1776 Continental Congress proclaimed independence from Great Britain
1826 Thomas Jefferson and John Adams both died on the 50th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence
1855 In Brooklyn, the first edition of Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" was published
1944 1st Japanese kamikaze attack on the US fleet near Iwo Jima
1966 LBJ signed the Freedom of Information Act
2012 Scientists at CERN's Large Hadron Collider announced the discovery of a new particle consistent with the Higgs boson, the so-called 'God particle
Come Up from the Fields Father
By Walt Whitman Come up from the fields father, here’s a letter from our Pete, And come to the front door mother, here’s a letter from thy dear son. Lo, ’tis autumn, Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind, Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis’d vines, (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?) Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds, Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well. Down in the fields all prospers well, But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter’s call, And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away. Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling, She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap. Open the envelope quickly, O this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is sign’d, O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother’s soul! All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only, Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, At present low, but will soon be better. Ah now the single figure to me, Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, By the jamb of a door leans. Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs, The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay’d,) See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better. Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be better, that brave and simple soul,) While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, The only son is dead. But the mother needs to be better, She with thin form presently drest in black, By day her meals untouch’d, then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking, In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and withdraw, To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.
A great poem by a great poet. I suspect that those with the deepest appreciation for this poem are those who have lost a son, brother, or husband or lover in war, and those who have had the duty of notifying them in person of their loss.
The Fourth of July, the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, and patriotism. Today is my 84th Fourth of July. The first 18 were spent in Chicago, listening to firecrackers and watching chintzy neighborhood fireworks. My 19th was spent in New York City, aboard the USS Coney (DDE 508), as part of NYC's annual big Fourth of July bash involving Fleet Day. I went to the observation site atop the World Trade Center during that visit. My 20th was spent at the Naval Amphibious Base, Little Creek, VA, where I decided to forfeit a Navy commission and to become a Marine. My 21st was spent at T&T Regt., Marine Corps Base, Quantico, VA, where I learned that I could endure more pain and inflict more pain on myself than I had thought possible. #22 was also spent at MCB Quantico, at The Basic School, as a newly commissioned 2nd lieutenant and a newlywed. We lived on Route 1, Stafford Courthouse, VA, on U.S. 1, where, in August 1963, we watched thousands of cars, trucks, and buses heading up to Washington for Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The next Fourth of July we were living in Yuma, AZ, and I was stationed at the Marine Corps Air Station then outside the city, now adjoining the much-expanded city. My 24th Fourth was spent on the semi-deserted Marine Corps Air Station at Iwakuni, Japan, awaiting space-available air travel to Vietnam. My 25th was spent near the birthplace of the Declaration of Independence, in Doylestown, Bucks County, PA, north of Philadelphia, where, on every 6th day, I had the duty of notifying the next-of-kin of Marines like Whitman's 'dear son, Pete.' Every Fourth of July since then, I have spent in and near Milwaukee.
18 in Chicago, 3 as a midshipman while on active duty somewhere, 4 as a Marine officer somewhere, and 59 in Milwaukee.
I've tried - unsuccessfully - to recall how I felt about this huge patriotic holiday during these very different periods of my life. I've wondered particularly about my feelings of "patriotism", and about what that term comprehends. Patriotism is assumed to be a great value, some sort of feeling or dedication that we all should share, but it is also used to disguise an indefensible nationalism: "Patriotism is your conviction that this country is superior to all other countries because you were born in it." — George Bernard Shaw. "Patriotism is an arbitrary veneration of real estate above principles." — George Jean Nathan. "Nationalism is an infantile disease. It is the measles of mankind." — Albert Einstein.
The older I've gotten, the more I've read and learned, the more I've seen the American government at work, the more I seen of our nation's militarism, imperialism, and belief in its own exceptionalism, the less I fall for the ubiquitous hoopla that accompanies our Fourth of July celebrations. This particular celebration is particularly galling. On the national level, it is called FREEDOM 250. If one goes to the White House web page, about the celebration, one is greeted with "Welcome to the Golden Age!" with an invitation to sign up for Trump's political newsletter. Trump has taken over the occasion, just as the right wing in America has appropriated the symbols of the nation for its own purposes, especially the American flag. We are at an undeclared war with Iran, and triggered its war on Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Qatar, Bahrain, Kuwait, Oman, the United Arab Emirates, and the world economy. Our military is still murdering people in the Caribbean and the Eastern Pacific, in contravention of international law. We've appropriated Venezuela's entire oil industry and are threatening Cuba with starvation, if not invasion. We are betraying our long-time traditional allies, friends, and trading partners in Europe, with punishing tariffs and de facto repudiation of Article 5 of the NATO treaty, hurting most especially Ukraine. It's increasingly a struggle to find a reason to wave our flag and shout USA! USA! USA!
