Veterans Day 2013 We Reflect and Honor those Veterans who have served Past Present and Future Generations to the Great Republic.pdf

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Veterans Day 2013 We Reflect and Honor those Veterans who have served Past Presentand Future Generations to the Great Republic



Preface / Introduction

This is a current reflection on a important day in United States History on November 11, 2013 we

celebrate the true heroes of the Great Republic past present and future! As a Veteran of the US NavyI understand what service with honor means and as we remember those who have paid the ultimate price for freedom stand up AMERICA and Thank your Veterans for there service to Country!!

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Table of Contents

1. Liam and Theo, companions in life, companions forever.2. U.S. Marine Sergeant William Woitowicz. Dead too soon at 23 in 'the place where the windsarise'. June 7, 2011.3. 'When Johnny comes marching home again". Thoughts on U.S. Independence Day, July 4, 2011.4. About Spc. David Hickman, the last of the U.S. troops killed in Iraq. He was just 23.5. Thoughts on the "war to end all wars", mustard gas, Uncle Will, and remembrance.6. The boy next door... the best of the Great Republic. You sleep easy through the night because of him... and millions like him. A Tribute!7. 'The Stars and Stripes Forever.' Memorial Day in the Great Republic. Monday, May 27, 2013.8. Our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor. Independence Day, 2013. "From the mountains, tothe prairies, To the oceans white with foam...."9. Independence Day 2013. On the road again. Manchester-by-the-Sea. And a grande dame with the

gift of friendship and joy. Come and get acquainted.



Liam and Theo, companions in life, companions forever.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

This is a story of colleagues... and friendship.

It is a story of love and of a bond that transcends death itself.

It is a story which, such being the way of good stories, takes you, by the powerful chords of memory,from this story.... to your story, for you, I know, have such a story, too, though it may not havetugged at your heart for a long while.

This is the story, then, of Liam and Theo, and you'll be glad to know it.

Lance Corporal Liam Tasker was a dog handler with the British Royal Army Veterinary Corps.

Theo was his dog.

They were well known in Afghanistan, together day and night. People in Afghanistan, who have solittle to smile about, could not help but smile when Theo, irrepressible, running ahead, playing hideand seek was around. Theo made them happy, in the ways that dogs have long since perfected. Theyliked him... after all he was risking his life every day for them... and they appreciated that.

The people appreciated Liam Tasker, too. Just 26, a Scotsman, and proud of it, from Kirkcaldy, Fife,Liam was someone who didn't have to go to Afghanistan. However, he had two loves... soldieringand dogs. In the army he got both; if Afghanstan was the destination, so be it.

Their partnership.

Liam and Theo had one of the most dangerous jobs of all... searching for explosives, the instrumentsof disfigurement and death with which Afghanistan is littered, and from which the people will suffer for years to come, so numerous are they and so lethal.

It was Liam and Theo's job to find these explosives and render them, instruments of sudden deathand mayhem, harmless. It was serious, demanding work, and they were did it well. Theo, in fact, wassomething of a star; he had already drawn praise from Ministry of Defense officials for detecting 14hidden bombs and weapons caches in just five months on his first tour of duty in Afghanistan. Theo'ssuccess meant this 22-month-old Springer spaniel got the privilege of staying in dangerousAfghanistan another month.

But the bond between Theo and Liam went far beyond their professional association. As wasobvious to all, they liked each other. It's the kind of thing even the least perceptive can see. Theywere buddies... pals... always the best of friends. And, being young, with energy to spare, they werenot above mischief and hijinks, showing off for each other, egging the other on. Thus, they passed

their time in perilous Afghanistan, saving lives, enjoying each other's company.March 1, 2011

This began as a day like all days in the dangerous war zone that passes for brutalized Afghanistan... but in short order it became a day like no other , for both Liam and Theo.

L/Cpl Tasker suffered fatal injuries in a fight with the Taliban in Helmand Province while he andTheo were searching for explosives. .

Immediately, Theo knew something was very,very wrong. Liam was lying in the dust of Afghanistan, dead... Theo, hysterical, was taken back to Camp Bastion, the main British military

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base. There he could not be comforted.

Just three hours later, Theo, confused, agitated, alone, his friend Liam gone, died of a fatal seizure brought on by stress.

Now it was Liam who had gone before, while Theo rushed to catch up, death together infinitely preferable to life alone.

This story touched the heart of a great nation, for the British are a by word for loving animals of

every kind. They each had their special thought that day... for Liam and Theo, of course, but also for the pet they had loved, who had most certainly loved them, too.

Liam and Theo come home...

On March 10, 2011, hundreds of mourners lined the main street through the Wiltshire town of Wootton Bassett. Liam and Theo were coming home, and everyday people had come, with their dogs and other pets, to say good-bye.

A dozen police and Prison Service dogs made their official appearance, too. The crowd was silent... but the barking of dogs could be heard in the background as a solemn bell rang out to mark thearrival of the cortege; perhaps they knew and understood what was happening...

Liam Tasker's family was there, too, and they, in their profound grief, took solace from the fact thatnow, forever, Liam and Theo would be together; such was the loyalty of dog to man... and of thatman to his dog. L/Cpl Tasker's father Ian told ITV news: "my honest opinion on this is, when Liamwent down, that Theo didn't have the comfort from Liam to calm him down."

Liam's mother, Jane Duffy, simply said, "I would like to believe Theo died of a broken heart to bewith Liam." I believe it, too.

358 members of the British Armed Forces have now died in Afghanistan. 6 British military dogshave also died since 2001.

Today in Afghanistan the unending war goes on. Valiant men and women and dogs in the DogTraining Group will do their jobs and do them well. Some of these will die. Let us hope they find ineach other the support and bond now eternally epitomized by Liam Tasker and his dog Theo. Nowtogether, they will remain together for all the cycles to come, glad of each other and young.

May they rest in peace.







U.S. Marine Sergeant William Woitowicz. Dead too soon at 23in 'the place where the winds arise'. June 7, 2011.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's note. This is a sombre article on a sombre subject. I have chosen the deeply moving music"Swing low, sweet chariot" to set the mood. There are many fine versions of this well-known tune

written by Wallis Willis in 1862.I have chosen the one by Kevin Maynor. You will find it in any search engine. Listen to it withoutinterruption of any kind. This powerful song deserves nothing less.

Mellifluous language.

The Persian language is a language of poetry and culture. It is fluid, nuanced, and oftenextraordinarily beautiful. So evocative are its words that once bestowed on a person, place or thing,these matters, hum-drum anywhere else, are turned as if by magic, into words of lyric beauty.

Such a fortunate place is Badghis, a province in the northwest of the nation of Afghanistan. It is a place of winds, many bruising and destructive. Other places, like Chicago, the "windy city," have been blunt about its disposition. Badjhis prefers a softer touch that makes the point, but does sowithout a candor that can be abrasive.

And so this place came to be called the land "where the winds arise" and it is where U.S. MarineSergeant William J. Woitowicz fell never to rise again, cut down by small-arms fire and so releasedso early from the thrall of life.

Where he fell, how he fell, just what happened when,are the pedestrian details of an incident soon to be forgotten and without any significance to anyone but William J. Woitowicz. He expired in thefull bloom of youth on an ordinary day, where the quotidian was mundane, banal, commonplace to adegree, and where absolutely nothing done that day was unusual or important... except this

particular sergeant. For him that day was everything...From a place far, far away.

Ever been to Groton, Massachusetts or its near neighbor Westford? If not, make plans to visit. Thefall is best, since those autumnal days of colored leaves and crisp, clear skies showcase these typical New England towns best. These are places so scenic, your finger automatically takes the picturesyou will share with friends along with your decided opinion on how nice these previously unknown places really are.

No one was more of these serene bedroom communities than William Woitowicz. He knew themdown to his fingertips, and they knew the brawny athlete with the killer smile and winning ways.

