I Remember Armistice Day

If November 11th fell on a school day, it was always the same scenario--in grade school as well as high school. At promptly 11:00 a.m. all students would stand, face the classroom flag, bow our heads, and spend two minutes in silent prayer.

It was Armistice Day. The day we thanked God for the end of WWI and for those who had served our country and come home safe. Even though we hadn't been around during that war, we knew enough to be grateful for those who had protected our freedoms, for we actually understood war to some small degree, having lived through WWII as children.

School kids commemorated the rest of Armistice Day as soon as school was over. That's when our teachers led us across town to the riverbank and handed out either white or red carnations. I chose a red one because my uncle, a WWII medic, had come home safe and whole. Some of my friends chose white ones, and though I never asked, I knew that somewhere along the way of wars, they had lost family members.

Once we each had our flower in hand, we tossed them into the river then watched as they drifted downstream, out past the end of town, out toward farm country, past cows grazing on browned grasses and field mice skittering along the reedy banks. I never knew how long they stayed afloat. I always hoped it was a long time so that as the river pulsed past the next town, others would see our flowers and remember to thank our veterans.

Following WWII, Armistice Day became Veteran's Day and rather than honoring only the living, we now honored all who had served in wartime. In my day, we were taught to be patriotic, both at home and at school. And while I always saw old guys around town selling red poppies, I never understood their meaning till I was older. All I knew at that point in my life was that they had something to do with war.

According to the Department of Veteran's Affairs, there are currently 24.9 million military veterans in the United States. And while we can't thank an American WWI vet, since the last one standing passed away in 2009 at the age of 111, we can thank those we know or those we come across in our daily living. Without them, we would not sleep sound in our beds at night nor walk free during the day.

And while this blog is a bit late, it remains heartfelt. For me, now the widow of a Korean War vet, it comes strongly to mind to thank our military day in and day out. Each day they purchased for freedom is a gift to me. They serve, expecting nothing in return. Yet each smile and handshake along with a "Thank you for your service," brings forth an ear to ear grin from even the most exhausted and battle weary troop.

November 11th is the day we honor our military, past and present, and whether we call it Armistice Day or Veteran's Day is of little matter, for what we acknowledge is the fact that at one time in their lives, each veteran and current troop signed a blank check payable to we the people, promising to guard our shores, our people, and our way of life--even if it cost his life. How on earth can we do less than go out of our way to say "Thank You?"

History tells us that The Great War took place from 1914-1918 when the Central Powers of Germany, Austria-Hungary and Turkey faced off against the Allied Powers comprised of Great Britain, Russia, Italy, and Japan. By the time WWI ended in defeat for the Central Powers, more than 9 million soldiers had been killed and 21 million more had been wounded. 

While battles raged here and there, the one most remembered today is the battle of Yrpes  in Belgium and had it not been for Lt. Col. John McCrae, a Canadian doctor attached to the 1st Field Artillery Brigade, it is likely no one but historians would today even give thought to WWI or the Battle of Yrpes in a place known as Flanders Field.

Photos show the battlefield, known as Flanders Field, had been war pocked and churned up to naught more than a barren wasteland. During the second day of battle a young Canadian officer was killed when an exploding German artillery shell landed near him. His close friend, Dr. John McCrae, grieving the death of his buddy, composed a short poem to honor him. He called it "In Flanders Fields" and dated it May, 1915.

Those buried where they
lay were later moved to
a proper cemetery

In Flanders field 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.

The American section
of Flanders Field cemetery

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.

Flanders Field today,
where still the poppies
grow.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; by yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Thus was born the remembrance flower, the common red field poppy, which now serves as an international symbol of the great loss of life in war. With that bit of history in mind, the next time you see some "old" gentleman standing outside a store with red poppies in hand, toss some change in the pot and wear your flower proudly. Then pass the history on to those who have not learned that in Flanders Field, the poppies still grow.

Posted by Sandy Keith, November 12, 2011, in honor of my husband Jim, a Korean War vet who joined the military at age seventeen, knowing full well he would end up in the war. He served four years active; three inactive, and always said joining the service was the smartest move he'd ever made.

What Do You Mean--No Turkey?

The first Thanksgiving celebration lasted three days and contrary to popular belief, there was no turkey present. Man oh man, I hate being the one to dispel this long-held myth--but hey, it's time the truth be told.

So here's the REAL story. The fifty-six pilgrims who had managed to stay alive through the first terrible winter in the new country and the ninety-one Indians who had helped them survive, all sat down to celebrate autumn's bountiful harvest.

