At the 11th Hour, We Remember
At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918, the guns of World War I finally fell silent. The world exhaled after four long years of unimaginable sacrifice and suffering. That moment — the Armistice — became the foundation for what we now call Veterans Day. It was more than just the end of a war; it was a promise to never forget those who served, fought, and fell for freedom. Every year, when the calendar turns to November 11th, we pause to honor that sacred silence — a silence earned by the courage of those who stood watch in the trenches, on the seas, and in the skies.
The Poppy: A Symbol of Honor and Hope
The red poppy, made famous by the poem “In Flanders Fields,” grew in the churned soil of Europe’s battlefields where countless young men had fallen. Its color — the deep crimson of sacrifice — became a living emblem of remembrance. When we wear or buy a poppy today, it’s more than simply a donation; it’s a quiet act of gratitude. It says, “We remember you. We still care.” That small flower connects us across generations — from the doughboys of World War I to today’s service members — and reminds us that the fight for liberty and peace never truly ends. Each poppy carries a whisper from the past and a promise from the present: Lest we forget.
A Grateful Nation Never Forgets
This Veterans Day, we honor every man and woman who raised their right hand and swore to defend this great nation. Whether we stood in the mud of Flanders, the jungles of Vietnam, the deserts of Iraq, or the mountains of Afghanistan, we share one unbreakable bond — service above self.
Our Bob Lang crafted cartoon before you captures that spirit perfectly: a soldier from the Great War meeting the gratitude of today’s America. It’s a reminder that remembrance today is about heart, not history.
So at this 11th hour, take a moment to thank a veteran, wear your poppy with pride, and remember that our freedom endures because they stood the line.
In Flanders Fields
by Lt. Col. John McCrae, 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Already have an account? Sign In
Two ways to continue to read this article.
Subscribe
$1.99
every 4 weeks
- Unlimited access to all articles
- Support independent journalism
- Ad-free reading experience
Subscribe Now
Recurring Monthly. Cancel Anytime.
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.