People just plain liked him... and he, without much wondering why, liked them in return. It was aformula for many of life's happynesses. Make a note that when your next child or grandchild is bornto ask the fairies to give unstintingly of charm and an inquisitive mind. Woitowicz was gifted with both and showed just how far they could take a likely laddie.

For such a boy, the world was his oyster; everything possible, the very best that could be had in thegreat Republic.

That is why his decision to join the Marines directly following high school graduation in 2007 cameas a shock. It was not the career path of choice parents like Kevin and Rosemary Woitowicz couldunderstand, approve or recommend.







But their son (remember that killer smile) soon showed his "devastated" parents why his decisionmade sense -- for him. And, of course, in this situation, as so many others, parents, even stronglydisapproving parents, could in the end only concur and offer heartfelt wishes. And so they did for Billy Woitowicz. He was now en route to his strange destiny.

He now had the kind of lifestyle that exults Marines and causes lesser folk, needing their comforts,to cringe. But Woitowicz, having made his choice, was determined to turn himself not merely into asuperb Marine, but the most cheerful Marine ever; it was an unusual combination... and it did not go

unnoticed. Billy, in the Marines as at Groton-Dunstable Regional High School, was noticed; peoplekept their eyes on the man, he could be counted on. That means everything to Marines, for whom theword "buddy" constitutes a religion.

They needed him and all the other meritorious Marines everywhere there was America's business totransact. But it could only send this particular Marine to one high priority place... and the place theyneeded him yesterday was Afghanistan, the basket case of nations, where people like Billy weregold, not least because the locals soon understood his smile was for them, too.

And, by the way, he volunteered for Afghanistan; he knew the "basket case" needed what he had inexcess, and to spare: humanity.

June 7, 2011, a day like any day.June 7 had "routine" written all over it. And so it started... Billy was deployed as part of the SecondMarine Special Operations Battalion of the Marine Special Operations Regiment, based at CampLejeune, North Carolina.

No one expected anything to go wrong; everyone was prepared in case it did. And then, in an instant,it went terribly, terribly wrong for Billy Woitowicz; the gym-tailored body he had been so anxiousto perfect, lay face down in the dust of one of the most miserable countries on earth his hair dappledwith blood and blasted expectations.

No one, despite their sense and exhaustive training, could quite take it in: Billly Woitowicz had gone

before... "Swing low, sweet chariot..." and he had his orders from the highest source:"Well if you get there before I do, Coming for to carry me home. Tell all my friends I'm a comingtoo, Coming for to carry me home."

Carried home.

The people of Groton and Westford did Bilie proud. Never in their long history of service, patriotismand support had these communities poured out their pride and gratitude, their grief and pain for anycitizen as they did for this citizen.

The Marine Corps, more than a career, his vocation, advanced him to the rank of sergeant and thePurple Heart. From the Corps he loved and served unto death this meant everything.

The flags at half mast, the bunting, the remnants of the heartfelt ceremonies civil and religious are allapparent, And on another day of "war as usual" Billie abides in peace in the town he knew so well,amongst the citizens who liked and loved him. Here, in tranquility he graces the ages with hisall-embraciing killer smile taken too soon from us in the land where the wind arises.







'When Johnny comes marching home again". Thoughts onU.S. Independence Day, July 4, 2011.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. One of the most zestful of military marches is "When Johnny comesmarching home again.' It is a Civil War tune, written at a time when war demanded the full panoply

of pageantry, martial measures, flags unfurled, their symbolism bold, daring, resolute. Written byPatrick Sarsfield Gilmore, a serving Union soldier, it is the perfect accompaniment to this article.You'll find it in any search engine, often performed with period instruments, smart, stylish, fit for theheroes of the Great Republic.

My fellow Americans, allies, well disposed nations and peoples worldwide, and to those who meanus ill, greetings...

We meet again on the most hallowed day of the republican year to reaffirm the meaning andimportance of our nation. And, as so many other times on this date in our history we are gatheredtogether at a time of war, when the nation, as before, is challenged, not least to understand the eventsand their significance.

There are many aspects of war that would form suitable subjects for a day of such nationalsignificance. We could discuss the reasons for these wars, their necessity (always subject to vigorousdebate with patriots taking diverse views).

We could discuss, and rightly so, how our resources are stretched and challenged, at a time when thedemands made upon our military services seem unending.

We might venture to look upon, deeply, completely, whether our allies, enjoying to the full the benefits they derived from the commitment, resolve, and sacrifices of the most generous people onearth, the American people, are taking advantage, shirking their just responsibilities, knowing wecannot.

We could present, with ardor and profound belief, the meaning of our previous wars, engagements,incursions, police actions, invasions, battles, and more; in each and every one of which the sons anddaughters of the nation were wounded, maimed, disabled... or, we must never forget, died... their mortal bodies, consigned to God, now part of every continent... for on every continent we havegiven, done valorous deeds, and shaped the destiny of the world, action by action, body by body, arecord of determination, perseverance, grit and gallantry unmatched in the history of the world.

We could expound upon, joyfully, too, the just rights of all our fellow citizens, now allowed,whatever their sexual orientation, to serve their country, now openly and proudly, for such peoplehave always served; now they may do so with the proud assurance that the nation no longer treats

them with disdain.Any of these subjects would be relevant on this Independence Day; let us hope vigorous and candiddiscussions upon these important matters are taking place today... for such debates are a sign of health in the body politic. The Republic has always valued and sustained such conversations.

I, however, have chosen another theme, a theme that is part of every war: when, that war over,Johnny, our beloved father, son, mother, daughter, neighbor, fellow citizens all, return... what theymust know and all the rest of us must do upon the occasion of return.

Suggestions, recommendations, insights and guidance for veterans.







For the last months and years, your life, every waking moment, has centered on the military servicesof the nation. You have, and willingly so , left behind the joys and frustrations of civilian life the better to hone your skills and fulfill your often perilous missions.

During these missions you have come across scenes of distress, horror, brutality, fear, and , always,the tragic deaths of colleagues, buddies, pals.

You will, even when surrounded yet again by loved ones and friends, be subject to vivid andterrifying flashbacks, ordinarily arriving deep at night, excruciatingly real.

You will want to share such matters, to let the citizens of your acquaintance know them in full andeven tragic detail. But your fellow countrymen, protected by you abroad, will demand protection,too, from the stories which you rightly regard as essential to understanding and appreciating you andneed to tell.

Your friends and relations are relieved and excited by your return. But they cannot know that the person you were at embarkation has changed and developed... now has observations, insights,specialized knowledge and vital experiences which your countrymen not only do not know, butwhich they make a point of not knowing and ignoring, to your disappointment, regret, and, often,white-hot anger.

And so, too often does the returning husband, stunned and dismayed by such a situation, throw harshwords at the wife of his body -- "You don't understand. You were not there!"...

... whereupon that wife returns equally incendiary sentiments, born of loneliness, endless worriesand the necessity to be both parents, when one is away serving America's agenda. "You don'tunderstand. You were not here!" And those who should be all-in-all to each other create chasms thatdrain the affection and loyalty, leaving bitterness and regret.

Other situations you must also know.

Good citizens will tap you on the shoulder offering welcoming sentiments... less welcome will beindelicately rendered comments upon the utility of "your" war; its total waste and uselessness. Suchcomments you will be forced to listen, too; remember, these omniscient civilians do not know whatyou know and never will; most important they do not know that war meant doing dangerous jobswith expert skills and a deep well of good humor. And, above all, it was about the people you fought beside, lived beside, were wounded and died beside. Civilians do not have such relationships; for you they were everything. And, above all, remember this: you fought America's battles so thatAmerica's citizens would never experience your hardships and daunting tasks.

Suggestions, recommendations, insights and guidance for the family and friends of veterans.

