As we come upon another Remembrance Day, we are once again greeted with the spectacle of red poppies on lapels and backpacks and hats and things. We wear them as a mark of respect for all those who went to the various wars and either died fighting or came back to tell their tales. A Canadian physician (and solider) Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae wrote the poem, In Flanders Fields after losing his friend at the Battle of Ypres. It goes like this: 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. Because of this poem, we
I use this as a place to let loose on whatever bugs me, usually at an hour way past my bed time. I *attempt* to keep track of where I am in the world right now and even try to put up pictures. You be the judge.