Saturday, May 29, 2010
In Honor of Memorial Day - An Essay by Jerrel Swingle "In Remembrance"
Memorial Day, 2009
It was a simple transaction. I exchanged two one-dollar bills for two small red plastic flowers. They were offered to me by a pretty little girl outside the main entrance of a supermarket. She was accompanied by an elderly gentleman holding a donation cup. He wore a dark blue overseas cap with an embroidered VFW on it. I recognized it. Veterans of Foreign Wars.
The girl held up one of the plastic flowers as I came close. Her smile said, “Please?” I looked at her and said, “I’ll take two. I have two grandchildren just like you who would love to have one.” I handed her the money, and she gave me the flowers.
The man spoke gently to her. “Give him another one,” he said. So I had three plastic flowers. I looked at him and then looked down at these small tokens of sacrifice from long ago.
“Buddy Poppies.”
I remember that in years past they were made of crepe paper by the hands of veterans scarred by war. But the message was the same: “Wear it proudly.”
I said to the man, “I wonder if anyone still knows what these mean?” It was a rhetorical question, and I didn’t really expect an answer. But he looked at me with what seemed to be surprise. For a moment he was silent.
I started to pass on my way back to the parking lot, but as I did, I heard his voice calling out behind me.
“In Flanders field . . .!”
I turned. Our eyes met, and I nodded in appreciation. This brief moment, a transaction deeper than I might have imagined brought two minds together in shared understanding in an unlikely place. I raised my hand and gave him a thumbs-up with a silently mouthed “Thank you!”
* “In Flanders field the poppies blow,
Between the crosses row on row . . .”
Over the years, I have read this poem many times. And over the years, I have bought many poppies, paper and plastic. I cannot pass them by. The feeling is still the same. It was the “war to end all wars.” World War I. But it wasn’t. And the poppies still blow. And every time I read these lines, they create a deep ache in the center of my being.
“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.”
I have read stories and poems about soldiers and war, about battles and strife, about what soldiers think and feel in the midst of terror, death, and destruction. But, for whatever reason, this short poem has always been the one work that touched me most deeply. It was written a decade before I was born, but its meaning still reaches across generations. A mere fifteen lines that touch the soul. I always have to fight against a wrenching sadness as I read:
“. . . If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.”
I think of today, and wonder.
And every Memorial Day,
I buy a poppy.
-------
*- “In Flanders Fields”
by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD
(1872-1918)
Canadian Army
Essay by Jerrel Swingle
jerrelswingle@gmail.com
It was a simple transaction. I exchanged two one-dollar bills for two small red plastic flowers. They were offered to me by a pretty little girl outside the main entrance of a supermarket. She was accompanied by an elderly gentleman holding a donation cup. He wore a dark blue overseas cap with an embroidered VFW on it. I recognized it. Veterans of Foreign Wars.
The girl held up one of the plastic flowers as I came close. Her smile said, “Please?” I looked at her and said, “I’ll take two. I have two grandchildren just like you who would love to have one.” I handed her the money, and she gave me the flowers.
The man spoke gently to her. “Give him another one,” he said. So I had three plastic flowers. I looked at him and then looked down at these small tokens of sacrifice from long ago.
“Buddy Poppies.”
I remember that in years past they were made of crepe paper by the hands of veterans scarred by war. But the message was the same: “Wear it proudly.”
I said to the man, “I wonder if anyone still knows what these mean?” It was a rhetorical question, and I didn’t really expect an answer. But he looked at me with what seemed to be surprise. For a moment he was silent.
I started to pass on my way back to the parking lot, but as I did, I heard his voice calling out behind me.
“In Flanders field . . .!”
I turned. Our eyes met, and I nodded in appreciation. This brief moment, a transaction deeper than I might have imagined brought two minds together in shared understanding in an unlikely place. I raised my hand and gave him a thumbs-up with a silently mouthed “Thank you!”
* “In Flanders field the poppies blow,
Between the crosses row on row . . .”
Over the years, I have read this poem many times. And over the years, I have bought many poppies, paper and plastic. I cannot pass them by. The feeling is still the same. It was the “war to end all wars.” World War I. But it wasn’t. And the poppies still blow. And every time I read these lines, they create a deep ache in the center of my being.
“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.”
I have read stories and poems about soldiers and war, about battles and strife, about what soldiers think and feel in the midst of terror, death, and destruction. But, for whatever reason, this short poem has always been the one work that touched me most deeply. It was written a decade before I was born, but its meaning still reaches across generations. A mere fifteen lines that touch the soul. I always have to fight against a wrenching sadness as I read:
“. . . If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.”
I think of today, and wonder.
And every Memorial Day,
I buy a poppy.
-------
*- “In Flanders Fields”
by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD
(1872-1918)
Canadian Army
Essay by Jerrel Swingle
jerrelswingle@gmail.com
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