First, rejoice. Your loved one, the object of ceaseless worry and prayer, is home. Even if wounded or disabled, rejoice. Many families just like yours face lifelong grief for their loss. They envy you.

Be patient. Your loved one has faced death on a regular basis. They will have insistent ruminations...especially if they saw young friends fall. That image is indelible, recurring, troubling. You will findsuch veterans in need of a quiet place; they have much to consider and reconsider... and they will notwant to share (though they may need to) until the perfect moment has arrived.

Advise your children that the returning one needs some special TLC and benevolence. He may beirritated and disoriented at the cacophony and boisterous ways of his ordinarily much lovedoffspring. He needs time and your patience to remember that the exuberance and safety of allAmerican children, not just his own, are his special gift to the nation.

"God shed His grace on thee..." but their exertions have preserved and fostered it.







This great nation was conceived in war,only to fight again and often to preserve what we hold mostdear and to ensure that others enjoy these benefits, too.

Now the veterans who helped sustain our great idea are returning home. Veterans all, may they begranted what they fought for: peace and the tranquility of the soul.







About Spc. David Hickman, the last of the U.S. troops killedin Iraq. He was just 23.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. What you would have noticed first of all was that the pews were filled withyoung faces... the kinds of faces you don't usually see amongst the congregation at funeral services

in Greensboro, North Carolina. And you knew right away that this was a service for someone whodied young, died whilst knowing hardly a thing about life... except that he knew and embodied themost important realization in life... that to give to others is the essence of our humanity... whilst todie for others is sublime.

As David Emanuel Hickman had done...

"Zeus".

What you would also have noticed about David Hickman was that he was as near physical perfection as a human can be, so much so that he called himself "Zeus" after the king of the Olympicgods. He didn't just look good... he looked awesome... toned, sculpted, working as the physical

fitness fanatic he was to perfect perfection. He was avid in pursuit of the body to die for, organized,dedicated, committed.

Such people, of course, with eye-popping muscles and the kind of beefcake you see on the covers of magazines in the check-out lane at grocery stores, can easily irk and irritate the rest of the population, too lazy to exercise and yet proud... but David Hickman knew the secret to making eventhe most jealous like him, for he was the class cut-up... a man whose smile was more killing than hissix pack. David loved to laugh... and he loved to make everyone around him laugh, too. We couldforgive this kid anything... because he made us laugh at everything... it was his real claim to fame,even when he was masterminding the complicated plays that brought sweet victory to NortheastGuilford High School. For he was, in time-honored American fashion, a grid iron hero...

Complicated plans.

David relished his time playing football... not least because it gave him the opportunity to create...the most complicated plays, plays which he would sit at home inventing, doodling, making notes ona page that would in due course become the moves that would bring the excited crowd to its feetshouting for David, anxious for more of the same, sure it would come... for David loved the gameand relished the fact that it gave him the opportunity to dazzle... even though his ultra complicatedgame plans had to be put aside after he graduated... mere teen-agers were unable to understand,much less execute them. How David must have smiled when he learned that, "Don't that just beatall... Don't that just beat all?"

What now?But as all grid iron heroes learn, football and its perquisites stop.. but life goes on. Thus each suchhero must answer one insistent question: what now? For David Hickman this meant the service of America, this meant the army... and so he enlisted. And remember this: he did this of his ownchoice, his own volition. He was not compelled to do so, neither forced nor drafted. He selected theservice of his nation because he believed in this nation, its great mission, and its essential goodnessand purpose . David Hickman, American boy, volunteered and volunteered in time of war. Thissingle decision, this action was the determining factor in the remaining time of his short life.

Boy into man.







In the army Hickman learned what every service man learns... the crucial importance of the unit, theteam, his buddies. Being a team player for football gave him a head start; he already knew how toturn a commitment to his team mates into victory. These crucial skills, on which more livesdepended than just his, were honed in the army, in his unit, the 2nd Battalion, 325th AirborneInfantry. Hickman, more man than boy with every passing day, grew up in his regiment, as so many before him had grown up. It was all about the men and women he served with, men and women whoselected the army, the service of the Great Republic... and their fate as warriors in the current of America's lengthy and growing chain of wars. For be clear on this: in the year Hickman enlisted, in

2009, the great fact of America was America's current wars, in Iraq, in Afghanistan. And DavidHickman knew that service to America would very likely, quite probably mean active duty in one or more of these turbulent, always dangerous war zones.

Whether he enlisted because of this great fact, or in spite of it is not known... but this fact is: hesigned his name on the required paperwork... and so declared himself ready for whatever shouldcome. Thus, in due course, David Hickman took his godlike physique, his mega-watt smile, hisrollicking humor, and his complete commitment to his country to Iraq and to kismet.

Getting into war -- easy. Getting out -- hard.

Every nation or political entity always learns one certain, irrevocable fact: that it is easy, ridiculously

easy, to get a war, any war, started. The paraphernalia of war is readily at hand, the stirring rhetoric,the certainty that war, always war, must be the solution to any problem, the seemingly irrefutableargument that this war is just, honest, timely, necessary...

Oh, yes, each war, all the wars, have been easily convoked... and so Johnny goes marching fromhome, all the necessary assurances and certainties in his kit. And the rest of us wish him well andsay that this war, like all the previous wars, is necessary and proper; that our cause is always just,and our wars are all needed, each and every one.

Then we discover that war isn't always the best solution... that war is always muddled, confusing,inept... and expensive. And so painful to see and experience, that the very people we have gone to

save are not grateful... are in fact outraged by our presence and wish us to the devil... or at the leastto go home soonest. All this invariably surprises, baffles and confuses the likes of David Hickmanand all the buddies... for their certainties melt when confronted by the forge of politics, self-seeking,and its multiplicity of shades of gray, instead of the black and white they expected and which had been so clear the day they departed.

And so the team, their buddies and colleagues grows in importance... as does the vital necessity tostay alive, to go home. And a kind of game develops... once the feeling is general that this oncecertain and necessary war will be over soon, politicians prating of the victory they didn't get... oncethis happens, the emphasis is on getting out alive; nothing, absolutely nothing is more importantthan that.

And so the war that no one now believes in must be kept going, while every thought and everyeffort is on staying alive... going home.

Killed at 23, November 14, 2011.

David Hickman, so expert at so many games, knew the drill... and took his chances. And died in the process.

He was killed by an improvised bomb, a device characteristic of the Iraq war, a cheap, nasty,made-up weapon that mangled and killed the military professionals of our nation. And on anordinary day in mid-November cut down David Hickman, too... the beauty of his youth, every possibility of a life graced with goodness, empathy, and a willingness to work to make things







better... all this gone because of a random destructive device detonated on a day when all DavidHickman wanted was to stay alive and go home.

And he did go home, as nearly 4,500 of our countrymen and women came home... to flags flying,guns firing, salutes smartly given... in a box; the last casualty in a war hardly anyone understood... awar that brought us the obloquy of the world... and a church full of his buddies and comrades, everyone young, every one without a line, without a single wrinkle... all thinking of God, of David, of themselves, and most of all about America, our Great Republic... and why Taps is played for so

many, so often, so much expected, so little achieved.Go now to any search engine and play it for David Hickman, and for all the rest; for they all died,each and every one of them, for us.

*** What do you think? Let us know by posting your comments below.







Thoughts on the "war to end all wars", mustard gas, UncleWill, and remembrance.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. This Memorial Day for the first time since the clock struck eleven on theeleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, the day of Armistice, there are no known World War I

veterans extant. The last U.S. veteran, Frank Buckles, died in 2011 after celebrating his 110th birthday. He served as a U.S. Army ambulance driver in Europe, rising to the rank of corporal beforethe war ended. Then there was just one more...

