Six degrees or less
Published on Thu, Jul 8, 2010 by Chuck SigarsRead More Chuck's World
I had an unpleasant Fourth of July, not that you asked, mostly due to rowdy neighbors who made questionable, extralegal choices regarding explosives.
My irritation was justified but I'll also take it as one more sign of age; my passion for fireworks, which really was never all that passionate, has diminished over the years, and last weekend was it. The last spark was put out, if you'll forgive me for that. I want to watch them on TV with the sound off.
Like a lot of parents, though, there was a period when my interest in the loud noises and bright lights got rekindled (I have to stop doing this), when my kids were small. As did my excitement about Christmas and my affection for certain Disney movies. My son in particular looked forward to the Fourth with an interesting mix of dread and anticipation, too much noise but pretty pictures in the sky.
And it was approaching one Independence Day, years ago, when he brought up the fun of fireworks to one of our (other) neighbors, that I got a little insight.
"I saw enough fireworks in the Army," this man said, not unkindly, and I thought, I'll bet you did, too. And I'll bet he's not alone. Enough with the booms, been there, done that.
This crossed my mind over the holiday, since another anniversary was marked that weekend, although quietly and only by those with a particular passion for certain kinds of history.
On July 3, 1863, the Civil War battle known as Pickett's Charge took place, the last gasp of Gettysburg, an exercise in futility that ended badly for the Confederates, but then. It ended badly all the way around.
I'm not a battle buff, although I completely understand people who are, and why that bloodiest of American wars fascinates them. Driving through Virginia last year, I couldn't help but look at peaceful rolling hills and imagine them covered with artillery and bodies; the Ken Burns effect, I guess.
And you don't need me to tell you war is bad.
That's not what really interests me, though. It's this: Fifty years later, on July 3, 1913, the survivors of that battle met again in Gettysburg, did a little reenactment and shook hands, war's over.
And it's not that, either. Fifty years will heal a lot of wounds. It's just that 1913, even nearly a century ago, doesn't seem that far away. My maternal grandmother was already alive. Plenty of people are around today who were alive. Woodrow Wilson was president, the first road designed specifically for automobiles was built, the federal income tax became the 16th amendment to the Constitution. The zipper was invented. It feels like a modern era in many ways. This sort of musing always nudges my internal calendar, makes me flip through the pages.
Like this: In 1975, my trigonometry teacher, after a member of our class got back from a trip to Washington and had met President Ford, stuck out his hand. "You've now shaken the hand of a man who shook Teddy Roosevelt's hand," he said, and that image has always stayed with me.
It was during the 1912 Bull Moose campaign, and my teacher was a toddler, 2 years old. He was on a train with his parents, as I remember the story, and T.R. shook this little boy's hand.
Teddy Roosevelt was a little boy himself in 1865, when he watched from a window as Abraham Lincoln's body was transported through the streets of New York.
And Lincoln was born in 1809, when Jefferson was still president, about to turn it over to James Madison.
Four clicks to the beginning of the country. Something I marvel at, anyway. We're still so close, somehow.
And I can marvel at Albert Woolson, who, following his father's death from wounds suffered in another bloody battle, Shiloh, enlisted as a drummer boy in Company D of the 1st Minnesota Heavy Artillery Regiment. The Civil War ended a few months later, Albert's company never seeing action, although Albert, as it turned out, would.
He would live another 91 years, the last undisputed veteran of the Civil War, having seen wars of all kinds and in all sorts of places, from Pennsylvania to Hiroshima. He died at age 106, just two years before I was born, having passed from agricultural America in the mid-19th century to the atomic age, from Stephen Foster to Elvis, from Zachary Taylor to Dwight Eisenhower, to me.
Somehow this gives me comfort. It's a hard time in America, in the world, and I have no answers, insight or solutions. But as I griped about loud noises on this Independence Day, it was nice to remember that for all of our flaws, setbacks and struggles as a nation, we are still new, and almost impossibly young.
My irritation was justified but I'll also take it as one more sign of age; my passion for fireworks, which really was never all that passionate, has diminished over the years, and last weekend was it. The last spark was put out, if you'll forgive me for that. I want to watch them on TV with the sound off.
Like a lot of parents, though, there was a period when my interest in the loud noises and bright lights got rekindled (I have to stop doing this), when my kids were small. As did my excitement about Christmas and my affection for certain Disney movies. My son in particular looked forward to the Fourth with an interesting mix of dread and anticipation, too much noise but pretty pictures in the sky.
And it was approaching one Independence Day, years ago, when he brought up the fun of fireworks to one of our (other) neighbors, that I got a little insight.
"I saw enough fireworks in the Army," this man said, not unkindly, and I thought, I'll bet you did, too. And I'll bet he's not alone. Enough with the booms, been there, done that.
This crossed my mind over the holiday, since another anniversary was marked that weekend, although quietly and only by those with a particular passion for certain kinds of history.
On July 3, 1863, the Civil War battle known as Pickett's Charge took place, the last gasp of Gettysburg, an exercise in futility that ended badly for the Confederates, but then. It ended badly all the way around.
I'm not a battle buff, although I completely understand people who are, and why that bloodiest of American wars fascinates them. Driving through Virginia last year, I couldn't help but look at peaceful rolling hills and imagine them covered with artillery and bodies; the Ken Burns effect, I guess.
And you don't need me to tell you war is bad.
That's not what really interests me, though. It's this: Fifty years later, on July 3, 1913, the survivors of that battle met again in Gettysburg, did a little reenactment and shook hands, war's over.
And it's not that, either. Fifty years will heal a lot of wounds. It's just that 1913, even nearly a century ago, doesn't seem that far away. My maternal grandmother was already alive. Plenty of people are around today who were alive. Woodrow Wilson was president, the first road designed specifically for automobiles was built, the federal income tax became the 16th amendment to the Constitution. The zipper was invented. It feels like a modern era in many ways. This sort of musing always nudges my internal calendar, makes me flip through the pages.
Like this: In 1975, my trigonometry teacher, after a member of our class got back from a trip to Washington and had met President Ford, stuck out his hand. "You've now shaken the hand of a man who shook Teddy Roosevelt's hand," he said, and that image has always stayed with me.
It was during the 1912 Bull Moose campaign, and my teacher was a toddler, 2 years old. He was on a train with his parents, as I remember the story, and T.R. shook this little boy's hand.
Teddy Roosevelt was a little boy himself in 1865, when he watched from a window as Abraham Lincoln's body was transported through the streets of New York.
And Lincoln was born in 1809, when Jefferson was still president, about to turn it over to James Madison.
Four clicks to the beginning of the country. Something I marvel at, anyway. We're still so close, somehow.
And I can marvel at Albert Woolson, who, following his father's death from wounds suffered in another bloody battle, Shiloh, enlisted as a drummer boy in Company D of the 1st Minnesota Heavy Artillery Regiment. The Civil War ended a few months later, Albert's company never seeing action, although Albert, as it turned out, would.
He would live another 91 years, the last undisputed veteran of the Civil War, having seen wars of all kinds and in all sorts of places, from Pennsylvania to Hiroshima. He died at age 106, just two years before I was born, having passed from agricultural America in the mid-19th century to the atomic age, from Stephen Foster to Elvis, from Zachary Taylor to Dwight Eisenhower, to me.
Somehow this gives me comfort. It's a hard time in America, in the world, and I have no answers, insight or solutions. But as I griped about loud noises on this Independence Day, it was nice to remember that for all of our flaws, setbacks and struggles as a nation, we are still new, and almost impossibly young.