Yesterday was "launch day" for the

5000 poppies project.
There were actually more than 62,000 poppies made and that many alone were "planted" at the Australian War Memorial in Canberra this past week. 
I have no idea how many people were involved in the project - hundreds made poppies, more put them together on their stems and still more planted them.
Friends made poppies. I made poppies. We sent them off - and I thought about the way my family had sent both men and women off to war, more than one war. 
There is a traditional of naval service, perhaps not surprising given that my ancestors were fishermen, crofters, nurses, doctors, lawyers, engineers and teachers - all good Scots professions.
One of my paternal great-aunts spent almost five years bringing up two boys alone. Her husband was the chief engineer on a mine sweeper. He came home - but he was a different man. Another distant cousin never spoke a word about his experiences, not even to his wife. It was only when he died that his son found a medal and someone outside the family told how this cousin had risked his life at Scapa Flow
I don't know how many served in WWI . I know two did not come back. There were more of what I consider to be my more immediate family - nothing less than a first cousin once removed - in WWII, all of them in the navy.
The Senior Cat was turned down for both the navy and the army on medical grounds. "The British wouldn't take you mate so we certainly won't" was the response he got when they realised what his eyesight was like. His brother was simply too young. Perhaps they were fortunate.
My godfather did his service at sea in the Pacific - and was lucky to return. He doesn't talk much about it - but he has talked about the appalling food, the lack of fresh water, and the cramped conditions.
We lived in a "soldier settlement" for four years and the reality of war hit home when, as a teen, I saw grown men cry at the dawn services. There was that desperate 'phone call to the Senior Cat, the one I answered where the terrified young voice at the other end said, "My father is trying to kill Mum". His father was chasing his mother across the paddock with a red hot poker believing she was an enemy soldier. 
And there was the man I was going to marry who died needlessly because, although the Vietnam war was over by then, someone still thought of him as "the enemy". 
War is hell. Every poppy I made was a memory - and a hope that someone, somewhere will restrain themselves and not add to conflict.