Florence Green died in 2012 at age 110, just two weeks before her 111th birthday. She joined theWomen's Royal Air Force in September 1918 at the age of seventeen. She went to work as awaitress in the officers' mess at RAF Marham in eastern England, and was serving there when thewar ended in 1918.

With these two deaths, now they are all dead, in their millions, the men and women who fought tomake the world safe for democracy, theirs the "war to end all wars" as President Woodrow Wilsonearnestly asserted and solemnly pronounced to a world which, after its great sacrifices, wanted so

very desperately to believe him, no one more so than William Edward Marshall, my Great UncleWill.

How an Archduke changed the life of a gridiron hero, the most handsome man in HendersonCounty.

"The Great War", as its survivors dubbed it, began when a zealous young Slav nationalist namedGavrilo Princip shot the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, and hismorganatic wife Countess Chotek at point blank range . They both died at once... while Austrianauthorities proceeded to break Princip's body like so many pretzels. Thus did Princip, just 20, become the first man of millions who yearned for home and peace, finding premature death instead.

And so he died starting the invidious process that killed tit... which then had to kill tat... whooutraged, had to kill tit yet again.

Why did he plan to murder, to assassinate The Heir? For only the highest and best reasons you may be sure... reasons for which over 60,000,000 people around the world died, every day that trail of blood and mayhem emanating from the slumped body of His Royal and Imperial Highness grew broader and broader still. His dead eyes asked a single question, the question hitherto unquestioningmillions would ask in their turn "Why"? The answer is to be found in part in William EdwardMarshall, citizen of Stronghurst, Illinois, 21st state of the Great Republic.

To understand World War I you must understand how Will Marshall, as everyone always calledhim, gave up everything he knew and valued to go fight on behalf of faraway people he didn't know

and would never meet, knowingly risking life and limb, remember -- for total strangers.

About Will Marshall.

William Edward Marshall achieved the highest rank his country could confer the moment of his birth, for then, the very instant he was born he was Citizen of the Great Republic, a title, style anddignity unknown in most of Europe whose opulent princes had subjects, not citizens. Here WillMarshal, for all that he was not a prince or count, was better off -- and knew it. Thus his belief in theGreat Republic, its whys and wherefores, came as easily as breathing. He was a free man in a freecountry, a man whose right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness was assured by theConstitution of the United States. These rights came from his relationship to God, not because of







some calculated gesture of a Machiavellian prince who might later rescind what he rued to give.William Edward Marshall's rights were sacrosanct for him.... and every other Citizen. This wasAmerica in 1890 the year Will Marshall was born, the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Football hero, farmer, respected man of peace.

Will Marshall was called without irony the handsomest man in Henderson County. "That and two bits will buy you pie and coffee," even his deflating father said. Will didn't mind the raillery; after all, tall, well made, fleet of foot and master strategist he was that most American of local heroes...from whose agile moves came a lifetime's respect from those who would tear the goal posts downafter they had seen Will Marshall run past them -- again. Such feats are cherished everywhere inAmerica, but nowhere more than in the tiny hamlet of Stronghurst, Illinois; population still under 1000 souls in 1914... everyone of them knew what a good man Will Marshall was... howhard-working, how public spirited, how well he must stand with his God. And so things might havecontinued but for the murderous meeting between an archduke on a sunny July day and a zealotdetermined to exterminate him.

Will Marshall goes to war, to France, to his destiny.

Will Marshall was not a warrior, not a man of marshal attitudes, uniforms, poses and gestures.

Farmers, tillers of the land, bringing forth its bounty by their own incessant labor, seldom are. Theyknow how difficult it is to create life, to spend any of their limited time on this planet destroying it.Will Marshall abhorred war, yet went to war, the greatest and most destructive war ever, because theGreat Republic and its affairs needed him... and that was that.

"The Yanks are coming."

Thus, Will Marshall became part of the American Expeditionary Forces (AEF) and in due coursefound himself one of over one million citizen-soldiers stationed in France, over half of whom wereat the front lines, including him. There as the increasingly desperate German imperial forces grewmore desperate yet, considering, doing every single thing they could do to snatch victory fromincreasingly certain defeat, Will Marshall met his fate, in a cloud of poison gas.

Mustard gas.

Contrary to popular belief, gas as a weapon was first introduced by the French army. However it wasthe Germans with their customary organizational genius and chemical skills who perfected the process. For the defence and glory of the Fatherland anything, even the most horrid thing, wascontemplated, considered and ultimately used. Some apologist somewhere would no doubt advancea comfortable rationale...

And so one ordinary day an ordinary German solider lobbed the mustard gas that sent WilliamEdward Marshall, citizen, descendant of the great Chief Justice who helped shape the new nation,one of nature's gentlemen, to his knees, brought low by the toxic beauty of gas; stealthy, silent,

serene.

But there, you see, is the rub. For gas is one of the cruelest weapons ever created. During the actualmustard gas attack its manifestations may not be seen, will not be seen for hours, even days. Then...the gas you inhaled, perhaps without knowing it, became the pernicious agent of your end... the gasrules you and decides whether you live or die, what manifestations and disabilities may be yoursand torment you for years, for life.

Thus, starting from the day he was gassed until the day he died, Uncle Will lived a life where hissight degenerated . Remedies were tried. Doctors consulted. Prayers by one and all given for hisrecovery, for he was a popular man. All to no avail. The effects of that gas cost him at once one eye.







The second deteriorated year by year until in 1934 he could see nothing at all. Light, for him, hadceased to exist.

Uncle Will and Me.

When I was growing up in the 'fifties, my family visited Stronghurst every so often. We never failedto visit Uncle Will and his charming wife Alma. My father made sure we behaved properly. He wasespecially keen on the handshake, "Firm, NOT limp!" And how to walk across the parlor properly,so Uncle Will knew how many steps you took. In this way he calculated how tall you were and howmuch you'd grown since the last visit.

The room was quiet, sound muted, light filtered. Uncle Will sat in a great, sturdy chair, its sizenecessary to contain the football player of old. I looked closely at his face; this was the face of aman of resignation and calm acceptance. He remained handsome, even noble right until the end.

He never complained. Never said a word about that day so long ago. Never was anything but gentle, polite, good humored and glad to see you. He had fought his war, done his bit, paid the terrible priceand could look the world in the eye, his pride deep, profound, abiding. The Great Republic has besought his help. He had given in full measure, and for him it was "Over, over there", not a bitter reality revisited daily.

Now not only Uncle Will but every veteran of the Great War is gone. Now they no longer die bythousands each day... but, far worse, are forgotten in their thousands each day; men and womenwhose lives were utterly and completely committed to us, now not even a moment's thought by us.Yet we are all the children of their unequalled gifts and should always be glad and glad to say so.They ask so little now, but we begrudge them even that, satisfied to take, satisfied to give themnothing, not even heartfelt recognition of our eternal debt.

May God forgive us.

Author's closing note. Like so many of his buddies, Uncle Will loved "Over There", a jaunty tunewritten by George M. Cohan in 1917.. Find it in any search engine. Turn up the sound and

remember.







The boy next door... the best of the Great Republic. Yousleep easy through the night because of him... and millionslike him. A Tribute!

The boy next door... the best of the Great Republic. You sleep easy through the night because of him... and millions like him. A Tribute!

Author's program note. When was the last time you considered the state of our Great Republic anddid anything -- anything at all -- to sustain and improve it?

If you cannot immediately say and cannot recall what you did, if you have nothing but rancorousthoughts and feelings about our continuing great experiment in the governance and well being of mankind, then stop and focus your full, undivided attention on this article and its subject: HowardHector Martell, Jr. For this day, like every other day over the past 20 years, Howard Martell hasserved us... you, me, the Great Republic, all of us able to live life as we wish because of him and hiscolleagues in every great service of our great nation.

