Please Wear a Poppy

by Don Crawford

"Please wear a poppy," the lady said
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.

A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady," said he, "may I have one?"
When she's pinned in on he turned to say,
"Why do we wear a poppy today?"

The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered, "This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is the symbol for
The gallant men who died in war.
And because they did, you and I are free -
That's why we wear a poppy, you see.

"I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew
and became a man - as you will, too.

"He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile,
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day
When he smiled at me and said, Goodbye,
I'll be back soon, Mom, so please don't cry.

"But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the awful fight,
(I can see it still in my dreams at night),
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.

"Till at last, at last, the war was won-
And that's why we wear a poppy son."
The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, "Thanks, lady, I'm glad to know.
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son - did he come back all right?"

A tear rolled down each faded check;
She shook her head, but didn't speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you'd have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, if oft delayed,
Thought our freedom was bought - and thousands paid!

And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne,
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy! Remember - and give!


NOTE: I first found on the Internet at http://canada.kos.net/remembrance.html However, this site did not indicate any source for the poem other than the author's name. Further searches using first the title and then the author's name yielded numerous sites with the poem (all crediting Don Crawford as the author) but none cited where the poem originated. I am assuming that this is one of those items that, intentionally or unintentionally, has been blasted all over the Internet (you know, the emails with more forwarding information than content) and is now used at will. It is in this spirit, with thanks to Don Crawford, whoever & whereever he is, that I am publishing it here as well.

Squire Gabby and the Sheep with the Golden Wool

Part I: The Troubador's Tale
Once upon a time Sir David, Sir Esteban, Sir Victor and Sir Adan were sitting around Soggy Meadow Castle bored and wondering what to do. They had slain all the dragons in the kingdom, defeated all the witches in the area, exterminated the gargoyles and eliminated all other types of undesirables. Having nothing better to do they simply sat around reminiscing about the good old days six months ago. Only little squire Gabby was gainfully occupied, as usual, polishing the armor and setting the table for dinner.

They heard the ringing of the bell at the castle gate and immediately dispatched squire Gabby to investigate. She opened the massive doors, lowered the drawbridge and was greated by a wandering troubador looking for dinner. Sir David said the troubador could stay for dinner provided he entertained them with good tales. Sir Esteban then dispatched squire Gabby to set an extra place at the table and pour some water in the soup to accomodate the extra mouth at the table. At dinner the troubador told many exciting tales but captured everyone's, except squire Gabby who was busy scrubbing the empty soup pot and bowls, attention with his tale of a distant land where sheep grew wool of pure gold on their backs. All four knights knew that they could supplement their allowances much better selling clothes made from golden wool than from recycling slain dragons. They sat up far into the night getting every scrap of information they could about how to reach this far away land.

After locating its approximate position on their big map, Sir Esteban managed to construct a detailed map showing the route from Soggy Meadow Castle to the land of the sheep with the golden wool. Since troubadors are known for their skills in poetry rather than cartography, the resulting diagram was more a picture poem than a map. But

SECRET MAP TO LAND OF SHEEP WITH GOLDEN WOOL

Start: Soggy Meadow Castle

Go South to: Great Sea to the South

Sail Through: Siren Passage

To: Sea of Peril

Dock at: Land of Lazy Soda Drinkers

Get Supplies at: Acme Bottle Exchange & Supply Depot

(Note: Cars and Squires on mules may take scenic, paved road to right to avoid Cyclops, Hydra and other assorted
creatures – Trucks over 1 ton and knights in heavy
armor must use main dirt road)

Advance to: Land of Cyclops

Proceed to: Land of Hydra
Ride to: Grazing Lands of Centaurs

Turn Left and go to: Home of Medusa

Climb up and over: The Pillers of the Sky

Turn Right and saunter toward: Land of the Sheep with the Golden Wool

Early the next morning the four knights roused themselves from their slumber, descended to the dining room, seated themselves comfortably and proceeded to consume a hearty breakfast (the troubador simply woke up and started eating). Squire Gabby had the armour and weapons packed and the hourses saddled. Immediately after breakfast they mounted their hourses and rode out. Since the troubador had nothing better to do they left him behind to watch the castle while they were gone.

