On the green at St. Lucas
Please come to the ceremony on Monday to honor those who gave their all. The site of the SCHS Memorial Day ceremony is “on the green at St. Lucas.” The green is the large, open, grassy area, along Denny Road, east of the church.
The Memorial Day ceremony has been a community event for over 20 years. It was held for about 20 years in the Memorial Park in front of the former Johnny’s Market, now the administrative offices for Lindbergh Schools.
The green at St Lucas offers a quiet, safe, pleasant environment with easy access to parking and the reception that follows the ceremony. There is some shade from trees on the green. In case of rain, the ceremony will be inside at St Lucas as in past years. The grass will be rich, green and deep, so remember to bring your lawn chair for your comfort.
The Sappington-Concord Historical Society is thankful that St Lucas church can host the ceremony and the reception after the ceremony.
What is a village green and how does it relate to American history and culture?
Traditionally, a green has been a community gathering spot for events and celebrations. The term, “village green” has been used historically in the US and Europe to refer to a community gathering spot for events and celebrations. The term gives the feeling of a simpler past when people were more connected to their community and each other.
Excerpts from the article on Wikipedia about Village Green:
A village green is a common open area within a village or other settlement. Traditionally, a village green was often common grassland at the center of an agricultural or other rural settlement, and was used for grazing. The village green also provided, and may still provide, an open-air meeting place for the local people, which may be used for public celebrations. The term village green evokes a grassy rural environment. See more on Wikipedia about village greens.
Christmas card illustration that might make one think of a village green which would be there in front of the church.
Poems with a reference to a “village green:”
Poem titled “The Village Green” by Jane Taylor
“The Village Green.” by Jane Taylor (1783-1824)
Publication: Taylor, Jane & Taylor, Ann. Little Ann and Other Poems. London, New York: George Routledge & Sons, 1883. pp. 59-60.
THE VILLAGE GREEN.
On the cheerful village green,
Skirted round with houses small,
All the boys and girls are seen,
Playing there with hoop and ball.
Now they frolic hand in hand,
Making many a merry chain;
Then they form a warlike band,
Marching o’er the level plain.
Now ascends the worsted ball,
High it rises in the air,
Or against the cottage wall,
Up and down it bounces there.
Then the hoop, with even pace,
Runs before the merry throngs;
Joy is seen in every face,
Joy is heard in cheerful songs.
Rich array, and mansions proud,
Gilded toys, and costly fare,
Would not make the little crowd
Half so happy as they are.
Then, contented with my state,
Where true pleasure may be seen,
Let me envy not the great,
On a cheerful village green.
“Epitaph for a Concord Boy” by Stanley Young
“Epitaph for a Concord Boy” by Stanley Young
Now there is none of the living who can remember
How quietly the sun came into the village of Concord,
No one who will know of the sun in the eyes of the dead boy
There on the village green where he fell.
He did not fall because he hated the Redcoats,
Indeed, he would have known little of them
Had not that quick, grim man, his father,
Hurried him dutifully toward the crackle of musketry.
His father had routed him out and stuck a gun in his hand
And then said something about the “country’s deliverance,”
Until the boy went, rubbing the dreams from his eyes
And stood on the green with the others, facing the soldiers.
When the Redcoat leader had shouted, “Disperse, ye rebels,”
The boy would have gone back to his bed willingly,
But as no one else went, he stayed, watching the elegant enemy.
He was never away the volley for war had been sounded.
Shot through the heart he took less time to die
Than the rabbits he had himself killed, many a day,
Though when his tight hand clutched at his own blood
It was as if he had never met death, entirely.
Once, for a split second, he wondered
Why he could not raise his strong legs from the grass,
And why the slow granite of his father’s face
Was melting about him, for it never had.
He would have spoken now to his father, but the words were not there.
Plainly the thoughts for his tongue were bound in his plow-taut hands,
In the fields out of Concord he had said what he could with them,
And now when his heart grew dark, he was left with no other words.
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