Yesterday, my aunt and uncle and my family--including Gramma--went up and met my other aunt and uncle and their family to visit Grampa's grave, the one I'm named after. He was buried up at the Veterans' Cemetery that overlooks the valley, the one with the wall and the huge American flag that you can see from anywhere with a clear shot. It was fun to talk about him and see the grave and see all the others as well. We tried to guess what the other religions were that were represented on the gravestones, what all the different crosses meant.
But most importantly it was nice to remember what Grampa meant to each of us and what he meant to our country and freedom. Probably his favorite thing to do was memorize and quote poetry, particularly "The Cremation of Sam McGee." But this is one that he did like as well.
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.
-John McCrae
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