In Flanders Fields

 

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row…”

 

So begins one of the most famous war poems ever written.  The author was John McCrae, a Canadian medical officer stationed in Flanders, France. Tending to the wounded during the Second Battle of Ypres, McCrae was surrounded by death and destruction, but also the graves of the fallen.  Wild poppies grew there in profusion, something that had been noted in previous wars.

On May 2, 1915, a close friend of McCrae’s, Lt. Alexis Helmer, was killed.  In the hours that followed, McCrae penned the poem we know today.  It was published in the British magazine Punch and was an instant success. McCrae’s poem struck a nerve with all those who had fought or knew someone who had fought.  Accompanied by an illustration of bright red poppies in an edition of Ladies Home Journal, the poem resonated with an American woman, Moina Belle Michael and she resolved to wear a red poppy in remembrance of those who had died in the war.

McCrae himself did not survive the war.  He died in 1918 of pneumonia and meningitis, but his legacy lives on.

You can read more about John McCrae and the history of the poppies here:

http://www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/john-mccrae-in-flanders-fields.htm

http://www.greatwar.co.uk/article/remembrance-poppy.htm#americanlegion

 

The library also has a wonderful children’s book entitled In Flanders Fields:  The Story of the Poem by John McCrae by Linda Granfield, illustrated by Janet Wilson.

 

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

Nevermore: Girl in Translation, New York, Fatal Passages The Hill We Climb

 

Reported by Garry

 

Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok was our first book reviewed this week.  This historical novel centers on a young woman, Kimberly Chang, and her mother.  Both emigrated from Hong Kong to Brooklyn in the 1970’s, sponsored over by mother’s sister, who essentially abandons them once they arrive.  Kimberly leads a double-life in New York:   mathematical genius in school during the day, and sweatshop factory worker at night making $0.15 per garment, Kimberly must find a balance between the two cultures that she is a part of.  Our reader found this book to have an interesting awareness of what was going on even in the 1960s. 

 

 

Our next reader reviewed the sprawling New York by Edward Rutherfurd.  This detailed, well researched historical fiction tome (880 pages) covers the history of the now iconic New York City, from its humble beginnings as a trapping outpost, through the Revolutionary War, its growth as a world trading and financial center, through the tumultuous 1970s to its rebirth in the 1990s. Our reader thought this was a very good introduction to the history of New York City.

 

Fatal Passage:  The Story of John Rae, the Artic Hero Time Forgot by Ken McGoogan came next.  This is a biographical accounting of John Rae, a nineteenth-century explorer whose accomplishments were overshadowed by the political fallout of his speaking the truth of what happened to the famed Franklin expedition:  cannibalism.  Rae was an employee of the Hudson Bay Company, a Canadian company that controlled the fur trade throughout what was then British-controlled North America.  Born in Scotland, he was an accomplished surgeon who was also noted for his stamina, hunting skills and ability to live off the land.  His respect for and use of Inuit traditions and skills put him at odds with European culture of the time, which considered the Inuit people too primitive to offer anything of value (despite the fact that they had not only survived but thrived in an environment that brutally killed most European explorers.)  Our reader recommends this engrossing look at the legacy of one of the most important, but least know, explorers of the Artic.

 

Our next reader reviewed The Hill We Climb: An Inaugural Poem for the Country by Amanda Gorman.  Our reader was in awe of the power and strength of Gorman’s words, and heartily recommends this short, historic book.   

 

Also Mentioned: 

The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith

Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Old Patagonian Express by Paul Theroux 

Birthplace of the Winds: Storming Alaska’s Islands of Fire and Ice by Jon Bowermaster

Go and Come Again by Jerry Jones

The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui

Last Call by Elon Green

The Crossing Places by Elly Griffiths

The Witch Elm by Tana French

Caste:  The Origins of Our Discontent by Isabel Wilkerson

I am Still Here:  Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness by Austin Channing Brown

All That We Carried by Erin Bartells

American Baby by Gabrielle Glaser

Mother May I by Joshilyn Jackson

 

'Twas the Night Before Christmas. . .

A Visit from St. Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore

Thoughts on a Christmas reading tradition by Kristin

Reading the poem A Visit from St. Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore (more commonly known as ‘Twas the Night before Christmas,) has been a long-standing tradition in my husband’s family.  We continued the reading with our children, and for many years they sat listening raptly as visions of sugar-plums danced and the jolly old elf laid a finger aside of his nose.

Then the teenage years arrived.

The “children” still listened, although they weren’t completely enraptured as in earlier years.  My husband teaches physics, and is fully accustomed to using his lecture voice to reach the back seats in the room.  He really, really, really loves this Christmas tradition, and I’m sure he’ll continue it forever, as his parents and grandparents did.  But for a few years, the storytelling might be a little rocky.

Kid: "Eight reindeer on your roof? That's going to be some major roof repair!"

Physics Dad: "They're magical reindeer. They have mass but no weight. Now let me read the story!"

Kid: "Tiny reindeer? Have you seen reindeer? They're massive!"

Physics Dad: "You're seeing them from a distance. It's all a matter of perspective! But that just proves my point that they're magical, they can be massive but exert no normal force on the roof!"

Finally the laughter subsided and we were able to hear “Now, DASHER! now, DANCER! now, PRANCER and VIXEN! on, COMET! on CUPID! on, DONNER and BLITZEN!”  The story’s familiar lines continued their ebb and flow, followed by the Nativity story.  This year too, you can be sure that round about nine o’clock on Christmas Eve in our house you will be able to hear…

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, DASHER! now, DANCER! now, PRANCER and VIXEN!

On, COMET! on CUPID! on, DONNER and BLITZEN!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!