Written by an early twentieth century renaissance man, Lt. Col. John McCrea, a Canadian Army medical officer, physician, college professor and poet, who was inspired by a visit to Flanders Fields, a small American Military Cemetery on the France/Belgium border

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 sunsets 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

He stretches forth a trembling hand--
Only his right one remains--
to touch his comrades chiseled in the stone,
cold as death beneath the white-hot sun
He ignores his own reflection
in the polished black granite;
he searches for his name instead.
Odd! It should be there,
right next to Bobby Joe's.
Bobby, with the snapping blue eyes,
the eternal smile,
the girl in Mississippi who loved him.
Bobby Joe, who will never be twenty-two,
despite all the years that have come and gone.
He was there when Bobby fell.
They both died there in the jungle that day;
didn't they? Bobby Joe and he?
Strange that his own name isn't on the wall.
He clutches the brown paper sack
that contains all his future days and nights,
and stumbles away into a world
he no longer recognizes.

© Leeuna Foster 1991 All Rights Reserved.

I often ponder on things. (omygod, I so totally said the word ponder... ponder is such a funny word! )

I was thinking about inventions and inventors this morning, and where they get the idea for the things they invent. Like those pull tabs on aluminum cans. I wonder how that idea come about.

Was Ermal Cleon Fraze drinking a soda one day when he looked at the can and thought to himself...hmmm. Why don't they just cut a hole in the top, attach a ring to it and then stick it back on the can. Without the aid of a can opener, people can pop the top off and drop it into their drink. Then several million people can swallow the tab, gash their throat, jab a hole in their intestines and suffer deep agony and possible death. Yeah. I bet that'll sell really well.

And it did. It also gave those really tacky home decorators the opportunity to create curtains made from chains of 'drink tabs'. Didn't you just love those!  Me neither.

Of course everything that is invented is always improved upon. Later on, someone decided the gashing and jabbing was too harsh, so they opted to leave the slice of metal attached to the can. It's much safer now.  Now it just rips the fingernail off down to the flesh whenever we try to open it.

And the names they come up with for these inventions. Like the tooth brush. Did the person who  invented it have only one tooth? Why didn't  they  called it a teeth brush? And then there's the vacuum cleaner. Does this mean you are cleaning a vacuum?  Isn't a vacuum just a space with nothing at all in it? ...Yeah, that's what my dictonary said too. Like wise with the iron. It's made out of chromium plated steel and cast aluminum, and it presses cloth. There's no iron in it. No vitamins nor minerals either.

The New York Post certainly answered a burning question for us this week. One that I'm sure has kept all of us up many nights worrying and wondering about, and possibly even pondering:  What's on Hillary Rodham Clinton's iPod?

Songs from her youth figure heavily in the selection of about 1,000 songs, said Clinton, who called herself  "a child of the '60s and '70s.''

Motown tunes, classical music and the Rolling Stones are all on her playlist, the 58-year-old senator told The New York Post. 

''I've got everything -- a total smorgasbord,'' Clinton said.  She said the mix includes Aretha Franklin's Respect, The Beatles' Hey Jude and Take it to the Limit by The Eagles.

According to sources close to Hillary, she also admitted to listening to Black Sabbath and Alice Cooper a 'couple of times' just to see what they were about. "But I did not inhale", she hastened to add.

Clinton, a possible presidential candidate in 2008 who is running for reelection to the Senate this year, said her favorite time to listen to the music player is when she's doing paperwork at home. (probably in her bathroom.)

 Even a Senator's business isn't finished until the paper work is done.

Why do people have such a burning need to talk? Why do they feel the desire to assault my ears, especially early in the morning, and when each phrase is followed by a question mark? Worse than that, they always expect a reply. They force me to talk, even though they ignore my answers, which likely as not don't make any sense anyway. This always leads to another comment from them and before I know it, the whole thing has escalated into a full fledged conversation! I hate that!

Hubby talks. He likes to ask silly questions like "Did you pay the phone bill?" and "What's for dinner?" and  "I'm going to work now."

I mean really! Why doesn't everyone just write things down, then I can read them at my own leisure. I thinks that's why I love books. They don't make a sound. I can think the words and do it very quietly, all without moving my lips...and if the book asks a question, I don't have to answer.

Another thing that annoys me is  people who call me on the  phone just to...you guessed it...TALK! Most of the time I just nod or shake my head or use sign language, such as eye-rolling, sticking my tongue out, yanking my hair, that sort of thing.

And now it's with the cell phones! Merciful heavens! Now talking people can reach out and touch me no matter where they are! Like the other day with my grandaughter. I was in the shower and had just applied the shampoo and worked into a rich lather...as per the instructions on the bottle...when the phone rang.

Me: "h'loo'"
Her: "Hi Grama it's me. Whatcha doin?"
Me: "Oh, I was just in the shower, actually I'm dripping water all..."
Her: "We're at the track today. I'm totally bored. I just wanted to call you so I can talk on my cell while I'm walking round the track."
Me:  "O? K?"
Her: "Hey. Gen, wait up... GEeennnneennnnn!!! I'm just chatting....omygod there's Robb and Tommy? Let's totally hurry and walk beside..."
Me:  "hello...helloo you still there? I need to mop the floor...there's water...hello"
Her:  "Omygod, I so gotta go Grama, Me and Gen totally have to see if we can catch up to the guys. Omygod I'll call ya back in a minute."
Me:  (wiping soap out of my eyes..) "k. luv ya bye."

O My Stars and Garters!!! Now how necessary was that!?

And speaking of parrots, (ok, I know we weren't talking about parrots but that's the only way I could get here from there). Why would someone want a pet that talks? Why would they want a voice box, with bright colored feathers?!!!

I once had a cat,   (which incidentally, has nothing what so ever to do with a parrot, but this is important and I wanted to tell you about it).

My son, who was four at the time, thought since we sometimes chained up the puppy beside the doghouse, that a cat would enjoy the same luxury. Cat's so don't like to be chained up. At least this cat didn't. I looked out the window and saw my cat sailing through the air. I kid you not...the cat was actually flying! He reminded me of a June Bug on a string.  Back and forth across the doghouse he flew, squawking like a chicken. I ran out and finally caught him and turned him loose. We didn't see him the rest of that day...but early the next morning, he was standing at the door mouthing the word '"Meow". He must have injured his vocal cords with the collar, cause He never spoke another word after that. He would open his mouth but the sound just didn't come out. Poor kitty!

He left home not long after that. (the cat, not the four-year-old) I found a note in his litter box. It said, "Sorry, but I can't live in this crazy-house any more. I hope the dog chokes on his plastic pork chop. And hey, you'll find Junior tied to the clothes line. Tell him I said thanks for the memories.  By the way, I have your hubby. Bring seven cases of MeowMix and leave it under the Oak tree if you want to see him alive again.

P.S. You'd better hurry. He keeps talking and it's beginning to get on my nerves.

Signed: Mute, the Cat."

I took the MeowMix, but I didn't know what to say to the poor kitty. What do you say to a cat that can't talk?  ("whatsa matter...human got your tounge...?") ?

I would have told you more about the kitty, and how he got his voice back and came home where we all lived happily ever after, but I don't want to talk any more...