Memorial Day

Memorial Day
In 1865, Henry C. Welles, a druggist from Waterloo, NY, mentioned that honor should be shown to the patriotic dead of the Civil War by decorating their graves.
The first official recognition of Memorial Day as such was issued by General John A. Logan, first commander of the Grand Army of the Republic.

This was General Order No. 11 establishing "Decoration Day" as it was then known. The date of the order was May 5, 1868, exactly two years after Waterloo's first observance.

That year Waterloo joined other communities in the nation by having their ceremony on May 30.

The Legend Of The Poppy

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

�Please wear a poppy,� the lady said
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.
A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
�Lady,� said he, �may I have one?�
When she pinned in on he turned to say,
�Why do we wear a poppy today?�
The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered,
�This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is the symbol for
The Gallant Men Who Died In War.
And because they did, you and I are free �
That's why we wear a poppy, you see.
�I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned
And grew and became a man �
As you will, too.
�He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile,
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day
When he smiled at me and said,
Goodbye, I'll be back soon, Mom, so please don't cry.
�But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the awful fight,
(I can see it still in my dreams at night),
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.
�Till at last, at last, the war was won �
And that's why we wear a poppy son.�

The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, �Thanks, lady, I'm glad to know.
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son � did he come back all right?�
A tear rolled down each faded check;
She shook her head, but didn't speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you'd have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, if oft delayed,
Thought our freedom was bought �
And thousands paid!
And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne,
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy!
Remember � and give!
. . . Don Crawford

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