They don't grow wild in the cold, dry landscape of Northern Alberta, where I'm from, so I associated poppies with November. From a very early age, all school children learn "In Flanders Fields". We repeat it, in chorus, while watching slideshows of the horrors of war; we study it in conjunction with the history of our nation at war. Those of us of a certain age associated it strongly with the terrible things that our beloved grandparents suffered through. And in turn, we associate these things with the small plastic red poppy that we wear on our breast in remembrance. I'm not sure, growing up, if it every occurred to me that poppies are a real flower, and if it did occur to me, it was certainly a fleeting thought.
On moving to the Netherlands, I was surprised to find that they grow wild, like a weed. Orange poppies push their way up through the cracks in the sidewalks and along side houses. I find them beautiful and they bring me a sense of peace each time I see one, but it is the red ones that grow wild alongside the train tracks that I can't stop looking at. Each train ride, at the right time of year, finds me staring out into the wild grasses spattered with bright spots of brilliant red, feeling nostalgic for home and proud of my heritage.
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