Veterans Day, Observed
Nov. 12th, 2007 10:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
talkstowolvesNow, Therefore, I, Dwight D. Eisenhower, President of the United States of America , do hereby call upon all of our citizens to observe Thursday, November 11, 1954 , as Veterans Day. On that day let us solemnly remember the sacrifices of all those who fought so valiantly, on the seas, in the air, and on foreign shores, to preserve our heritage of freedom, and let us reconsecrate ourselves to the task of promoting an enduring peace so that their efforts shall not have been in vain.
From the proclamation by Eisenhower changing the observance of Armistice Day to Veterans Day in 1954. You can read the entire proclamation at the Wikpedia article.
Another website, chronicling the history of Veterans Day: History of Veterans Day.
Some people wear poppies on Veterans Day: most often paper poppies, sometimes made by disabled veterans. It is said that this tradition originated from a poem by Lieutenant Colonel John McRae, MD, who wrote "In Flanders Fields" on May 3rd, 1915:
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.
Although Veterans Day (or Armistice Day or Remembrance Day) was yesterday, many places in the U.S. observe it today (greedy for the 3-day weekend, you know). Most of our kids certainly haven't bothered to show up to school today, though I'm sure it's not because they're preoccupied with reflection over the deeds of veterans or visiting cemeteries in remembrance of dead heroes.
For my part, I attended the reenactment of a Civil War battle on Saturday, after which there was a small ceremony to honor all veterans (present and gone) of the many wars Americans have fought. The veterans present were all called out, both from the ranks of the uniformed reenactors and from the horde of spectators. There were veterans from Vietnam, from Korea, from Desert Storm, and (sadly) so on. There were women veterans as well as men, although the announcer of the ceremony persisted in using "men" to refer to all the brave souls who stood forth. The ceremony closed with a three volley salute from all assembled companies, including the cannons.
My mother's family has a strong military-oriented history, and I'd like to mark with pride that my grandfather (my own Poppy) had a long career in the U.S. Air Force before retiring as a Bird Colonel. He served in World War II and would have served in Vietnam had not a torn ACL meant he could not fly his plane. He was shot down behind enemy lines during WWII, but managed to survive (secreted away in the basement of a Polish family's farmhouse) and return to his family. He'd already been reported dead and they'd given his clothes away back at his base. He laughs about that now, but I always wondered how he took it then.
A poem I wrote on February 2nd, 2004, when thinking about my grandfather and his WWII experience:
Thinking About Poland
The German birds fly high above him.
They shot him down in Poland,
behind enemy lines.
I don’t know if my family knew
when he fell out of the sky.
I don’t think they’d care to know
what color the sky was, cerulean
or gray, or whether there was snow
on the ground.
But I do.
I want to know the terror
of the fall, the hardness
of the foreign landscape, the shape
twisted metal made
and what color my grandfather’s eyes
were when he realized where he was.
In secret, Poland answered his cry for aid.
They hid him in the basement
of their farmhouse.
For weeks on end, he sat in cold
dankness, developing a decided
dislike for Spam. The strength of one
was small, yet he fought against the one
invading army that presented itself:
the rats learned to fear him
and he took amusement in his shots
that picked them out.
I want to know how time moved,
whether he thought about eating the rats.
I want to feel the beard he grew
and hear how thankful he was to be alive,
to still have a chance to swagger home.
I don’t think he swaggered when America finally brought him home.
I'm a bit shy to ask him about the experience (about the emotions, not the facts), but I think I may screw up the courage to do so soon. A magazine in Poland (the equivalent of the Polish Times, I've been told) did a piece on my grandfather and his battalion (not sure of the term). They interviewed him and produced a pretty detailed story: we even have a copy of the article, but it's in Polish. I need to get it translated so that I can read it.
All this is to say that I remember our veterans, thinking about them both over the weekend and today on Veterans Day Observed in the U.S. I hope you do, as well.
From the proclamation by Eisenhower changing the observance of Armistice Day to Veterans Day in 1954. You can read the entire proclamation at the Wikpedia article.
Another website, chronicling the history of Veterans Day: History of Veterans Day.
Some people wear poppies on Veterans Day: most often paper poppies, sometimes made by disabled veterans. It is said that this tradition originated from a poem by Lieutenant Colonel John McRae, MD, who wrote "In Flanders Fields" on May 3rd, 1915:
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.
Although Veterans Day (or Armistice Day or Remembrance Day) was yesterday, many places in the U.S. observe it today (greedy for the 3-day weekend, you know). Most of our kids certainly haven't bothered to show up to school today, though I'm sure it's not because they're preoccupied with reflection over the deeds of veterans or visiting cemeteries in remembrance of dead heroes.
For my part, I attended the reenactment of a Civil War battle on Saturday, after which there was a small ceremony to honor all veterans (present and gone) of the many wars Americans have fought. The veterans present were all called out, both from the ranks of the uniformed reenactors and from the horde of spectators. There were veterans from Vietnam, from Korea, from Desert Storm, and (sadly) so on. There were women veterans as well as men, although the announcer of the ceremony persisted in using "men" to refer to all the brave souls who stood forth. The ceremony closed with a three volley salute from all assembled companies, including the cannons.
My mother's family has a strong military-oriented history, and I'd like to mark with pride that my grandfather (my own Poppy) had a long career in the U.S. Air Force before retiring as a Bird Colonel. He served in World War II and would have served in Vietnam had not a torn ACL meant he could not fly his plane. He was shot down behind enemy lines during WWII, but managed to survive (secreted away in the basement of a Polish family's farmhouse) and return to his family. He'd already been reported dead and they'd given his clothes away back at his base. He laughs about that now, but I always wondered how he took it then.
A poem I wrote on February 2nd, 2004, when thinking about my grandfather and his WWII experience:
The German birds fly high above him.
They shot him down in Poland,
behind enemy lines.
I don’t know if my family knew
when he fell out of the sky.
I don’t think they’d care to know
what color the sky was, cerulean
or gray, or whether there was snow
on the ground.
But I do.
I want to know the terror
of the fall, the hardness
of the foreign landscape, the shape
twisted metal made
and what color my grandfather’s eyes
were when he realized where he was.
In secret, Poland answered his cry for aid.
They hid him in the basement
of their farmhouse.
For weeks on end, he sat in cold
dankness, developing a decided
dislike for Spam. The strength of one
was small, yet he fought against the one
invading army that presented itself:
the rats learned to fear him
and he took amusement in his shots
that picked them out.
I want to know how time moved,
whether he thought about eating the rats.
I want to feel the beard he grew
and hear how thankful he was to be alive,
to still have a chance to swagger home.
I don’t think he swaggered when America finally brought him home.
I'm a bit shy to ask him about the experience (about the emotions, not the facts), but I think I may screw up the courage to do so soon. A magazine in Poland (the equivalent of the Polish Times, I've been told) did a piece on my grandfather and his battalion (not sure of the term). They interviewed him and produced a pretty detailed story: we even have a copy of the article, but it's in Polish. I need to get it translated so that I can read it.
All this is to say that I remember our veterans, thinking about them both over the weekend and today on Veterans Day Observed in the U.S. I hope you do, as well.