After they had traveled for a few hours they met a dragon in the middle of the road. Sir Adan, being the most junior knight, rode out to slay it. He fought a fierce battle with the dragon, who breathed fire on the shield so often that the shield became warped. But finally, as he reared up to shower flames down upon him, he lunged at the exposed mid section and ran his sword through the dragon's heart, killing him. As he lay smouldering in the middle of the road, the party, led by Sir David, mounted on his great white charger, rode on around him. Squire Gabby brought up the rear on her mule. As they rode along the effecient little squire hammered the shield back into shape, scoured the burn marks off the shield and armor and cleaned the green dragon's blood from Sir Adan's mighty battle sword.

Soon they reached the port at the Sea of Peril and began negotiating to purchase a boat. Sir Victor found a leaky old tub and crew for 150 gold florians but, before closing the deal, Squire Gabby rummaged through her coupon pouch and found a manufacturer's coupon good for ten gold florians off the purchase price. Since it was a double coupon dealer they were able to knock another ten gold florians off and got the entire package for 130 gold florians. As soon as they left the dock Squire Gabby served supper and they ate as they sailed into the sunset. To be continued...

Come back on Wednesday, June 8, 2005 for Part II of this story.

Copyright © 2005 by Charles & Victor Nugent

The Candle in the Window

Memorial Day 2005



Nestled among the rolling hills of Western New York State lie a series of shimmering lakes known as the Finger Lakes, so named because they look like the five fingers of a had laying on the landscape. Geologists tell us that they were carved by ancient glaciers but local lore at the time preferred the more poetic Iriquois legend which attributed their creation to the imprint left on the land by the hand of the Great Spirit. This area is rich in history as well as great beauty.

Of the five, Canandaigua, a long, slender lake with rolling hills rising from either side, is the one nearest to my heart. My great-aunt Helen and her husband, my great-uncle Walt had a summer cottage along the eastern shore of the lake and spending Saturdays at the cottage with my family was a highlight of the summertime.

The city of Canandaigua lies about 35 miles southeast of Rochester. Today the trip between Canandaigua can be made in thirty minutes or less and Canandaigua, its lakefront cottages converted to year-round residences for commuters, has become one of Rochester's bedroom communities . But when I was a child the trip took considerably longer on the two lane country roads that wound through the farm country that separated the two cities. Interspersed among the farms were the towns and villages, many dating back to the Revolution, with their distinctive architecture and histories.

The return trip on Saturday evening also had a treat for us. Although fatigued from a day of swimming, climbing the apple tree behind the cottage and hiking up the narrow dirt road, lined with wild blackberry and raspberry bushes, that led up the hill above the lake, we always managed to stay awake as the car made its way back home. When we reached the residential part of Canandaigua's Main St. we eagerly looked out the windows on the right side of the car seeking a glimpse of the house with the candle in the window.

As young children born after World War II, both World War I and World War II seemed a part of the distant past. But, because all of the adults in our lives had lived through those two wars we had a connection to those eras. After all, my Father, two of my uncles and the fathers of most of my friends had fought in World War II. Two of my great-uncles, one of them being Uncle Walt, had served in France during World War I.

Of the two, World War I was the more prominent of the two in those days. With little more than a decade having elapsed since the end of World War II it was too close for much reflection. Besides, in those days my parents and others in their generation were young. World War II had interrupted their lives but now they were focused on making up time lost during the war so they concentrated on raising their families and advancing their careers.

The World War I generation, my grandparents' generation, was different. While they also had had their lives interrupted by that war, they had by then raised their families and were nearing the end of their careers. It was now time for them to reflect and reminisce on the events of their distant youth. In those days Memorial Day was still referred to as Decoration Day and the veterans' sections of cemeteries bloomed with American flags adorning the graves of those who had fallen in the wars. November 11th was still Armistice Day with church bells and sirens ringing out at 11 a.m. commemorating the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918 when peace finally returned to a war weary nation and world. Veterans' groups sold red paper poppies to raise money to care for those whose wounds from the wars made them permanent residents of veteran's hospitals and homes. During the weeks preceding Memorial Day everyone sported a paper poppy in their lapels while teachers in school read John McCrae's immortal poem, In Flanders Fields, which forever linked the poppy with those who gave their lives in that war.

This is why we looked for the house with the candle in the window. For, among the thousands of young men from our part of the Empire state who set out for France in the second decade of the twentieth century with the slogan Lafayette here we come! on their lips, was the one who had grown up in that house. Along with prayers for his safe return, his parents lit candle and placed it in their front window each evening – a symbolic beacon to help him find his way home even in the dark of night. Nearly a half a century later, as we drove home from our Saturday outings, the candle still glowed brightly in the window of that home as that young man's aging parents continued the vigil that began with their son's departure. By then the candle had ceased to be a beacon lighting the way for the son's return and had become instead a symbol of a parents' love for a son who had given his life for his country. With that single candle glowing in the front window of their modest home, that young man's parents were able to keep alive the memory of their son and his sacrifice.

