How Much is that Poppy in the Window?

On November the 11th it's known as Remembrance Day here in Canada (as well as Australia and the United Kingdom), in the United States its Veterans Day, still elsewhere its Armistice Day, while in South Africa it is simply Poppy Day.

It's a day when citizen's of countries all around the world stop to remember those who gave their lives in times of war and in times of peace keeping.

As the South African name for the 11th notes, for many the poppy is a symbol of remembrance. This is due to battles that took place during the first world war in an area dubbed Flanders Fields, in which the bright red corn poppy of Europe grew in the untold wastelands of death and war.

In Canada a poet by the name of John McCrae wrote a poem simply titled "In Flanders Fields" which utilized the haunting imagery of the poppy. Before long both the flower and the poem became in their own right both national symbols and symbols of remembrance.

Each November Canadians donate money and pin a red poppy to their coats, jackets, and shirts. It's a symbol of respect and a vow not to forget.

Now where is all this going and what possible, horrible, mixed up thing have I gotten myself into with such a symbol you may be asking yourself, and as such let me begin by saying don't worry, I did not tarnish anything.

See a couple of years ago I met a girl by the name of Emma whose birthday just happened to be November the 11th. This got me thinking, and before long I thought of the the perfect gift to give on this day, real live poppies, one for every year.

Simple plan right? Visit a florist, pick them out, pay some money, and maybe write a quick card.

I got to work the day before as I was heading to a beach for the first day of principal photography on my first film, the feature length Love Squared. I had a long list of local florist’s phone numbers, and I figured it’d take only one or two down the list before I found what I needed, then I could get back to thinking about the days scene.

No such luck.

The first woman on the phone said she sold poppies. As my mind breathed a sigh of relief I realized the woman was saying something else, a very important something else.

“Wait, do you mean cut poppies?”

Cut… what did she mean cut? Like cut from the ground? How would that make sense? Did many of her clients come over with spades in hand to dig out their own bouquets? I decided I better play it cool so she wouldn’t try to take advantage of me.

“Yeah, uh, you know, I’m just looking for real poppies, you know, real ones, like, you know, the live kind.”

As it turns out she did know, and she didn’t have any.

Not worried I moved on to the next number on the list, and then the next, and then the next.

It was around this point my assistant director decided to give her two cents worth, “they don’t sell poppies because they put people to sleep, like in the Wizard of Oz.”

Several crew members jumped on her comment. There was no way poppies put people to sleep, yet she refused to be told otherwise. As they debated whether the flowers were magic or not, I decided to hit the next place on my list.

Still no luck, no explanation why.

My assistant director was beginning to feel validated when I hung up, “see, it’s because I’m telling you, they put people to sleep.”

The debate raged on.

As I asked yet another florist, and got yet another no, I was forced to put the woman on hold as someone kept calling my name. Turning around Mike, my trusty editor who had made the mistake of offering to come visit set on a cold November day for an exterior shoot on a beach (a mistake he would only make one more time I believe), motioned for me to give him the phone.

“Hello,” he said, when I finally did. “I just have one question, is the reason you don’t sell poppies because they put people to sleep?”

Mike hung up, successfully putting to rest the Wizard of Oz Syndrome theory. Everyone now much quieter, I called the next person on my list.

Or so I thought, I had accidentally dialed the same person as Mike had just been talking to.

“Do you sell poppies…” I began.

“This isn’t amusing,” shot back the woman whose voice suddenly became familiar.

“Oh no, no, I must’ve dialed…” The line clicked.

The crew (aka people who clearly work harder then me) were well into setting up for the first shot and the actors were getting into their wardrobe. Everyone was doing what they were supposed to be, and so naturally I decided to distract one crew member with my poppy frustration.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to buy poppies here,” he said matter-of-factly.

Illegal? No, it couldn’t be… could it? I began to get worried as I called my next florist, what if all these calls about poppies were illegal? What if word got back to the police?

“Say I asked if I could buy poppies, would that be, let’s say, on the level?”

The old woman on the other end of the line sounded confused, panicking I hung up.

Later that day I casually raised the subject to one of the actors, trying to feel out if poppies really were illegal.

“Illegal? No, they’re extinct.”

I stood there confused, my mind reeling from a sucker punch.

“But what about poppy seed bagels?” was the sentence my mind finally put together.

“Not really from poppies.”

I walked away, vowing not to discuss this topic with anyone else, I went back to calling.

The second last florist on my list finally shed some light on the poppy dry city, “Sorry dear, poppies are out of season.”

Out of season, how could poppies be out of season?! The one day of the year that they mean the most and they aren’t in season?! These are the questions I wanted to demand of her.

“Thank you,” is what I said.

That night when the shoot was over and done with I turned to my friend Donna who has a knack for knowing what I don’t, surely she could settle once and for all if poppies were truly out of season.

I told her what the woman said to me.

“Yeah, it’s true, dogs generally don’t give birth in the fall.”

It was at this point that I gave up, the poppies had managed to outfox me this time. I settled into a conversation about the mating habits of dogs, but in my mind all I could think was they were out there, somewhere, just beyond my reach. My white whale, the poppy.

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