November 11

I have been thinking about November 11th and what it is that I do to participate in the commemorative remembrances of that date.

The obvious one is buy and wear a poppy.

This year I saw three beaded poppy pins in Rebecca’s office, ones that she had purchased at Indigenous craft fairs and there were laying on that small strip of her bookshelves that run along where the books are standing.

She gave me one of those to wear which wearing has deepened my feeling about the day coming up.

I like to tuned into the CBC’s broadcast of the Remembrance Day Ceremony on parliament hill.

I always read the short memoirs of veterans and war brides in the newspaper, usually the Calgary Herald, but this year the The Times Colonist.

As I have been out walking, I have wondered why there is no food celebration around this day. Oh, I could buy something decorated with poppies, or even make a poppy seed chiffon cake but in our family we have never marked larger family gatherings with this day.

The most celebratory moments of this weekend have always been when I am around Greg Bates. If someone asks him to read “In Flanders Fields”, he can do the poem from memory. I wonder why I have never taken the time to memorize it. Well, actually, I have, but then I forget the second and third stanza.

But Greg doesn't.

At any point of the day, in any day of the year, Greg can say this poem by John McCrae

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.

Toys at Churches

Today Miranda and I drove to the thrift store to bring home a ratan bar cart that I purchased there yesterday.  Wyona reminded me tonight that rattan always cracks and breaks, but for a while it will br fun.  The kids came along as well to do some shopping in the children's toys section of the thrift store.  I told them I would pay for whatever they could carry in their arms.

Michael came away with 4 items, all of which can be held in the palm of his hand.  Apparently that is all that a 7 year boy can find that interests him in those bins of toys.

Betty kept asking me to hold things for her.  I just didn't have it in me to facilitate her that way, but I did show her how to telescope one toy into another again and again.  I also showed her how to carefully make her way to the check out without spilling anything.  One of her top items was a bow and arrow set that she played with all afternoon.

Alice is gifted at buying second-hand.  She came out with a number of stuffed animals, and a dog that is really a purse, if we can judge by the zipper along its back and its carrying handles.  The zipper gets caught in the lining, so I am going to tack that back so that the purse will work for her.

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

Then we whiled away the rainy afternoon with the toys and with a book Michael found in the bookshelves at home:  Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark: Collected from American Folklore by Alvin Schwartz.

Michael read the first story to us last night as we were eating supper.

I could see he was going to starve to death for the evening if someone else didn't do some reading while he ate, so I picked up the book and read for a while.

A grandmother knows she is reading the story right when she can feel three little bodies pressed close to hers and knows it is out of fear and not for comfort.

Today we learned one of the poems in the book, "The Slithery Dee".

The slithery-dee,
He came out of the sea;
He ate all the others,
But he didn't eat me.

The slithery-dee,
He came out of the sea,
He ate all the others,
But he didn't eat --
SL-U-R-P . . .

We worked a long time at getting just the right sound in the slurp.

Arta