Of all the monuments and memorials that I have seen this is the one that has left the biggest impression. The story of the candle in the window was well known throughout the area and over the decades thousands of people saw it and were touched, if only for the moment by a family's undying love for a son who went off to war never to return.

Copyright © 2005 by Charles J. Nugent Jr.

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae
(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.

John McCrae, the author of In Flanders Fields, was a Canadian born in Guelph, Ontario in 1872. Trained as a medical doctor, he served in the Boer War in South Africa and when Canada entered World War I he volunteered for duty in the Canadian Army. McCrae served in combat on the Western Front and was then transfered to the medical corps. In Flanders Fields was first published in the British magazine Punch in 1915 and quickly became the most famous poem of World War I. John McCrae died of pneumonia in an army field hospital in Belgium in 1918.

Photo courtesy of Veterans Affairs Canada
www.vac-acc.gc.ca/general/sub.cfm?source=history/firstwar/mccrae

Page Copyright © 2005 by Chuck Nugent

Cat and Dog

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday is the sixth Sunday in Lent and the Sunday before Easter. It is celebrated in all major Christian churches - Roman Catholic, Protestant and Orthodox. In popular parlance it is called Palm Sunday because it commemorates the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. The Gospels describe how the crowds lined the route and spread palm branches on the road and waved palm leaves in their hands enthusiastically Jesus rode in on his donkey. Hence, the name Palm Sunday. However, until 1970 the official name in the Roman Catholic Church was the Second Sunday of the Passion. In 1970 the official name was changed to "Passion Sunday" which has caused confusion for those who were used to referring to the fifth Sunday in Lent as "Passion Sunday" (that Sunday is now officially called the fifth Sunday of Lent). But, for the average Christian, this is still called "Palm Sunday".

In addition to palm trees being common in the Mediterranean world and its leaves a logical material to cover a dusty road, palm leaves were also a symbol of victory and triumph in the ancient world. The cheering crowds along the road gave evidence to the effectiveness of Jesus' message and the large following he had attracted. It is no wonder that the religious and political establishment were concerned about his popularity and the potential threat to their earthly power that it represented. However, Jesus' kingdom was not of this earth and he was not seeking earthly power. While his followers hailed his entry into Jerusalem with palm leaves which symbolized triumph and victory, Jesus himself elected to be borne on the back of a humble donkey rather than a horse. The horse is a powerful animal that was used in war. The horse represented conquest and power. Throughout history horses were the preferred means of travel for the rich and powerful. The donkey, however, is puny compared to the horse and is a simple beast of burden used by the common masses. As Christ repeatedly stated, his kingdom was not of this world but rather that of heaven. He urged his followers to focus on and prepare for eternal life in heaven, not political change on earth.

The memory of Christ's triumphant entry into Jerusalem just before his crucifixion was kept alive and celebrated from the earliest days by the Church in Jerusalem. The celebration included reenactments of the Lord's triumphant entry into Jerusalem and the the waving of palms. The custom gradually spread to other churches in the eastern Mediterranean, reaching Constantinople (modern day Istanbul, Turkey), capital of the Roman Empire in the east by the fifth century. In time the celebration spread throughout the Church and was retained by many Protestant churches following the Reformation. In areas where palms were not available, people used branches from local trees that bloomed in the spring. Today, modern transportation enables churches throughout the world to easily obtain and distribute palms on this day.

In the Roman Catholic Church in America palm leaves are distributed to the congregation as they enter the church. There are two Gospel readings on this, Passion (Palm) Sunday with the first being read at the start of the Mass. The congregation then holds up their palm leaves and the priest blesses them. Following the Epistle, the Passion Story from the Gospel according to St. Matthew is read. This is a long reading (Matthew 26:14 – 27:66) with sections divided among three or four readers and parts for the congregation. We again hear the story of Jesus' betrayal, capture, trial, torture, crucifixion, death and burial. The congregation takes the palm leaves home where they are kept as a reminder of the Gospel message of the passion. The palms are collected by the Church just before the beginning of Lent and burned to produce the ashes used on Ash Wednesday.

Copyright © 2005 by Charles J. Nugent Jr.