8 June

I took a  Chiltern commuter train from Stratford on Avon to Leamington Spa, then a fancy Chiltern train with internet and tables into London Marylebone station.  As I looked at emails and checked Facebook, my computer started buzzing with attack alerts.  Looking around, I had no idea who was trying to get into my computer.  Now, I'm typically not paranoid, but I did put up a different Firewall and the buzzing stopped.

Here I am, trying to become a famous blogger, and you'd think I'd want more traffic, not less.  Alas, this is the 21st Century and being famous doesn't occur by writing thoughts about trains.  Toot toot.

I love how London's train stations sync with the Underground.  In less than a minute, I was heading down an escalator to take the tube to St. Pancras.  I was thinking about my dad as we boarded the Eurostar for a quick trip to Lille, France.  Now, that is a posh train.  It floats and bounces like Disneyland's old Matterhorn as you hit a bend, but for the most part the path is so straight the sheep blur on the landscape.  Dad loved trains, and I've been missing him a lot, so it became obvious I needed to play my Swingin' playlist.  It begins with "Take the A Train" by Duke Ellington and ends with "Chattanooga Choo-choo."  I might have giggled a bit during "Pennsylvania 6500".

Renting a car in Lille, France, from Hertz was a snap.  Getting out of the parking garage with a sticky manual transmission was worse than Lombard Street.  But, we made it out and into the countryside.

Not many people enjoy wandering around the countryside as much as I do, but fortunately my oldest daughter has become very patient these days.  We made it into Poperinge, Belgium, after a few extra laps around the round-a-bouts, and in time to hear the church bells chime 8:00.  Dining at the Oude Vlanderren, trying to speak Flemish, being schooled in English - well what's better than that?  Perhaps a Belgian beer?

I have mixed feelings about tomorrow's visits to the Western Front.  How will I hold up when facing a thousand graves of boys who look just like my students?  Will the bugs in the fields eat me alive?  Will I get too emotional at Talbot House, a sojourn for troops who needed a respite from the front, laughing at the show, only to face death again in a day or two?  Will I want to punt and take a train to the French Open so I can happily root for Slone Stevens, instead of finding the grave of a 14-year old boy who died in a gas attack?  I am in search of poppies.

The inspiration?  John McCrae's poem  "In Flanders Field."

In Flanders fields

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.

By Major John McCrae – Dec. 8, 1915 - Boezinge, Belgium

Be sure to read it top to bottom, then bottom to top.  I prefer the second way, myself.