To set the stage for this story, to provide the essential sound, I have selected music from one of the

greatest public affairs programs ever -- "Victory at Sea." It is a documentary television series aboutnaval warfare during World War II that was originally broadcast by NBC in 1952-1953. The stirringmusic was composed by Richard Rodgers and Robert Russell Bennett. Rodgers, well known for astring of iconic Broadway musicals, contributed 13 "themes"; short piano compositions a minute or two in length. Bennett did the scoring, transforming Rodger's themes into a variety of moods, alldesigned to touch your heart and fire your imagination. The result was pure magic.

Find out for yourself. Go now to any search engine. Listen to a few of the "themes" to get youstarted. I like "Hard Work and Horseplay", "Theme of the Fast Carriers" and, of course, "The Songof the High Seas." However, to honor Howard Martell, listen to "Guadalcanal March." It is theessence of what a grand march should be... the kind of march Howard has so well earned... I'm playing it now as I write.

New London.

New London, Connecticut is a seaport city and a port of entry on the northeast coast of the UnitedStates. It is located at the mouth of the Thames River which locals demand you pronounce to rhymewith "James", unlike the great river of London, England which rhymes with 'hems". The folks in New London insist upon their rendering; after all, they were part of the victorious Revolution thattossed the Brits out -- and their eccentric pronunciations. As you hear this said, you begin to graspthe fact that New London is not merely a place of picturesque aspects; just what meets the eye.Rather, it is a place where young boys glimpse the great sea at hand, so beckoning, and dreamdreams of faraway places and what life can be.

Howie Martell was such a boy.

He was born June 27,1973, attended local schools, graduating from Griswold High School. Peopleremember him, if they remember him at all, as shy, uncertain; a boy who would smile at you... butonly after you had smiled at him. Teachers with many students to instruct would remember himindistinctly and call him "average." But such an appraisal would have been incomplete, inaccurate,failing to capture his essence, for this boy was a dreamer of great dreams... and New London, for centuries the home port of audacious mariners, offered him the means to live them, mere dreams nolonger.

On August 10, 1992, just 19, he left the comfort of family, friends, the only place he had ever







known, placing his future in the hands of strangers who would, in due course and short order, become comrades, a word civilians may know but so seldom understand. And so Howard Martellentered the service of the Great Republic, discovering a destination more important than any of the48 countries he came to visit. He found himself... and became a man.

From this point, his resume tells the story... it is all USN, the resume of a man who studied hard,knew his business -- the Great Republic's business -- and was esteemed by superiors who alwaysfound him ready to assist, eager to learn, and above all trustworthy and responsible.

In the process a man was shaped who was the complete Navy professional, respected by all, able to be, as events required, a man who could lead, a man who would be loyal, a man you wanted on your team, because he (and this touches the heart of this man) always stood for the success of his team,never just his own. As people came to know him, they saw this... and admired the man who putcollective success above mere personal gain. Thus the Navy took Howard Martell, once a shy boy noone could quite remember, to its heart. He received one deserved honor after another... Navy GoodConduct Medal... six times... Navy & Marine Corps Achievement Medal... four times... Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal... Iraq Campaign Medal... two times. And most telling of all a plaque from his fellow First Class Petty Officers who thereby saluted one of their own. He wasindeed the complete Navy man... a man who twenty years before had made the right decision.

The need for service in the age of selfishness.

It is a truism that older citizens will engage in endless rodomontades which detail the innumerableoutrages perpetrated by the young against society. How they are ill-educated, lazy, unkempt,unclean of body and language. How they cannot be depended upon... how they flout all established behavior, video game obsessed wastrels who cannot be trusted and will never amount to a hill of beans. Thus goes the jeremiad; you can catch a whiff of it whenever two adults of fifty or so gather.From the very start of the first civilization each man steps into this argument in his maturity, aseasily as he dons casual clothes. It is one of the perqs of aging, and no senior citizen will ever giveup this sacred right to pontificate. I shall not give it up either and so I give you some pungentthoughts on the matter of service, a concept that alternates between being an afterthought and the

salvation of the nation. What we require is calm reflection and sensible policies on the matter. Andso I choose to use my words not to grumble but to exhort... to touch a shy boy or girl reading thisarticle and help them both select the responsible path, the path trod by Howard Martell andgenerations of young people before... the path of service... and the abiding need of the GreatRepublic for... you!

Young friend, our way of governance, our core beliefs, the very future of our noble enterprise is notonly challenged, but at risk. You have a choice -- mindless dissipation and decay, or personaldevelopment and redemption through the bestowal of your time, mind and heart to the pressingaffairs of the Great Republic. In short, you can ignobly remain part of the problem, or becomeinfinitely more valuable as part of the solution.

There is nothing neutral about this decision. It is of the greatest possible consequence and can only be made by you. A great idea, the greatest notion of statecraft ever propounded, the Great Republicitself awaits your verdict, hopeful, expectant, confident. Howie Martell made the right choice. Willyou?

... And now it is time to end Howard's military career with all the pomp and circumstance he hasearned... and which a grateful Navy can provide.

Stand forward Petty Officer First Class Howard Hector Martell, Jr.. For your service, your nation,your friends, family and comrades mean to honor you before the world in due recognition for whatyou have so abundantly given... above all the gift of loyalty and fidelity to a great institution so







needed by this great nation.

And so through each of the hallowed retirement traditions all Naval personnel know so well... untilthis event, at once festive and solemn, reaches the Shadow Box. This is a symbol of a sailor's manycareer accomplishments and recognitions. Shadow boxes contain a U.S. flag folded into a triangle,ribbons and medals, insignia and revered devices. They act as a reminder of ranks earned by theretiree and the awards received. It is a mark of the highest honor and cherished accordingly. Yours,Howard, comes complete with the unqualified gratitude of the nation you have served so well... none

better... and the sincere thanks of us all. May God grant you sunshine and a fair wind to your many ports of call still to come.

Envoi.

End this article by returning to any search engine and playing the "Victory at Sea" theme. It remainsglorious.







'The Stars and Stripes Forever.' Memorial Day in the GreatRepublic. Monday, May 27, 2013.

Author's program note. It is 5:35 a.m. here in Cambridge and the day threatens to be gray, overcastand wet (at least so far), not up to the radiant holiday standard we're used to on a plu-perfectspringtime day.

But the scene outside my window is evocative and even solemn, the light filtered, the trees outfittedin pristine green, every new leaf touched by dew present and accounted for. It is beautiful, rivalingany bucolic scene anywhere on Earth, any painting by John Constable. One is always surprised bythis, so much so unlikely in the ordinarily bustling city round about.

It is quiet, peaceful, serene on the Common now, but only now. We will in a few hours host a verymixed bag of parents of Harvard graduates, their families, claques and followers in from anywhereand everywhere. Commencement activities, you see, start today and culminate on Thursday in theiconic Yard across Massachusetts Avenue so close I can almost lean out the window to touch it.

Why are the festivities so long? My bet is that it takes so long to shake down all the graduatingseniors, their parents and, of course, every alumnus still on this side of the grim reaper. I'm sure you

understand that you cannot just tap Mr. Big Bucks, Class of '68, on the shoulder and say "Hey, bub!Pony up, you old windbag!" That is not recommended procedure.

Instead, you must have the president herself offer him a most amicable greeting, get him to down afew glasses of cordial spirits and listen with exquisitely feigned nearly angelic sincerity to hisinterminable, inexhaustible, self-congratulatory tales; the proven, practised pounce following as amatter of course... a whopping donation following that and the Mr. Big Bucks wing of a suitableedifice which could now proceed, the space already designated for chiseling the old bugger's namefor posterity. No wonder Harvard presidents have to take a holiday after this week... it would beastonishing if they didn't.

Oprah is speaking this year, and I'll be going to this single event, carefully eschewing everyopportunity (and there are many) to find my pockets lightened in the manner above mentioned. It islike going to Las Vegas and not gambling, difficult but by no means impossible. So cash donation or not, attending is my privilege as an alumnus, but I have not made any use of it for years.