Now here's where the story gets strange. They mostly ate with their hands for they had no forks. Every last bite of food was set on a long table and people ate only what sat in front of them. Nothing was passed around the table. The best food was put in front of the most important people and guess who waited on everyone? The kids. How's that for a shocker?

No children at the first Thanksgiving table. Not even a little table stuck under some lone tree a short distance away. Most of you know what I'm talking about. What kid hasn't lived through that scenario?

So what do you suppose those pilgrims ate if there was no turkey? History records they consumed fish, seafood, goose, duck, partridge, venison, Indian corn, barley, raspberries, strawberries, grapes, plums, and other wild fruits, walnuts, chestnuts, and peas, squash, and beans. Seasonings consisted of onion, and assorted wild plants with strange names. Not the things in my spice rack, that's for sure.

If I had faced near starvation, I would have been grateful for that food and eaten every morsel. Yet somewhere down through history, obviously when times got better, somebody tweaked the menu. Good thing too. Otherwise we'd be calling the last Thursday in November "Duck Day" or "Fish Day" or "Goose Day." Doesn't have the same ring as Turkey Day. Right?

When it came to desserts, the Pilgrims had two choices: aeppel or pompion. Oops. Sorry. I used the names the early settlers would have used. You know what else? There were NO pies of any kind at the first Thanksgiving because there were no ovens to bake them in.

The only native trees sporting apples were crab apples, and nearly everyone knows you can't make a pie from something the size of a quarter. As for the pumpkin, the only thing the Pilgrims knew to do was hollow it out, fill it with milk, honey, and spices and set it in the hot ashes to cook.

So where did our traditional apple and pumpkin pies originate? I hate to dispel the long-held myth, but it sure it wasn't at the first Thanksgiving. Nope, they came around about fifty years later and ever since then they've held the place of honor at our Thanksgiving table. I don't know where the tradition of piling whipped cream atop the pumpkin pie came from nor the slathering of ice cream atop the apple. That's another whole story and I'm just too lazy to figure it out.

May you have a blessed Thanksgiving.

My love to you all,

Sandy

"O God, You have taught me from my youth; And to this day I declare Your wondrous works. Now also when I am old and grayheaded, O God, do not forsake me, until I declare Your strength to this generation, Your power to everyone who is to come."

Psalms 71: 17,18

Thoughts On Halloween

Today I was wondering when it was that Halloween became so scary. I think what brought it to my mind is the plethora of bloody, gory, terrifying, cover my eyes with my hands shows that are on television right now. Everyone and everything is either dripping blood or drinking blood or drawing blood or carrying around a weapon that will bring forth blood.

As I channel surf I'm disgusted to find even the Food Channel has gotten into the theme. Who can make the most frightening pumpkin face or the most hideous cake monster. The movie channels are full of aliens and monsters and creatures from Black Lagoons. The sit-coms are just as bad, though not quite as frightening to watch.

Now I have to say that I've always hated it when people would say to me, "Well, back in my day...." But as I was searching in vain for something to watch while I knitted and drank steaming hot cocoa, I began to think the same thing. Back in my day.....

My sisters and I didn't dress up like monsters or aliens or ghosts or anything else. We went trick or treating in our regular clothes, as did every other kid we knew. We didn't even wear masks. Halloween was simply the day we got free candy without having to beg mom, who was always under the impression that candy would rot our teeth. There were only two times of the year my sisters and I could eat candy and that was Halloween and Christmas. And it wasn't mom who bought it. We got it from the good-hearted folks around town.

On Halloween night, right after dishes were done, we'd grab a coat and a brown lunch bag and head out. The end of October is chilly in MN, so we went prepared. House to house to house, trudging along with a bunch of our friends, knocking on doors till our brown bag was at least half full. Then my sister and I headed back home where we dumped our treasure onto our beds and began the process of sorting and eating.

We had before us a veritable treasure trove of fresh apples, home made brownies and/or cookies, sometimes home made fudge or caramel, maybe an orange or two, and candy, not always individually wrapped. Mom always said the same thing every year: "Don't eat it all tonight." We seldom followed her advice. The forbidden candy went first, lest mom discover it and confiscate it for our teeth's sake. Then we'd start in on the home made stuff, especially the fudge. Next came the cookies and brownies. We left the fresh fruit till last because we were positive mom wouldn't toss it in the garbage. She hated wasting food.

