Lest we Forget ….

Today is a day of remembrance, time to take 2 minutes out of our busy lives to reflect on the sacrifices made by husbands, brothers, fathers, grandfathers, uncles, and now, some of our youngest, the sons and daughters.

I grew up in Guelph, Ontario, birthplace of Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, and each year, our school class went to his home to learn his history and his legacy.

The history of the World War was something I also learned about in my own home – listening to my father’s stories of the London Blitz, and my mother’s experience as child evacuee to the English countryside. My father and his brothers joined as soon they were old enough and were all proud veterans of the Second World War, although they never spoke fully of their experiences. My mother’s brother joined at 17 years of age, and never returned home after his ship was torpedoed, something neither she nor my grandmother ever got over.

At 11 a.m. today, whatever you were doing and wherever you were, I hope that you paused and gave thanks to those who paid the ultimate price to enable us to have the freedoms we hold dear today.

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae, May 1915

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.

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915In 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.

 

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