But this year, for Oprah, I intend to be present and cheer her and her many achievements to the echo.I shall probably attempt to shake her hand and look her in the eye, uttering my sincere compliments.However my balance is not all it once was and what a kaffafle there would be if I fell into her armsand came to a soft landing on her much exposed poitrine.

She would be surprised, of course, who wouldn't be? However, she might well like it; 66 I may be, but I still have my charms and shreds of an ardor once notable. One of my other so far unused

Harvard privileges is the right to be married in the chapel of University Church. I assure you I amstill young and green enough to make use of it ... and confound lesser men as well as my heirswhose response to such news would surely come straight out of Charles Dickens where those whowait in certainty at the end find their great expectations crushed and overawed by the sap which stillrunneth even when the tree is gnarled and scarred by the business of staying alive.

But this is still not my subject for today or the reason why grown men from down the road apiecewill appear in their (not very accurate) togs purporting to look like the blue and buff uniforms andtricorne hats worn hereabouts in 1775 by lads who came not to commemorate a successfulrevolution but to stake all on forging one, an event anything but certain, the stuff of treason, thenoose, and the lash -- until their side won and they got to call the shots, including what was







righteous "history" and what wasn't.

Those who come today come to re-enact, not to act. And, I feel sad to tell, had the originals donesuch a trifling job we'd all be singing "God Save The Queen" this Memorial Day. Cambridge, whatwith Harvard, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and so many other fine collegiateinstitutions (though these are always overshadowed by the two biggest guys) has opportunities to burn.

Thus instead of regretting the loss of so many "might have beens" spoiled Cantabridgians continueyear to year happily wasting what for most any other city in the Great Republic would be the basisfor enhanced civic pride, enthusiastic endeavor, and strenuous outreach to maximize such a benefit.

I think, for instance, of one of my several alma maters (there are twelve such), the University of St.Andrews. It is Scotland's oldest university (founded 1413), far, far older than Harvard (founded1636). It has in its long life undergone many seasons of want and penury.

These would have undone lesser folk and their objectives, but not in Scotland where blood canindeed be squeezed from a stone. I am of Scottish heritage myself and I write of this often necessaryskill with consummate pride... an example which has helped me continue and overcome morechallenging times and troubles than I can recall.

Thus, the Solons of St. Andrews turned the mere fact of their longevity into coin of the realm. How?By creating a colorful parade that includes its tradition-mad students dressing up (and as accuratelyas possible, too) like the great figures of history associated with the university. These include thewoebegone Royal Stuarts, high aristocrats, word slingers, military potentates, statesmen and plutocrats. Each has added his measure and so helped create the great university which has, oftenagainst all odds, grown old and respected despite its infelicitous location hard by the unforgiving andinhospitable North Sea which has over immemorial time perfected its climactic torments.

There is nothing on Cambridge's civic calendar, nothing on Harvard's, like the Kate Kennedy paradethrough the streets of St. Andrews. You may say, so what, and perhaps dismiss the matter by singinga few bars of "Ca sera sera" (though I hope not quite as over sugared as Doris Day's rendition). But

(perhaps because of my Scottish descent) I like to derive all the benefits from any situation. Somecall this niggardly. I say it's merely superior husbandry of scarce resources.

Take the Common itself. For years during my long tenure here the Common was treated as scarcelymore than open air urinal (no less pungent for all that) and doss house where the homeless anddrifters marked their living place by flattened card board boxes, handed down amongst the lost and just passing through like so many tattered and odoriferous heirlooms.

In short, for years what should have been the verdant heart of a great city was a noisome menace,smelled rather than visited. And this continued until I, who reside parkside, said "basta!" and calledthe slothful, uncaring civic officials who were responsible but did nothing. In the face of their

massive indifference even my needle sharp messages were not immediately successful.It is for such exasperating, challenging moments that the word "persistence" was created. And soday after day after day after day at precisely the same time I called mayor, councillors, police and park authorities. Each of them came to know me well; "Yes, Dr. Lant" soon became their mantra...and progress, glacial at first, lead to success although even to this day, many irritants removed, thewhole cannot be regarded as "finished" for many details, small and large, remain to be attended to.However, one needs a greater objective and inspiration than these odds and ends can provide...

... mine is the desire to see better Memorial and Independence Day parades marching down thestreets bordering the Common... Waterhouse Street, then Garden Street, then Massachusetts Avenuethrough Harvard Square, a place every educated person in the world visits once in her life, a place







pulsating with the combined energy of the young who aspire and adults who have already left their mark and done their bit to make the world a better place.

Right now these parades are harum scarem, not merely amateurish but an embarrassment.There'sabsolutely none of that eclat, efficiency, organization, panache and spit-and-polish that a place asfamous as Cambridge should have in every endeavor, but so often doesn't. And as for thosere-enactors and their popguns... the less said the better.

Well now I've worked myself into what my grandmother called a "state". Far worse than that, Irealize that if I want better parades, polished and proud, the best Americana, I may be forced to domore than complain, may be forced indeed to interject myself into whatever organizations areresponsible for these eye-sores... and the people running the petty fiefdoms that produce them. Theseworthies, of course, will be ecstatic to see me and hear what I've got to say... not.

Hopefully I can learn to live with this mediocrity that ambles rather than marches past my door, butI doubt it. I can't fool myself. Every notable idea starts in the mind of one soul who realizes if youwant it done right, you must do it yourself; my grannie taught me that, too.....

Very well, but if I must volunteer myself as I did in the matter of the Cambridge Common, I shallinsist on three things: that the genius of John Philip Sousa, America's bandmaster, be the rousing

standard to which we dedicate ourselves, that "The Stars and Stripes Forever" (1897) be played toindicate the parades have commenced, and that a washed and highly polished convertible be madeavailable for my place... prominently identified as ""The Nudge of Cambridge." Modesty preventsme from asking for anything else.

""Hurrah for the flag of the free! May it wave as our standard forever..." especially in Cambridge.







Our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.Independence Day, 2013. "From the mountains, to theprairies, To the oceans white with foam...."

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. She made the request as if she thought I might deny it, as if I might deem it

inappropriate for a business website. However, if she thought this, she didn't think it for long. "Of course you should read the Declaration of Independence in the Live Business Center. I'm onlyirritated that I didn't think of it myself." And thus did Barbara Buegeler, Senior Monitor inWorldprofit's LBC, do what every Citizen should do one day each year this day: that is not just tothink about this exalted document, but to actually read it aloud as our ancestors used to do, beginning on July 4, 1776.

Sadly, most people do nothing, no thought, no reading, no consideration at all of one of history'ssignature documents, the document that laid the revolutionaries' case, our case, before the bar of public opinion worldwide, thereby not only alerting our English masters that a new reality was athand, but every oppressive government wherever it might be, not just then but forever after.

And so the lady from rural Texas began to read, each word famous, but some touched by GodHimself...

"When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of this earth, theseparate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decentrespect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them tothe separation."

Having thus forthrightly stated their risky intentions through the genius of young Thomas Jefferson(just 33 at the time he put quill pen to paper) the members of Congress assembled; each now a

marked man, a man venturing everything that makes life comfortable and sweet, thrilled to the riff each hoped would unify 13 fractious colonies; the riff that would forever brand George, by theGrace of God, King as the very archetype of tyranny, when in fact he was anything but.

To make his point and to foment the revolution to which he and his resolute colleagues werecommitted, he did what all revolutionaries do: he contorted the truth. He exaggerated, misstated,rearranged, and reshaped, the better to achieve his treasonous goal. For make no mistake about it,these were men who were playing for the biggest stakes and were betting everything on being right,for the consequences were staggering if they were not, for each one individually and for allcollectively.