By the time I had kids in school, the children dressed as ballerinas and clowns and even those who dressed as witches or ghosts or Frankensteins weren't scary. Most carried little plastic pumpkins to put candy in. My kids walked the neighborhood with small brown lunch bags, just as I had. I didn't even go with them. I knew all my neighbors for two streets over. I didn't worry while they were out gathering up goodies enough to give them a stomach ache.

The year my kids decided they were too old for trick or treating I was a happy camper. By now mothers were having to go through every goody bag with a fine tooth comb, looking for hidden needles or razor blades or candy obviously unwrapped and then wrapped again. Those who came to my door were beginning to look monster-like and a few times I hesitated to even open the door. To make things worse, they now carried pillow cases for their candy haul.

The last year I opened my door to trick or treaters was three years ago. By then it wasn't only kids coming around with supposed knives stuck into their skulls or an axe protruding from their chest or green slime running out of their mouth and onto their costume. It was adults. And when I questioned as to why grown ups were trick or treating, the answer I received was "Why not?"

I also noticed something else: those who knocked on my door had become greedy. I could no longer hold out the bowl of candy lest one kid grab it by the handfulls. So I began passing out the candy myself, one piece to each pillowcase. Most kids/adults would say thanks. But more than a few teenagers looked into their bag, looked at me, and asked, "Is that all?"

I think there is something in each of us that likes to be a little bit scared. Personally, I love the Alien movies. I love them because they are science fiction. But dress an adult or tall teenager like Freddie or Mike Meyers or any other truly scary image and knock on someone's door late at night, and I tell you true, your heart can nearly stop beating. I know that because that's what happened to me.

It was the last year I opened the door on Halloween night. All the other trick or treaters were long gone and Jim and I had settled in for the evening. Somewhere around ten o'clock, a knock came at my door. I looked out the peephole and nearly had a heart attack. A lone man, dressed as a fiendish killer, stood on my porch. I pushed the curtain aside so I could look through the window and when I did that, the kid removed his mask and smiled at me. He was the last trick or treater who ever got candy at this house.

Autumn Showoffs

October gave a party;

The leaves by hundreds came;

The ashes, oaks, and maples;

And those of every name.

.........George Cooper

Every year a spectacular color-show blazes through the deciduous woodlands as the trees prepare for winter. 

The science behind the leaves' color changes is complicated and involves words like chlorophyll, carotenoids, and anthrocyanins. Who really cares? 

What I do understand is that as daylight hours shorten and night temperatures fall, the leaves become gaudy showoffs, flittering on the winds, somersaulting on the slightest breeze, dancing throughout the forest in gowns of red and gold and yellow.

It's an extravagant farewell to summer. Lucky us. Everyone gets a ticket. And they are always free.

"Behold, the glory of the God of Israel

came from the way of the east. His

voice was like the sound of many

waters; and the earth shown

with His glory."   Ezekiel 43:1

Why I Hated Shirley Temple

Perhaps "hate" is too strong a word. Maybe despised would be better. However, I don't think  I knew any other word than "hate" when I was such a young kid. So in my mind, that's what I said to myself and anyone else who would listen. Shirley was the "just too cute kid" of the era. All those bouncy little curls, her cute clothes, and her little tap-dancing feet that never stopped moving.

My mother loved her. All I heard was Shirley Temple this and Shirley Temple that. And while I had no idea who this Shirley person was, I put up with mom's gushing, but only to a point. When mom decided that my middle sister and I should look just like Shirley, little did we guess what it would involve. And while the middle sister didn't protest, I did--in my own childish way of yowling and howling at every brush stoke mom put through my bushel of hair.

Here is am as I was born--or at least months after. Obviously I was old enough to sit in a chair without falling sideways. Notice what kind of hair God gave me. It's important to the story. I want you to study my golden fuzz and sear into your mind that it is thin and straight as a stick. After Shirley, that hair of mine wasn't good enough for mom. No, she would find some way to make it hang in ringlets, bouncy little curls just like Shirley's that would shake just so cute when I walked.

Now I'm going to prove my case. Notice the hairdo? I don't recall when it was that mom brought the tall wooden stool into the living room for me to sit on, but I was old enough to have memories of it. Every Saturday I'd get my hair washed, rinsed in vinegar, and gooped up with some slimy stuff mom rubbed into it. I think it was called hair setting gel, but I'm not sure. Then she'd roll my hair up in pincurls and make me sleep on them all night. I absolutely was not a happy camper. I know that because I know my facial expressions and the one in the above photo is still the same one that spreads across my face whenever I am NOT having fun. Whether it was the curls or the parade costume, I'm not sure. Maybe I didn't like either.

