THE FRAGILE POPPY,

A SYMBOL OF REMEMBRANCE

Photo by Ellie Pourreza on Unsplash

I had planned to write something about my journey towards writing a book, but then I realized that this post will go out on November 11th, Remembrance Day. So, instead of talking about the craft of writing, about books, about how to get people to read what you've written, and all the rabbit holes I could go down on that topic, I have decided to write about Remembrance Day.

Here in the UK, where I live, Remembrance Day is usually celebrated on the Sunday nearest to November 11^th. This year, it falls on the 10^th. The actual day is usually a less well attended, a more low key affair. The “big day” is the Sunday, when the King and/or other members of the Royal Family attend the laying of wreaths at the Cenotaph in London.

Whereas, when I lived in Canada, it was always only celebrated on the 11^th. At the 11^th hour of the 11^th day of the 11^th month, the two minute silence was observed. It was the exact anniversary of when the “guns fell silent,” as they say. The occasion is marked at that hour every year.

So, two different approaches, which is perhaps a good thing. More people are off work on the Sunday and can take the time to observe the Remembrance.

What usually happens in Britain is that we have the two minute silence twice, one on the Sunday and one on the 11^th. It's such a small mark of respect, nothing much out of anyone's “busy” life, I wouldn't think. What's four minutes in the grand scheme of things?

Yet, one place where I worked refused to honour the two minute silence, as “our office was too busy.” Yet, I saw on the TV that night, all across the land, train stations, tube stations, shopping malls, airports and parliament somehow managed to stop for two minutes. It made me ashamed of the management, saying we were above all that.

The following year, I solved the problem by not coming in to work at all on November 11^th.

The tradition of wearing a poppy as a mark of remembrance stems from a poem written during the First World War by Canadian Lt. Col John McCrae:

“In Flanders fields the poppies grow

Between the crosses, row on row...”

This poem, written in minutes, sprung from the depths of sorrow he felt for the death of his friend. I often think of poetry classes I've taken who believe poetry must take a long, long time to be worth anything. They extol the virtue of going over and over and over the words, like panning for gold.

But, it seems there is no substitute for the passion of the moment.

My father did not serve in the Armed Forces during the war. He was in a “protected occupation”: he was a farmer. His job was to keep the supply lines of food going.

My father's family, in Norway, did fight. The Norwegians suffered terribly during the war, with the German occupation. One of my uncles died, not during the war, but afterwards of PTSD. Goodness knows what hell he went through in his mind before he finally took his own life several years later.

My aunt was in the Norwegian Resistance, and used to deliver messages hidden in her shoe. She would walk past the armed guards, looking for all the world like a total innocent. Would I have had the nerve to do it? I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have. Big chicken, me.

I find I can't even watch films of World War II, when the Resistance are in peril, without getting so wrapped up in the movie that I'm as tense as if it is happening to me right here and now. I wonder where this comes from. Maybe too strong an imagination or empathy for their danger, I suppose.

So, in closing, I hope everyone takes a moment to consider the debt we owe to those who lost their lives and those who are presently serving. It must take a special type of person to be willing to die for others.

I know I'm not brave enough.

Comments, as always, very welcome