And so Jefferson, a world-class propagandist, gifted with the power of words, took sharp aim at his

anointed sovereign, never mind that hapless monarch and the monster of iniquity conceived and portrayed by Jefferson had virtually nothing in common. No matter.

Thus, at least 18 times in prose that grew in harshness and intensity with each new clause beginning"He has...", Jefferson walloped his king and liege lord, the man, he asserted, who never tired of menacing, upsetting, exasperating and even destroying the colonies which were the jewels in hisimperial crown. Thus....

"He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary to the public good"... to..."He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitantsof our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished







destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions."

It was splendid, masterful invective, broad, audacious, designed to outrage and turn every colonial,no matter how disengaged, loyal and pacific, into a fervent partisan, a new breed called Americans.

However, there was a problem, a big problem. The real king George III and Jefferson's bogeymanwere not the same person... no way. How to handle this conundrum? Lie. For after all, if a man is proposing treason, what matter a lie or two? You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.

About the King, a true revolutionary himself.

But if Jefferson had carefully distorted his facts, sometimes in degree, sometimes in veracity,sometimes by a word or two of artful arrangement, sometimes false in every particular, who thenwas the man for whom his subjects worldwide sang "God Save The King"?

That man, George William Frederick (1738-1820) was the product of revolution, the heir of revolution, the living pledge of revolution and the man whose very life confirmed that the promiseand settlement of the great and Glorious Revolution of 1688 abided; that the sovereign reigned butruled as little as Parliament allowed, and that year by year was less and less.

For this revolution, lead by renegade aristocrats, assured the final victory of Parliament over Crown,

thus turning this Crown, however radiant and burnished into the creature of the people and their potent legislature, from whence came everything, including whatever colonial policy they thought best, whatever obstreperous colonials might think.

And this presented Thomas Jefferson with a stupendous, daunting problem which would surely haveconfounded and thwarted many a lesser man. What's more Jefferson had many other things on hisalways active mind. For one thing, he was physically uncomfortable as all the delegates were. It wasinsufferably hot in Philadelphia those crucial days of argument and revolution. Delegates grewirritable from tossing night after miserable night, unable to find the rest they sorely needed for matters of such high importance.

Worse, they discovered the tenacious presence and bite of bed bugs, determined creatures, norespecters of persons or causes, savoring the flesh of delegates, happy in their work.

Then there was the matter of his parlous financial condition. Throughout his long life, Jeffersonlived like the wealthy man he never was. He spent money he didn't have, borrowing money he hadno way, and perhaps no intention, of paying back. He was well acquainted with duns pestering himfor long overdue sums. And so it was in Philadelphia, where its many Quaker residents curiouslyadhered to the quaint notion that what was borrowed needed to be repaid in timely fashion, a point of view entirely foreign to Jefferson, a man of careless finances and high living.

But there was another reason, too, and that was his beloved wife, Martha Wayles Skelton, who was a23-year-old widow when he married her January 1, 1772. Theirs was a love match with all that

entailed and in the long, uncomfortable nights he missed her to the core of his ardent being andlonged for her passionate embraces. Remember, he was just 33...

However, the revolution needed him and so he put his genius to work crafting the words of revolution. Fortunately he had opponents who were not remotely as gifted in that department,opponents who failed to answer Jefferson and his colleagues, and so lost the crucial battle for heartsand minds. Jefferson made a brilliant case; his opponents relied on their established rights anddisdained the messy business of human persuasion. And this wasn't remotely good enough.... as theloyal royalists learned to their eternal detriment and rue.

Lord North.







This brings us to the very antagonist Jefferson might have wished to have... Frederick North, 2ndEarl of Guilford, Knight of the Garter, Privy Councillor (1732-1792) known to history by hiscourtesy title, Lord North, the man who, along with his dread lord, threw away the greatest of empires. His tenure in office running from 1770 to 1782 was disastrous for the Crown and thegreatest possible benefit to Jefferson and the Great Republic which grew from the great Declaration.In short Jefferson and his colleagues lucked out, and as Napoleon later said, "Give me the luckyman." That was most assuredly Jefferson, most assuredly not North.

And the sad thing is, North knew it and often begged his sovereign for permission to resign. But theKing wanted a man as prime minister he trusted, and that was North, a man of no vision, noknowledge of Americans and the colonies, without empathy, inspiration or the ability to cut a dealthat would keep them British. He pleased the king and so his majesty kept the man congenial to him,catastrophic to his realm. How Jefferson, brilliant, dazzling, splendid Jefferson must have whoopedat his unrivalled fortune in having such a hack, such a mediocrity as his opponent...

Thus was the greatest empire sundered; thus did the Great Republic grow apace, the one lead by the blind and inadequate, the other driven by determination, brains, and growing expertise in the artistryof revolution. In such circumstances, the English could not prevail; they had so little to offer whilstthe revolutionaries promised everything including "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness", the

hand that trumped all."God Bless America!"

Thus we arrive at today by stages short and long, difficult and easy, losing and winning, proud andabasing. But always important and influential for such is our destiny, and we must play it out. But Ihave this question for you, my reader, my every reader. How can we do so with massive ignoranceabout who we are, where we came from, what we have done and why it matters, for that is our painful and dangerous situation today when so little is known of America and that little so oftenwrong. How long can we sustain our might and mission under such enfeebling circumstances... andhow can we possibly help the world and be that bright city while presenting such a poor and tawdryexample?

That is why I urge you to read the great Declaration aloud and help rescue the Great Republic fromher sad plight today, so dangerous, so inglorious, so abashing in every way.

Then go to any search engine, and find Irving Berlin's great hymn to the Great Republic, "God BlessAmerica," first written in1918, revised in 1938. I recommend the stirring version by Kate Smith, achanteuse who belted it out and brought a tear to the eye of every true American, every lover of freedom, and every citizen trustee for our great story, "Through the night with a light from above".







Independence Day 2013. On the road again.Manchester-by-the-Sea. And a grande dame with the gift of friendship and joy. Come and get acquainted.

Author's program note. Aime' Joseph never ceases to amaze me, and of the foundations for lastingfriendship that felicitous agility is surely one of the best.

Knowing my habits, the need to have everything about the new tale, the current article readily athand, even old napkins, smudged and ripped, valuable artifacts notwithstanding so long as theycontain a single indecipherable letter, for my handwriting has never risen above the abashed level of execrable; given these habits, I say, I shouldn't have been surprised that he had dropped over with a paper in one hand, a question in the other.

It's the kind of good deed he does and why I permit him to raid the refrigerator with impunity,leaving me to wail from time to time, "But I was saving that ginger beer...", giving the strongest possible impression that my bite is indeed worse than my bark, but even I don't believe it.

He knows this and at the earliest possible moment restarts his researches into and acquisitions from

the food and wine which I always purchase in far too ample quantities for the amount I eat and thenullity I drink.

This, of course, provides the rationale he needs for raids which would impress a Viking, though intruth the fact he is my constant helper and friend provides all the reason he'll ever need... although Ido wish he'd ask before gallivanting home with the last morsel or drop of any much craved delicacy.

"Do you need this?"

And, of course, I did... for this tale of Independence Day 2013 would never have taken place -- for me -- without it and the grande dame who mailed it and so literally made my day. Here is what itlooked like. Here is what it said.

"Generations, Friends, Families. Please join us!"

There then followed explicit directions of what these generations, friends, and families must do inthe matter of furnishing food ("your favorite and a little extra to share"), and drink ("Also your favorite and a little extra to share")... with further detailed instructions on such critical matters as"places to swim, eat, sit, chat, rest, sing, ice, cups, plates, knives, forks, spoons", and the mostimportant directive and admonition of all... to bring your crucial holiday spirit and so increase itsalready ample measure stemming principally from our hostess, Diane Neal Emmons.