As I grew older, I always had to get up extra early on Sunday morning because it took so long to curl our hair--my sister's and mine. Brush, brush, brush, then mom would take a section of hair and roll it around two of her fingers, then brush it into a giant curl. Each curl took a good five minutes to get it just the way Shirley wore hers. No hair spray in those days, so our instructions for the day always included to act like ladies and not run around like hooligans. I never knew what a hooligan was, but I figured it was someone with messed up curls.

The torture went on for years, even into grade school. Then came the day I rebelled and told mom I didn't want to sit on that stool one more time, just so I could have curls. For some odd reason, she released me from being a Shirley Temple look alike. My middle sister wasn't so lucky. She grew up to be a beautician. I think she liked all that hair stuff.

Author's note:

Once I didn't have to have my straight hair forced into curls, I no longer thought about Shirley Temple. I never knew what she looked like till I was old enough to go to the movies. By then, I no longer hated her--just so you know.

Stuff I Learned As A Kid--Chapter Five

If you're sad, you should dance; if you're happy, you should dance. At least that's how it seemed to be at our house. My folks loved to dance and until I was in upper grade school, I thought everybody's parents spent the whole  weekend dancing at one club or another. As I recall, the fact that a war was going on didn't deter them from their quest to spend every available minute dancing, no matter whether it was the jitterbug, jazz, or swing.   To be honest, I didn't know the names of the dances, I only observed them and was able to put names to them as I grew older. It seemed to me that there were a lot of dancing and singing movies during the war years. I think people wanted a relief from the radio and newspaper headlines of the day. I think that's why my parents continued to go dancing or have home parties. Rugs were rolled up, couches pushed against the wall, lamps moved to safe places and my sister and I  banished to the hallway until bedtime. The home dance parties were such a joy to watch. I loved all the dancing and admiring the ladies who were always so dressed up and their hair all done atop their head as was the fashion of the time. Do you suppose that's where I learned to love a good party, especially one that involved dancing?

When a whole bunch of people from a single city die, people are sad. I recall the day mom just didn't seem to be herself. Young as I was, I finally questioned what was wrong. She said our country had dropped a bomb on a city in Japan and a lot of people were dead. In my youthfulness, I replied that I thought we didn't like the damn Japs, so why did she care. My mild mannered, never used a swear word in her life, mother looked like she was about to faint. "Where on earth did you hear words like that?" she asked, her eyes snapping with annoyance. "That's what all dad's friends call them," I answered, wondering why I was obviously in trouble. "I thought that was their name." Mom said never to use those words again and reminded me that while the Japanese were our enemy, the rest of the people in Japan were moms and dads and kids, like us and she felt bad for what had happened to them. I went to dad with my question. "Why is mom sad about Japan?" I asked. He replied that it was an awful thing to have to do but sometimes, in order to save lives or end a war, or accomplish something better than what we had, there were hard choices had to be made. Through all my years of life, many have told me I'm courageous. I don't see it myself. Do you suppose courage is something that can be taught or is it just what you are?

When all the church bells ring again, not very many months after the first time, it's puzzling to a little kid. And it wasn't a Sunday this time either. "Now why are they ringing?" I asked my parents as we all sat around the table. I thought the war was already over." Mom smiled the biggest smile and said all the wars were over now. It was VJ Day, which meant the Japanese had decided not to fight with us any longer. My small heart was as happy as it knew how to be. I felt it kind of laughing and skipping at the same time. I questioned if my uncle would come home now and dad said we'd likely see him in a few weeks. Mom remarked that most of dad's good friends would be home too and dad said, sort of under his breath, "Not Johnny or Bill." Mom looked for a moment like she might start crying and whispered, "I know."  Do you suppose seeing their sadness at the loss of friends is what made me the compassionate person I became?

After the war was over, just about everything in the dime store and much of the drug store was stamped "Made In Occupied Japan." At least that's how it seemed to me. Every doll or trinket or necklace or bracelet or just about any other thing a kid could want was stamped the same way. I didn't understand what it meant as I'd never seen those words before, so I asked mom. She said that since America had won the war with Japan, we were keeping soldiers there to make sure everything stayed peaceful and that's why the Japanese wrote "occupied" on everything they made. I still have some of those trinkets. They've been stored safely away for decades and one day I'll hand them down to my own kids as pieces of my  childhood history. But then again, now that I'm thinking about it, I'm wondering. Do you suppose I could sell them on E-Bay as historical artifacts and get myself a boatload of cash?

