In Flander's Field

"In Flander's 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 Flander's fields.
Captain John D. McCrae

My WWII hero, Frankie Clark died earlier this spring. He will not carry the colors for the veteran funerals in my home town any more. He is missed. The last time I visited him was at a cousin's funeral. He stood at attention with the flag while the rifle shots echoed in the Cave Hills. The day was as glorious as ever was. The Finnish church and cemetary hold the mortal remains of my dad, my baby brothers, my grandparents on both sides, uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbors, friend's parents, early homesteaders, old Finnish bachelors. My childhood memories reverberated between the scoria buttes in that peaceful place with each fired shot. Frank was there, that one last time.