Photo by Tracy
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The little girl in my story, which has been somewhat fictionalised, is myself at seven years of age. We did plant poppies in the school garden and it is a fond memory for me. As a result poppies will always have a special place in my heart...Goldie
‘Hurry up children, we must be finished soon, school is nearly over for today,’ said the teacher. The grade twos were preparing the garden bed at the front of their classroom to plant poppies – Iceland poppies. Some were digging, some were pulling out weeds, and others were raking.
‘Line up quickly, please,’ she called as she started to give each child the tiny seeds. The fair-haired little girl clutched her seeds tightly in her fist while she waited for her turn to plant them. When it came, she knelt in the garden bed and made small holes in the dirt with the tips of her fingers, gently putting each seed inside its hole and covering it with earth.
She stood up, wiped the dirt from her hands and knees with a handkerchief, and watched as a boy called Haydn watered the poppy garden…
Winter passed and spring came. The poppies grew and came into bloom, cups of many colours that swayed in the breezes. The fair-haired little girl skipped by the poppy garden, paused and turned back to admire the flowers. She bent down and stroked an orange petal. ‘You are beautiful,’ she told the poppy. ‘And I will love poppies forever.’
~ Goldie
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REMEMBRANCE DAY
I was young when they said , "You're the twin of Ewart",
Ewart the kindly, Ewart the jewel,
Who shed his blood on the fields of Ypres.
Ewart the lover, Ewart the fool.
He died thirty years before my conception
But haunted me with memorial cross,
Childhood Bible, dried red poppy.
"A beautiful child and everyone's loss."
After thirty years the memory was misty.
The tears had dried but the taste remained.
I shared the flavour and felt the absence
And think thereby I was somehow changed.
I argued for peace and tried to act kindly
With a khaki soul three steps behind.
Each time I think of the waste and hatred
That long dead youth lives on in my mind.
POPPIES
"And now, my beauties, something with poison in it. Poppies...Poppies. Poppies will put them to sleep. Sleep. Now they'll sleep!" --Wicked Witch of the West in MGM's adaptation of The Wizard of Oz
Poppies are one of the flowers my Granny Sallee always had growing in her garden. I loved those round orange blossoms and would pick handfuls of bouquets to bring into her house. Granny has been gone for 15 years now, but I still think about her whenever I see poppies.
My backyard is a 3/4 acre wildflower meadow and I have poppies growing in several different areas. It makes me happy to look out my kitchen window in the late spring and early summer and see those orange heads bobbing in the breeze.
Mama won't see me if I'm extra quiet. Sneaking by the kitchen, I slip on my favorite sandals. My brothers run out the back door. I squeeze out right after them looking for my treasure. Could there be more poppies today? So many to choose. No time to hesitate. I'll snip the biggest orange one and hope that Mama doesn't notice. My poppy will look so sweet in my baby doll's yellow hair.
poppies like sunrise
red orange atop green sea
winter outdone flees
"June is poppy season love. Did you ever have anyin your garden growing up?" Alex's elderly neighbor had caught me contempating the lush front garden.
"I lived in the city, we only ever had flower boxes, and no poppies that I can remember." She seemed almost offended, "Poppies are cheery things, isn't it just fun to say?" I agreed laughing. "Take advanage of it while you're here. Go in and find a sharp knife and a vase. I'll show you howe its done." And she did. She even taught me how to extract seeds from the heads and we folded them in envelopes for when I would have to return home. We mixed plant food for the flowers in their vases which were varied in size and color, but Mr. Anica said that was what made it homey. I knew when Alex had returned for lunch because I heard him slam the door and yell, "What the hell did you do to my mother's garden Spencer?" I appeared in the kitchen door way holding my new creation; a tall curvy vase of green sea glass, with spraies of the bright orange flower exploding out of the top. "I'm sorry." I said softly, "But Mrs. Anica and I were just putting them in vases for you. But I think she said they'd grow. She's upstairs now, if you want to ask her." He seemed surprised, but no longer angry, "Is that all? Well, that's alright then. I just didn't want them to be gone. My mother planted them you know." He had come closer and til only the vase was between us. "I know." I said, "I was going to bring some seeds back. The rest of the world's got to see these too."
"Yes," he agreed, "They're that beautiful."
The poppies in the garden
Remind me of you;
How slowly they do blossom,
Blooming right on cue.
No movement can be hurried,
Baby it is true.
But sometimes my sweet darling,
Any shoes will do.
The little girl in my story, which has been somewhat fictionalised, is myself at seven years of age. We did plant poppies in the school garden and it is a fond memory for me. As a result poppies will always have a special place in my heart...Goldie
‘Hurry up children, we must be finished soon, school is nearly over for today,’ said the teacher. The grade twos were preparing the garden bed at the front of their classroom to plant poppies – Iceland poppies. Some were digging, some were pulling out weeds, and others were raking.
‘Line up quickly, please,’ she called as she started to give each child the tiny seeds. The fair-haired little girl clutched her seeds tightly in her fist while she waited for her turn to plant them. When it came, she knelt in the garden bed and made small holes in the dirt with the tips of her fingers, gently putting each seed inside its hole and covering it with earth.
She stood up, wiped the dirt from her hands and knees with a handkerchief, and watched as a boy called Haydn watered the poppy garden…
Winter passed and spring came. The poppies grew and came into bloom, cups of many colours that swayed in the breezes. The fair-haired little girl skipped by the poppy garden, paused and turned back to admire the flowers. She bent down and stroked an orange petal. ‘You are beautiful,’ she told the poppy. ‘And I will love poppies forever.’
I do not believe there will ever be a day to come, when a poppy does not smile at me and say..."Your mother loved me, you know."
~ that is true :o)
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