What do I see when I stop to buy a poppy from an old man?
The dogs of war were howling while battles raged in foreign lands far across the sea from America. But that meant nothing to a 19 year old kid from Red Hook, Brooklyn. That young man was my Dad. Like so many others in the USA, that was a European war. People read about those events in the newspapers or heard news reports on the radio. But it wasn’t Our war. But one calm December Sunday morning all was quiet, when a sneak attack changed all that on the Date that will Live in Infamy. Japanese treachery awakened a sleeping giant...a giant more ferocious than they could ever imagine. Now they forced Us into war to keep America free. We had to build an army fast to combat oppression and tyranny. Who would stand up and be counted? Well, my Dad was there with thousands and thousands of other American kids. They lined up to put their lives in harms way. These weren’t sunshine Patriots who hid from the enemy. They faced the enemy of righteousness, eyeball to eyeball all over the world. These are those men I see. These are the boys of Pointe duHoc, Guadalcanal and Sicily, of Bougainville and Kaserine and the beaches of Normandy from the Battle of the Atlantic to the Battle of the Coral Sea. They fought and many, many died, because our Nation called. These are those men, that I see. Where are those dashing young GIs who paid dearly for victory? They’re all around us, they are our Fathers, Brothers, and Uncles. These are those men I see. We should learn well the terrible lesson they taught us, that Freedom Isn’t Free. They learned that lesson the hard way. These are those men I see. They are selling those red poppies. Each day we enjoy the fruits of their labor, with peace and prosperity in the land of the free... America. Give thanks to God, and then who else? Thank these men you see. I miss you every day Dad... Thank you. Rest in peace.
Remember Learning this Poem in School? I sure hope so. We had to memorize it and its meaning. I Wish Children had today did.
In Flanders Fields
By John McCrae
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.