On this cold, blustery day, the last day of October, I was outdoors putting my vegetable garden to bed for the winter. Before I had finally decided to get off the couch and go outside, I’d spent the morning doom scrolling on social media. Today, I had spent too much time looking at images of bright red tomatoes, burgundy eggplants, and mud speckled bushels of potatoes.
As I was pulling out the brown , dead skeletons of my dead tomato plants, I thought of my own meager harvest, comparing it to the pictures I had seen on the pages of Facebook and Instagram this morning. This season, I’m sure I hadn’t gathered more than five carrots, one Lakota squash, three Marzano tomatoes, and 6 or seven green peppers. A handful of basil and jalapeños might have survived also, and I was left wondering what had happened to my green thumb. I’d started out so eagerly in the springtime, planting seeds and watering; picking micro greens for my sandwiches and watching with excitement as my first cucumber and zucchini sprouts peeked their little heads out of the dirt. Somehow, the grubs were excited about the new green growth as well, because they were chomping on the greens faster than I could do anything to combat them. Also, I discovered the chipmunks were ready, willing, and able to eat as many of the green leaves as they could before the plants could yield their fruit. Oh well, I thought, at least my tomatoes and squash will grow…and my carrots. It took me a while to understand that in the Georgia heat I did not water the tomatoes properly and the leaves and plants succumbed to brown spots and didn’t yield much fruit. I had also planted the squash too late, and only grew one large one…but I consoled myself with the fact that at least I got a pot of soup from it.
All this to say, I was feeling a little sad when it was time to pull the brown plants out of the ground and put everything to bed for the winter. As I was doing this, I found my self remembering my late brother, Ray , and how he loved growing vegetables in his garden . As it so often happens, I found myself wishing I could call him and tell him my frustrations about what wouldn’t grow for me this year, and how I was going to try again next year. Of course, I wouldn’t have been a complete sad sack. I would have bragged to him about how well my flower garden grew this summer, even though the deer did use it as a salad bar, and how now my elephant ear plants are taller than me. I would also have told him my roses are beginning to bloom again, and the camilla bushes surrounding the house are all in full color, even though it’s a chilly blustery fall day in Georgia. I know he would have loved to hear that. (Not really. He hated that I lived in the South now, and he still lived in the cold North of Canada. He jokingly called me a traitor every chance he got.)
Today, when I was finished my work outdoors and came inside to clean the mud off and change my clothes, I saw this plastic poppy pin that I had stuck to a bandana on my dresser. Ray had given me this bandana the last time I saw him. Shortly after my last visit with him less than two years ago, he called me just to chat, and it was almost November 11th, Remembrance Day in Canada, also known as Veterans Day here in the US. He asked me if I was wearing my poppy. I let him know that wearing poppies wasn’t a thing here in the US, like it was in Canada, and he was appalled. On the last Friday of October, and through November 11, which is Remembrance Day, Canadians will wear a red poppy lapel pin on their left lapel, close to their heart, as a symbol of remembrance to those who served and sacrificed their lives in wars and military conflicts. The symbol of the poppy comes from the First World War poem “In Flanders Fields.” The Great War Veterans Association in Canada, which is now known as the Royal Canadian Legion, distributes these poppies each fall, and donations for these poppies go directly toward supporting veterans and their families’ causes.
When I was a young child, I remember going shopping with my father and siblings to the local mall or Canadian Tire store in our small town. Each fall, before Halloween, Veterans in their khaki colored wool coats and berets would be standing outside, distributing their plastic poppies and manning their collection bins. I remembered the reverent feeling that came over me as I dropped the coins my father gave me to donate, and thanked the veteran for his service, as my father had taught me to do. My father didn’t serve in the military, but my grandfather served in Europe in the Merchant Marines during WWII. I suppose it was for this reason, that we were taught the importance of the military sacrifices that were made, and the importance of remembering. The veteran soldier then pinned a bright red plastic poppy to my left lapel , and I proudly wore it everywhere until November 11.
I was reminded of this when I was on the phone with my brother Ray that day, and this explanation is the reason that he sent me one in the mail right away. Sadly, Remembrance Day was over before I received it in the mail, and Ray had already passed away tragically in a horrific automobile accident before the poppy reached me. Last year, I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, but this year, starting today, I’m going to pin it on my lapel. I will wear it proudly, in remembrance of those who died for our freedoms, and in remembrance of my brother Ray. May he rest in peace.