Dad and me the Christmas
I got my fuzzy jacket.

My recollections have come to an end. I have remembered far more than I realized and considering I'm past seventy years in age, it makes me grin to think things stored in my childish memory banks have stayed so clear in my thoughts. I'm sure there are many things I saw or overheard that I've forgotten and that is likely for the best. There is only so much "news" a kid can handle anyway. I'm still grateful for my mom and dad who never sent me away with unanswered questions and for their determination, especially dad's, for believing that asking questions was the only way a kid learned. Never once was I scolded for a question simply because my folks found the subject too hard to explain to one as young as I was. I've always been grateful to the Lord for the memory I've always had and the way I have of remembering even the most mundane details. Do you suppose the ability to see and remember with an almost photographic eye is the reason I always wanted to become a writer?


Author's note:
My middle sister questioned me recently on how I could remember so many things from WWII when I was so young. I told her honestly that I have no idea why I remember them but that what I do recall is clear as a bell. I think you'll just have to take my word on it. I think it's the way my mind has always worked. And it's the reason I've always been delegated as the family historian.

Mom and me. Photo taken at the
same time as the one above. Since
mom was the usual answer person
for all my questions, simply because
she was always there and dad was
working, I've put this photo last. It
is my way of honoring her for the
wonderful mom she was.

Stuff I Learned As A Kid--Chapter Four

All the people were supposed to buy war bonds. We saw advertisements for war bonds everywhere: in store windows, in the newspaper, and before every movie we went to. It isn't that my sister and I were big movie goers in those days, but we were sometimes allowed to see an afternoon matinee of Tarzan or Gene Autry or The Lone Ranger. Going to the matinee meant we had managed to save twelve cents out of our meager allowance and sometimes it took me weeks to accrue that much. Anyway, that's where we saw full screen ads for War Bonds. Famous movie stars were always selling them to regular-looking people. I never heard about anyone famous coming to our small town to sell war bonds so I came to the conclusion that nobody in our town ever bought them. Besides, I never really understood what they were. Mom said it had to do with paying for the war. In my mind, I figured War Bonds must cost so much money nobody but rich people could afford them. I had no idea how much a world war cost, but I knew my  family didn't have enough money to pay for it. In fact, I didn't know any families who had enough money to pay for it. Do you suppose my fuzzy logic then is the reason I've always been so terrible in math?

The news is as important as breathing. At least in our home it was. Every evening, dad would lay on the couch and read the newspaper from cover to cover--literally. The newspaper was big then, not like the itty-bitty ones we have today and it took him more than an hour to read it all. Once finished with the paper, he would turn on the radio and we'd all gather round to hear Edward R. Morrow report the war news of the day. Most of the time I little understood what was going on. Sometimes there was talk about big battles or a ship sinking, and other things I didn't really grasp. Every once in a while, the President that everybody called FDR came on the radio to talk about how the war was going and America's part in it. Dad always sat right by the radio when the President was talking. For him, catching up on the daily news was as important as the air in his lungs. Do you suppose that's where I picked up the habit of  always wanting to know what is going on in the world?

Telling what you know can get someone killed. It's true. There were posters all over town that said so. I wasn't quite sure what "Loose Lips Sink Ships" meant so one day I asked mom to explain it. She answered that nobody was to talk about where their friends or relatives who were in the war were going or what they were doing. There might be spies around, she told me. So the signs are to remind us not to talk. That was the day I stopped telling anyone, even my friends, that I had an uncle in the war. I surely didn't wish anything to happen to him just because someone overheard me talking about him. How was I to know few people eavesdropped on little kids? The posters said to be quiet. So I was. Do you suppose having to be mum during those war years is the reason I eventually turned into such a chatterbox?

When every church bell in town and all across the countryside rings at the same time and it's not Sunday, something really important has happened. I recall the occasion with great clarity. Our family was sitting around the dining room table eating breakfast when I heard bells of every tone ringing loud and louder. I stopped eating and listened. I checked my brain to make sure it wasn't Sunday, then questioned as to why the bells were all sounding. My dad said it was because the war was over. Mom jumped in and declared that only the war in Europe was over. We were still fighting with Japan. I asked if my uncle would come home now and the reply I got was, "We don't know." He didn't. We had no way of knowing he was in the South Pacific. Do you suppose having such a close relative in the military during my early years was the reason I have always been patriotic down to the marrow of my bones?

Final chapter next week....