Showing posts with label memorial day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memorial day. Show all posts

Monday, May 25, 2026

Shots In Anger

At 4:30am on Friday, April 12, 1861 Brigadier General Beauregard ordered the secessionist troops manning the artillery batteries of Charleston, South Carolina to open fire on Fort Sumter housing 127 federal troops of which 13 were musicians. Two hours lapse before the Yankee commander allowed Captain Abner Doubleday, the inventor of baseball, to return a salvo of solid ball. No rebel or union soldiers died during the 34 hours of bombardment, although one rebel was mortally wounded after the misfiring of a cannon and two union troops gave up their lives on the 47th shot of a 100-shot salute after the surrender of the beleaguered fort.

The nearly-bloodless fight ill-prepared the divided nation for the four years of slaughter to come. I asked everyone at work of today's importance. None of the employees at the diamond exchange had an answer. A good percentage of them are foreign-born. None of the native-born were aware of the date's significance. The New York Times, the Daily News, and New York Post wrote articles about the battle, but 2 weeks ago is ancient history in the city that never sleeps.

My father's side of the family fought in the Civil War. Hannibal Hamlin, distant relative, had been vice president under Lincoln. The first time I googled his name the first article to appear said that the Maine politician was reputed to be a negro, but then most white people at that time had negro blood in their veins after 200 years of slavery. They even paid painters to change their pigmentation in portraits to heighten their whiteness, but then the War Between the States was not about freeing the slaves, the casus bellum was 'states rights' according the the southerners of today and certainly more folks south of the Mason-Dixon Line recall the events of today than in the North.

To the victors go the glory of ignorance.

But in the Great State of Maine granite statues dot town squares. Immortal soldiers from the 10th Maine regiment, the 27th Maine, and Joshua Chamberlain's heroic 20th Maine face in one direction and that direction is South. My family hailed from Westbrook, Maine. The attic of my grandmother's house was a memorial to past wars. As a boy my older brother and I wore the uniforms of WWI and WWII. In my mind I remembered pulling on a blue coat of a Yankee. It was small. Almost the size of a young boy like myself. I telephoned my aunt to ask her, if she recollected a uniform dating back to the Civil War.

"You have such a special memory," she laughed from her living room in Marblehead. Her husband agreed with her recollection, but men at any age agree with a woman if they know what's good for them.

My older brother was my next call. His memory mirrored that of our aunt.

"What about seeing the last Union soldiers at a town parade on Memorial Day? About 1960?"

"Not a chance. The last surviving veteran was Albert Henry Woolson. He died in 1956."

"How do you know that?"

"Because my son told me that today."

His son was smart. He was graduating from U Penn. His field of studies was pre-med.

"And he also asked me to name the 9 battles in which over 20,000 troops died in the Civil War."

"That's easy; the 2nd Battle of Bull Run, Chancellorsville, the Wilderness, Gettysburg, Fredricksburg, Shiloh, Antietam, Stone River, Spotsylvania, and Chickamauga." I had read Bruce Catton's Civil War histories several times as a youth and adult.

I was right, although his wife thought that I read these names from a computer. She was wrong. The Civil War is in my blood.

In 2011 I drove south of the Potomac to visit Ms. Carolina. She was seriously ill. I wanted to see her before the turns of her travails worsened with the shortening of time. Her house was out on the Northern Neck of the Potomac. I headed down I-95 to route 3 and turned east. Fredricksburg was en route. I was drawn to St. Marye's Heights. The Union Army had been broken on this ground. The 20th Maine had huddled behind the dead. Spring was another few weeks away, but I stood next to the old cannons and mourned the dead.

Theirs and ours.

150 years is a long time. We are still enemies, yet still the same for the Union survived those four dreadful years and this country will be challenged by the present division sundering our connections, for at the end we are all Americans and nobody says it better than Maine's Joshua Chamberlain, who was present during the Surrender at Appomattox. He met with General Gordon of the CSA.

"I am from General Gordon. General Lee desires a cessation of hostilities until he can hear from General Grant as to the proposed surrender."

Chamberlain recounted the ceremony in his memoir and the moment when he ordered the 20th Maine to "carry arms" as a show of respect.

"Gordon, at the head of the marching column, outdoes us in courtesy. He was riding with downcast eyes and more than pensive look; but at this clatter of arms he raises his eyes and instantly catching the significance, wheels his horse with that superb grace of which he is master, drops the point of his sword to his stirrup, gives a command, at which the great Confederate ensign following him is dipped and his decimated brigades, as they reach our right, respond to the 'carry.' All the while on our part not a sound of trumpet or drum, not a cheer, nor a word nor motion of man, but awful stillness as if it were the passing of the dead."

Johnny, it's always good to put that gun down.

We are one nation.

150 years ago as much as today.

Sunday, May 24, 2026

Holiday Neighbors

A friend complained about her neighbor's busying up her Memorial Day Holiday.

