suddenly appeared in his mind. In minutes, his creation was complete:

Flander's Field

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 1872 - 1918