For Those Who Lived

Canada's most famous World War 1 poem:

During the early days of the Second Battle of Ypres a young Canadian artillery officer, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed on 2^nd May, 1915 in the gun positions near Ypres. An exploding German artillery shell landed near him. He was serving in the same Canadian artillery unit as a friend of his, the Canadian military doctor and artillery commander Major John McCrae.

As the brigade doctor, John McCrae was asked to conduct the burial service for Alexis because the chaplain had been called away somewhere else on duty that evening. It is believed that later that evening, after the burial, John began the draft for his now famous poem “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.

And now my poem:
For those who lived:

The field of crosses, white. Pristine.

Grounds are tidy. Trimmed. And clean.

Where once the guns of horror boomed,

And death and fear, like blossoms, bloomed.

They lie so sweetly, there. At rest.

Their duty done. They gave their best.

Each represents a man, believing

Each a family, giv’n to grieving.

And as we walked along the rows,

Of those who lay in calm repose.

One cross stood out, with wreath and note,

We knelt beside it, read the quote,

To W. Chater, RCA,

In 1944. The day

18 July. Aged Thirty-two.

He left a wife and children, too:

The note said: Thank you that you served,

For brav’ry and your steeled nerve,

I love you and I’m proud to be

The great-Granddaughter you set free.

The Chater family misses you.

[Until we meet again, Adieu!]

We knelt a long time, taking in,

The sacrifice of kith and kin.

Because those crosses represent,

Those who lived, plus those who went.

And, as we left the grounds that day,

With sober mien, we drove away,

Our love and gratitude we give

To those who died. And those who live.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

Next week, because it's dark up here,

We'll talk of 'LIGHT'. Come join us here!.

Friends at Long Last

Tangmere. History makes me cry.   (bbc.uk.co picture)

For over thirty years, my Husby worked for Alberta Culture. Specifically building the great museums for which Alberta is famous.
The last two museums had been announced by the powers-that-be.
One to house a collection of cars and trucks and thing that go. Or fly.
The other to showcase the horse-drawn vehicle era.
Both having to do with transportation.
In preparation for this, my Husby was sent to the UK.
They have museums.
And could offer insights.
Thus, twenty-five years ago, he went. Taking me.
Because.
It was a wonderful, informative, exhilarating, exhausting, emotional trip.
We saw farm museums. Transit museums. Air museums. Automobile museums.
We even went to the mews at Buckingham palace and got up close and personal with the gold coach.
But one visit stands out above all of the others.
Oh, we had seen exhibits expertly assembled.
Cunningly and beautifully displayed.
Extensive, professional artwork in beautiful buildings.
And trained, informed staff.
But none of them could compete with the (then) little museum, Tangmere.
Near Chichester, England, on the site of the old RAF Tangmere Airfield, this museum was almost exclusively manned by airmen who had served there during WWII.
Perhaps that is what made the difference.
The displays came to life when your guide, who had known the showcased men personally, described them.
He had many stories to tell.
And no few tears were shed in the telling.
One, in particular, I remember most vividly . . .
The worker/veteran, I'll call him Michael, described a gentleman entering the museum.
Alone.
This man wandered from exhibit to exhibit, reading the hand-lettered cards and information.
Studying the artifacts.
Finally, he approached the desk. "Have you a cemetery?" he asked Michael in heavily German-accented English.
"Why yes, sir. It's just through there." Michael pointed him towards a door.
"Thank you." The man went outside to the small cemetery directly behind the main building.
There rests everyone lost during the August 16, 1940 raid on Tangmere during WWII.
Everyone.
The visitor stayed outside for a long time.
Finally, he re-entered the building and returned to the front desk.
"Please excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice that you have buried the German dead with the English."
Michael got a bit teary-eyed in his telling at this point. "Why yes, sir," he told the man. "They were each and all someone's son."
The German visitor began to cry. Finally he whispered, "I was in the wave of German fighters who bombed you."
The Englishman put out his hand.
"Well it's nice to actually get to meet you!" he said heartily, shaking the other's hand. "And I should tell you that you and your boys made one hell of a mess!"
Michael looked at us. "I don't know what we were when he came in, but we parted friends."
I cried all of the way back to our hotel.

P.S. Most of us can never know the agony, physically, mentally and spiritually. We can only thank those who take our places there . . .

Just Yesterday

We vacation in Banff, Alberta.

To our family, the most beautiful little corner of the world.

Smelling the sun-baked pines as we hike.

Tasting the pure, clear water.

Renewing our up-close-and-personal relationship with the mountains and all things forest.

This was our 24th year at the Rocky Mountain Resort.

Our family was raised here.

Our kids learned to swim in that pool.

Lob tennis balls across the net in that court.

Work out in that gym.

Follow those trails.

Paddle down that river.

Wonderful, sunny, happy times anticipated throughout the year.

Enjoyed fully and completely, then given a fond farewell until the next time.

This year was a bit different.

Many of our kids were here.

With their kids.

Our little two-bedroom apartment has, of necessity, grown to three similar-sized units.

With a different family filling each one.

There was much scurrying down the porch or across the bridge to the other apartments.

Much giggling and laughter as the cousins played together.

Movie night took up one entire living room/dining room/kitchen.

Just to accommodate the excited little watchers.

And we filled the pool.

One of our granddaughters, aged five, was just learning to swim.

For the first time, she announced that she no longer wanted to wear a life vest.

I was standing at one side of the pool as she swam to me from her mother on the opposite side.

“Kick your legs!” I called to her.

She swam furiously, finally touching my hands and standing up.

Glowing with accomplishment.

And quite suddenly, I was remembering saying and doing the exact same thing with her mother and aunts and uncles.

In the exact same spot.

I'm sure it was just yesterday.

Uncle Roy

Uncle Roy as a boy

My Uncle Roy Torgny Berg was the sixth in a family of eight boys.

And one girl.

He was born on April 8, 1927

He died last night, May 8, 2012.

Today, my mind is filled with memories.

Uncle Roy was just over three years my mom’s junior.

As youngsters, they played together.

On one fateful afternoon, documented here, he even allowed himself to briefly stand in for the little sister she didn’t have.

Wearing the dress and bonnet she happily bestowed on him.

Until someone drove into the yard.

In later years, they worked alongside each other on the family farm, near Brooks, Alberta.

And competed against each other in 4-H shows and sporting events.

Living quite a distance apart, our families only got together at reunions, so, for many years, Uncle Roy was a shadowy figure, known mostly as the father of some of my favourite cousins.

Things changed when I was a teenager.

For a brief, wonderful week, I got to stay with my cousin, Paula, in Edmonton.

Uncle Roy’s daughter.

And that’s when the Friendly Feud started.

Highly intelligent, Uncle Roy was a professor in the Agriculture Department at the U of A. Eventually working his way to the head of that department.

Distinguishing himself through many academic achievements, he was one of the major proponents of importing exotic breeds of cattle from around the world to improve Canada/The World’s beef industry.

My Dad raised Polled Herefords.

Purebred Polled Herefords.

The Feud was on.

Uncle Roy gave me a copy of his book, New Concepts of Cattle Growth.

As I remember him best . . .

It had Herefords on the cover.

“That,” he pointed to the cover, “is the only place you will find Herefords in this book.”

To which I shot back, “Must be pretty boring reading, then.”

And it went downhill from there.

Finally culminating in my designing and cross-stitching two silly pictures for him.

One of a cow.

The other of a bull.

And both Herefords.

Because every house needs Herefords.

His book stands in my bookcase.

My pictures hang on his wall.

Uncle Roy.

I will miss him.