"Ok...I'm trying not to be too pissed off, but my neighbor who has been home all weekend has decided to harass me more by mowing his lawn starting at 8:30 am on a holiday ! What is even worse is that he has his shirt off and yuk !! very bad tattoos, beer gut and man boobs. The worse tattoo is one that almost covers his back of a vintage Chevrolet symbol with the word NOVA in the middle of it...really?!!!"

Personally I liked the Chevy Nova.

It was a hot rod`, but I live in Fort Greene and for the most part I like my neighbors.

They have no lawns.

They have parties.

They play their music loud.

If you shout at them, they don't shoot back.

Unlike the hinterland.

They take shouting to the heart.

I found this Chevy tattoo online.

With the following tag.

He loves Chevy enough to get a tattoo, but not enough to spend any money on it.

Sunday, April 27, 2025

Memorial Day 2023

Memorial Day traditionally kicks off the summer holidays in America. Parades are held to honor the nation's soldiers and sailors, who have fallen in battle, after which families gather for BBQs before creating massive traffic jams on the highways of the USA. Memorial Day was celebrated on May 30, which preceded my birthday by one day, so as a child I looked forward to the holiday with doubled anticipation.

As a Boy Scout in the early 60s we marched into the town cemetery with veterans from the country's many wars, firefighters, police, and politicians. A prayer was said at the Civil War monument and a military color guard shoot blanks into the air.

Somehow I thought that some of the accompanying veterans had fought in the Civil War, but the last survivor of the War between the States had been Albert Henry Woolson, who died in August 2, 1956, so maybe these ancient soldiers were the last veterans standing from the Spanish American War.

Memorial Day was first held in Charleston South Carolina in 1866, when the newly freed laid flowers on the graves of dead Union soldiers. Decoration Day was popular with the veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic, as the remains of the dead were moved from where they fell to their home states.

Today I raise my glass to the hundreds of thousands of dead.

They are not forgotten.

A Memorial Day Thought:

"Obviously what causes war is the desire for power, position, prestige, money; also the disease called nationalism, the worship of a flag; and the disease of organized religion, the worship of a dogma. All these are the causes of war; if you as an individual belong to any of the organized religions, if you are greedy for power, if you are envious, you are bound to produce a society which will result in destruction. So again it depends upon you and not on the leaders - not on so-called statesmen and all the rest of them. It depends upon you and me but we do not seem to realize that. If once we really felt the responsibility of our own actions, how quickly we could bring to an end all these wars, this appalling misery!"
-Krishnamurti

Saturday, February 8, 2014

BAD BOY DRIVING by Peter Nolan Smith

In the fall of 1973 my college comrade Paul Deseret and I worked at the Hi-Hat Lounge in Brighton. The pay for busboys wasn't much, but the girls were young, the drinks were cheap, and we could sell quaaludes and mescaline at the bar. Neither of them were the best available in Boston, but we were always in supply, so the bands playing at the bars on Commonwealth Avenue came to see us before and after gigs. I sold LSD to AeroSmith and they invited us to their show at BU. They weren’t big, but the band attracted co-eds from every university within 25 miles.

Twenty minutes before the concert I announced that it was time to go.

“Can you drive?” Paul hesitated before getting my VW bug for the ride to BU.

“Of course I can drive.” I had been driving since I was 16 and only had 7 accidents. Most of them weren’t my fault. At least the way I told it.

"Are you sure?" Paul didn’t trust me behind the wheel. We had hitchhiked across America in 1971. A carload of drunks had begged me to drive their Riviera from Reno to San Francisco. Paul had sat in the back, while I had pretended to be Dean Moriaty and drank warm whiskey driving through the Sierras.

"I'm cool." Our three friends were yelling for him not to be such a pussy.

"Just don't drive crazy." Paul sat in the front with me. He turned on WMEX. The DJ was playing LAYLA. The boys in the back seat sang along with the Derek and the Dominos' song.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Peter buckled up his seat belt. No one in 1971 wore one. We had all seen too many films where the passengers burn in their cars, thanks to a defective seat belt.

"I'm fine." Something about his question bothered me and I said, "And to show you how fine I'm, I'll run every red light to Kenmore Square."

“Don’t do that.” Paul's hand pulled on the door to get out, but I rammed the stickshift into first, then second, and finally third. "Like I said I'm cool."

Paul shouted to 'slow down'. while my other passengers cheered me on, then again they weren't in the suicide seat.

I blew the light at the BU dorms and then another by the Boston Club. The traffic was light, however the Charles River Bridge was a much busier intersection.

“Don’t.” Everyone cried out with good reason with wide eyes.

A Ford Mustang was speeding through a yellow light.

I swerved to the right, but a little too late to avoid tapping the back of a Mustang. I braked to a screeching halt.

"We're alive," one of the passengers in the rear sighed of relief.

“Asshole.” Peter was pissed at me.

“Are you hurt?” The buzz from the 'lude was temporarily stalled by the rush of a near-death experience.

“No.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and got of the car.

"Sorry." I realized too late what an asshole I had been for endangering his life.

