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Is this a bit maudlin, a bit corny, maybe? Yes. But hey, i'm allowed.
My father was born in 1925, the son of Portuguese immigrants. He had 13 brothers and sisters, not all of whom survived infancy.
He dropped out of school in the eighth grade to work, and when he turned 18 he enlisted in the Navy as a medic and went to war.
He was there, at Normandy. He was up on the bluffs above the beaches with a group of Marines, helping to spy out German positions. He saw the bombs that fell short or too far away from the heavily mined beaches, and he saw the troops land and fight their way inland. Being a medic, he saw a lot of blood.
And then it was over and he came back home and went back to school and became, in the fullness of time, my Dad. And i've always admired him, and been proud of him, and been amazed by the success he's had in life when his beginnings were so hard.
So this is in recognition of him, my dear old dad (legal and binding) who is 79 and still builds radio controlled planes and golfs and mows the yard and sits up until 2 a.m. playing 'Zelda', and who tells my mother every single day that he loves her.
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.
Go here to learn about the history of this poem and about John McCrae, who wrote it.
My father was born in 1925, the son of Portuguese immigrants. He had 13 brothers and sisters, not all of whom survived infancy.
He dropped out of school in the eighth grade to work, and when he turned 18 he enlisted in the Navy as a medic and went to war.
He was there, at Normandy. He was up on the bluffs above the beaches with a group of Marines, helping to spy out German positions. He saw the bombs that fell short or too far away from the heavily mined beaches, and he saw the troops land and fight their way inland. Being a medic, he saw a lot of blood.
And then it was over and he came back home and went back to school and became, in the fullness of time, my Dad. And i've always admired him, and been proud of him, and been amazed by the success he's had in life when his beginnings were so hard.
So this is in recognition of him, my dear old dad (legal and binding) who is 79 and still builds radio controlled planes and golfs and mows the yard and sits up until 2 a.m. playing 'Zelda', and who tells my mother every single day that he loves her.
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.
Go here to learn about the history of this poem and about John McCrae, who wrote it.
no subject
no subject
*loves my dad*
:)
added a link to the poet! Very cool.