Thoughts on a rainy Memorial Day

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.

                from "In Flanders Fields," by John McCrae

                McCrae, a Canadian teacher, served in WWI and died January 1918

The all-day rain probably ruined a lot of Memorial Day picnic plans—but then maybe it saved some people from crowd exposure they didn’t need. Whichever, I found it a delightful day. Too wet to even stick my nose out of the cottage, so I wrote an amazing (for me) 1800 words.

Sophie was not so taken with the rain, though she did sleep until I woke her. But even with the patio door open, she refused to go out in the rain. Finally about eleven, she began to bark at me, and I had the distinct impression that she was telling me to make it stop raining, so she could go pee. My explanations fell on deaf ears. She finally did go out, took care of business, and came right back in.

Later, I watched Christian and Jacob try to get June Bug to go out. Jacob came and closed my door so there would be no repeat of last night’s horrendous peeing accident on my floor. June Bug took one step out the door and stopped dead still. Christian patter her on the behind, urging her to go on. As if to say, “Nope,” she turned to go back in the house, only to find her way blocked. Finally Jacob had to pick her up and carry her down to the grass. Gave me a good laugh for the day.

Like most of America, I take Memorial Day seriously as a day to pay tribute, something more significant than just a day for a picnic. Many who post on this day come from a military background, which I always think makes the impact of the day on them heavier. I do not come from such a tradition, although now it sounds unreal to say that my father fought in World War I. By the time I came along, the war to end all wars was twenty years into his memory, and he rarely talked about it. Althought Dad fought for the Canadian Army, not American, I suppose he could still be called a doughboy--the nickame given to soldiers at that time. Books I’ve read about that time—and the wonderful work of the war poets--have made me realize that as a foot soldier he probably endured some pretty tough times. He was subject to chest colds, which was attributed to having been mustard gassed. And when jet planes began crossing our skies, every time one whined by—the really did whine in those days—Dad would duck for the garage if he was outdoors. It sounded like incoming artillery to him.

If any of my uncles were in the military, I don’t know about it, though I do know my brother’s father was in WWI and had shrapnel in his face. The decision at the time was to leave it, but Russell Peckham died in 1934 of meningitis, an infection from the shrapnel. My brother was a Navy pilot in the days just after the Korean War. For much of his service, he was in Corpus Christi, and when I finally visited there, I felt like I already knew the city from his descriptions.

We had our Memorial Day picnic on Saturday—hot dogs and macaroni salad—and I had another picnic yesterday when the Zavalas sent me a bounteous feast. So tonight, I will try to rescue a pasta/tomato dish that didn’t work, add a chicken breast left from yesterday, and a bit of the corn dip that Jordan took with her tonight. A nice satisfying meal. I have some editing to do on what I wrote today and then a culinary mystery to settle down with. I’m not hooked yet, but then I’m not far into it. It is set in Santa Fe, in an upscale Austrian restaurant (really? In Santa Fe? Is this an exercise in the absurd?) so it has some compensations.

Sweet dreams amid the rain.