"Save your sorry." He pointed to the Mustang. It was stuck in the intersection. The driver was checking the damage to his rear.

"Shit." I joined Paul outside and examined the damage to both vehicles. My fender was bent. Maybe $200 worth, but the Mustang bore a major dent. Maybe $1000, which was a lot of money. The driver took one look at me and then keeled over and puked on the sidewalk. He wiped his mouth and said, “Sorry, for running that light. Are you okay?”

The drunk thought the crash was his fault and he offered money to pay for the damages. His Mustang had a few more dents from fender benders. "I don't want any trouble with my insurance company."

"No worries." I took a hundred and twenty dollars. Paul shook his head and grabbed my keys. "I'm driving."

"That's a good idea."

"It was better five minutes ago."

"Better now than never."

Paul drove to the concert like a nun.

"You're still an asshole."

Paul wasn't going to forgive me soon. The concert was fantastic. We brought two coeds back to the Hi-Hat. I bought everyone drinks. After two beers we laughed about the crash and Paul called me, “Boston’s worst driver.”

Maybe I was that evening, but then again I had competition.

I don't drive drunk no more. That was best left for the era of drunk driving hours. The cars were made of steel and drink was really drink, plus there weren't so many cars.

Ah, the memories.

Sunday, May 26, 2013

BAD DRIVING 101 by Peter Nolan Smith

In the fall of 1973 my college comrade Paul Deseret and I worked at the Hi-Hat Lounge in Brighton. The pay for busboys wasn't much, but the girls were young, the drinks were cheap, and we could sell qualludes and mescaline at the bar. Neither of them were the best available in Boston, but we were always in supply, so the bands playing at the bars on Commonwealth Avenue came to see us before and after gigs. I sold LSD to AeroSmith and they invited us to their show at BU. They weren’t big, but the band attracted co-eds from every university within 25 miles.

Twenty minutes before the concert I announced that it was time to go.

“Can you drive?” Paul hesitated before getting my VW bug for the ride to BU.

“Of course I can drive.” I had been driving since I was 16 and only had 7 accidents. Most of them weren’t my fault. At least the way I told it.

"Are you sure?" Paul didn’t trust me behind the wheel. We had hitchhiked across America in 1971. A carload of drunks had begged me to drive their Riviera from Reno to San Francisco. Paul had sat in the back, while I had pretended to be Dean Moriaty and drank warm whiskey driving through the Sierras.

"I'm cool." Our three friends were yelling for him not to be such a pussy.

"Just don't drive crazy." Paul sat in the front with me. He turned on WMEX. The DJ was playing LAYLA. The boys in the back seat sang along with the Derek and the Dominos' song.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Peter buckled up his seat belt. No one in 1971 wore one. We had all seen too many films where the passengers burn in their cars, thanks to a defective seat belt.

"I'm fine." Something about his question bothered me and I said, "And to show you you how fine I'm, I'll run every red light to Kenmore Square."

“Don’t do that.” Paul's hand pulled on the door to get out, but I rammed the stickshift into first, then second, and finally third. "Like I said I'm cool."

Paul shouted to 'slow down'. while my other passengers cheered me on, then again they weren't in the suicide seat.

I blew the light at the BU dorms and then another by the Boston Club. The traffic was light, however the Charles River Bridge was a much busier intersection.

“Don’t.” Everyone cried out with good reason with wide eyes.

A Ford Mustang was speeding through a yellow light.

I swerved to the right, but a little too late to avoid tapping the back of a Mustang. I braked to a screeching halt.

"We're alive," one of the passengers in the rear sighed of relief.

“Asshole.” Peter was pissed at me.

“Are you hurt?” The buzz from the 'lude was temporarily stalled by the rush of a near-death experience.

“No.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and got of the car.

"Sorry." I realized too late what an asshole I had been for endangering his life.

"Save your sorry." He pointed to the Mustang. It was stuck in the intersection. The driver was checking the damge to his rear.

"Shit." I joined Paul outside and examined the damage to both vehicles. My fender was bent. Maybe $200 worth, but the Mustang bore a major dent. Maybe $1000, which was a lot of money. The driver took one look at me and then keeled over and puked on the sidewalk. He wiped his mouth and said, “Sorry, for running that light. Are you okay?”

The drunk thought the crash was his fault and he offered money to pay for the damages. His Mustang had a few more dents from fender benders. "I don't want any trouble with my insurance company."

"No worries." I took a hundred and twenty dollars. Paul shook his head and grabbed my keys. "I'm driving."

"That's a good idea."

"It was better five minutes ago."

"Better now than never."

Paul drove to the concert like a nun.

"You're still an asshole."

Paul wasn't going to forgive me soon. The concert was fantastic. We brought two coeds back to the Hi-Hat. I bought everyone drinks. After two beers we laughed about the crash and and Paul called me, “Boston’s worst driver.”

Maybe I was that evening, but then again I had competition.

I don't drive drunk no more. That was best left for the era of drunk driving hours. The cars were made of steel and drink was really drink, plus there weren't so many cars.

Ah, the memories.