Normally, I don't touch anything that does not affect the price of oil and gas, but today is Armistice Day, when The Great War ended. Presented without comment is John McCrae's poem, "In Flanders Fields."
In Flanders Fields
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...
Dedicated to my Grandfather, Robert M. Logan, and my Great-Grandfather, Howell B. Gwin.
The War ended before Dr. Logan could make it across the pond, but Dr. Gwin, like McCrea, served as a battlefield surgeon. I have two pictures of him, one taken in 1910 and one in 1928, and the horror of what he saw aged him 40 years in just 18. Unlike Dr. McCrea, he survived the war, bore children, and is buried in Mississippi.
Gentlemen, sleep well. Your service is remembered with humble gratitude. My sons carry your names.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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