The story behind the wearing of the red poppy for
Armistice/Veteran’s Day. I remember the American Legion and VFW giving these out when I was a child in the 1950s.
And, as I have written before on these pages, every pay day Dad and I would go to the old corner turreted sandstone bank in Eufala to deposit his check and get a little walking money then we would go to JM’s Cafe for a hamburger steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and cloverleaf rolls. These were our celebration days for work well done. Most days we had a quart of milk, bread and perhaps some cheese for our lunch. He was an honest, straight shooting, smart man of impeccable integrity. He had a reputation for being very tough though and those that crossed his principles may suffer to know the reason why. He loved kids and critters and brought hitch-hikers home for a hot meal, a hot bath and then took them to the bus station the next morning when he went to work to send them on their way clean, well fed and with a ticket to where they were headed. Momma was a nervous but willing helpmate to Dad’s good will.
Each pay-day before we left the bank he bought a poppy and put it in his lapel for his buddies who were not there and the ones with no arms or legs or who were here but lost. He captivated me with his stories of “The Brown Baby” a buddy who got it from a burp gun in Italy, and others. Like so many of his generation, he remembered boys he knew who died while he lived on to become a man, a husband and a father and to serve God. Doing these things well was his life’s ambition. All other things were in support of that mission.
Like so many of us I have sweet memories of Dad and all the days I spent riding shotgun with him. First grade was a terrible blow to me since it marked the end of my days out on the world with Dad. Summer was a real escape from my prison. I had a wonderful childhood that was not without bumps, scrapes and hurts that helped to toughen me for the trials ahead. I thought all people got to grow up like me but have since learned much differently. Thanks Dad.
Each year for the last many I write this tribute to Dad and all the men who came home and made the good life we have known. I grieve their passing, the loss of their moral courage, the example they set and the sacrifice of those who never came home. Now we have new Veterans who made the same sacrifices and I grieve that and shudder to see what we have become that is such an insult to them. Dad’s Grandson is one of the new Veterans. They are nearly alike in more ways than not.
The sun came up this morning to a beautiful Fall day. Cool and bright and I got out in it for some chores. I startled awake at 0330 this morning though with this on my mind: When asked if we have done our best should our truthful answer be that we did the best we were willing to do instead?
Thank you for posting this story. I knew about the poem, but not the lady.
They still do in these parts...usually station a volunteer outside of a grocery store.
Thanks for the ping!