Distinctive right from the start.

Did you pronounce her first name DIE ANN. Of course you did. I did when first introduced. The

world does, but you, me and the wide generality of the planet, all of us, are mistaken. For she pronounces it DEE ON and woe to thems who gets it wrong, for as every Eskimo knows, a name istotemic, the thing that holds your spirit and first tells the world who you are, where you have comefrom, and where you are going.

In this way, with this subtle variation, Diane (did you pronounce it correctly this time?) announcedthat she was not and would never be of the humdrum, prosaic or everyday variety of mere Dianes,much less (horror of horrors) of the Dee Dees who derive therefrom; that she was instead somethingquite different, distinguished, unique; though as a lady to the manner born she couldn't possibly tellyou this. You'd have to find out for yourself, if only you had the good sense and good manners to doso. And so are the real gems separated and higher valued than the baubles who, at first, seem the







same. The happiest girl in the neighborhood, maybe the happiest girl in the world.

I don't have any proof for what I am about to say, no proof at all. However, people like me, calledcommentators are given wide latitude and what is called "the benefit of the doubt" in advancing their cases; in other words so long as what we write is not specious in the extreme or wildly implausiblewe may dream, wonder, ruminate and speculate to our heart's content. I am about to use that privilege here....

There is something larger than life about Diane, and this is especially true when she first glimpsesyou. There is in that moment the ghost of Ezio Pinza singing "Some enchanted evening."

You sense rather than see that her eyes light up and she is no longer that woman of a certain age, buta girl in flying dance slippers with bright pink ribbons in the much considered hair of a twelve year old; the twelve year old who greets you like a favored child greets her favorite relation with nothingmore troubling on her youthful horizon than who to ask to the Sadie Hawkins dance in just twoweeks.

When you are the boy who receives this high energy treatment, you think, no you know that you arethe boy she'll invite... and that you'll have a spiffing good time, because Diane knows to her fingertips how to make sure you -- and everyone else -- leaves happy and recalls each event with a

smile. It is her special secret, and you are glad she is lavishing some on...you.Fashionably late and better so.

People who run 24-hour-a-day Internet enterprises learn to be approximate in the matter of time;technology, after all, is a capricious mistress, smooth running one minute, causing mayhem the next,even on holidays when one is expected out of town at a particular time. "Technology is great when itworks." Thus my party, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph and I left late... and arrived as my grandmother used tosay "fashionably late." This proved to be a good thing, since many guests having partaken of luncheon under a tent most often used at weddings and anniversaries went home to laze the blistering afternoon away dozing in the shade. And thus both Josephs and I were able to spend moretime with the hostess, a happy result of tardiness.

But first I had literally to sing for my supper.

"Songs to Sing When Two or Three or More are Gathered Together."

Open upon my desk now is a thin volume of the name above, a volume compiled by Diane and providing numerous clues to the lady and her metier. It is her personal song book, and it is bothcurious and touching. Diane, you see, is of the generation where people entertained each other byeach being responsible (particularly young ladies of good family like Diane) for an enjoyablerendezvous, with and for only the right people, which for this lady and her friends, meant prepschools like Winsor and Groton, colleges like Radcliffe and Harvard, social clubs like Chilton andSomerset, and above all the Mayflower Club always remembering that if you must inquire about it,

you were most decidedly NOKD, "not our kind, dear."

The Kennedys, not yet with a postal code in Camelot were in this category, and in the Irish way their revenge was thorough and hurtful, not least because they soon shunted the old families of theCommonwealth (called Brahmins) aside and to the rest of the world portrayed themselves as BayState aristocrats, which caused society matrons on Commonwealtlh Avenue to fume... and plotrevengeful motifs they no longer had the money, power or unquestionable social position to dictate.

Diane Emmons was caught up in this sea change in Boston. She was born to adorn a particular universe and that universe was changed beyond recognition. It was a world into which you were born, where acceptance was automatic and life long for those with the right surname and genetic







code. Never mind It was often dull, dowdy, smug and insular, none of which mattered to the peoplewho wanted entree they would probably never get until club revenues fell and provided acompelling reason for new members mere equity could never provide.

"In" could only be valuable in relation to who was "Out", a fact which social novelist FrancesParkinson Keyes (1885-1970) captured to a nuance, in books like "Joy Street". This street on BeaconHill was cut in half, the top socially acceptable; the bottom mixed and dubious. I wrote my first book in an apartment well down from the acme, yet adored for all that.

She must have regretted at least some of the changes, but her Fairy Godmother made sure she hadthe one essential feature she needed to live through such massive change and come through itsmiling, albeit saddened by the loss of what was after all her birthright and cherished reality... now just so much ancient history, gone with the wind. Her great attribute? She liked people and peopleliked her. In the truest tradition of real ladyship, Diane took pains to help when she didn't have to;assisted beyond the call of duty so many charitable endeavors; and always, always had time for thatfar-flung and heterogeneous group, her Friends, of which I proudly call myself one.

With a song in my heart... and nowhere else.

Ever since I was a child at church, I have been rebellious and adamant on the matter of group

singing: quite simply, I hate it, not merely because I am unable to carry a tune in a bucket, but because when one sings in any venue even remotely public one is expected to boom out the song inquestion, your role (happy, amorous, joyous, sad, whatever) determined by just what you're singingand always overdone.

Instead of entering into the spirit of the enterprise, I did everything imaginable to ensure that anysuch involvement would only be by force and after a masterful display of temper and high volumeobstinacy.

Diane, of course, loves to sing, never mind that her voice is reminiscent of a species of frog foundonly in the swimming pools of the well heeled. She is awful... However, she believes in the socialutility of what she is doing... and, as hostess, she is unrelenting in "persuading" her guests into her

unyielding view that group singing on very hot holidays is a privilege, not cruel and unusual punishment to be avoided at all cost, which is my abiding take on the matter.

But I am a guest, I aim to please, even if I transgress against my core beliefs... and so I sing... about15 words or so of "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands." It is one of the most insipidtunes ever composed, therefore popular with people for whom their inexhaustible jauntiness and perkiness is a gift from on high, to be celebrated whenever possible around those of a sarcastic andinsufficiently civic spirited demeanor.

That would be me, and it is a measure of how highly I esteem my hostess and her chipper orientation that I sang and clapped at all, never mind with tepid demeanor. I knew my rights and

obligations as guest, and calibrated my finger movements and strain on my vocal chordsaccordingly. And so, obdurate, I listen to -- but do not sing, warble or chant -- the eccentric litany inthe song book that jumps from "Blue Moon" to "Chattanooga Choo Choo" to "Good Night, Irene."

Diane was zealous but she had long odds against her, the day sultry, the repast generous, delicious,ancient guests drowsy, eyes determined to close, collective nap time at hand. Then there it was... the perfect song for the day, the hostess, every visitor and even for me, hardened city dweller and professional scoffer determined to stay an anthropologist, watchful but disengaged.

"What would you think if I sang out of tune/Would you stand up and walk out on me?/ Lend meyour ears and I'll sing you a song/And I'll try not to sing out of key"...







And then the words that define us all:

"Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends."

Better because of DEE ON.

As I looked around the backyard of her rambling colonial-style home just blocks from thewell-known Singing Beach in Manchester-by-the-Sea (officially incorporated in 1645) I saw it populated by her friends, old, young, some vibrant and running over with high animal spirits, some

for whom moving at all, especially on such a stifling day, was a labor... I thought of how lucky thehuman is who can conjure so many and make them sing this song first written in mid-March 1967 byJohn Lennon and Paul McCartney.

Go now to any search engine and hear it all over again and ask yourself if you've been a good friendtoday, the kind of friend you'd like to have, the kind of friend well deserving of your esteem and highregard, the kind of friend I am so lucky to have in Diane Neal Emmons... the one person I am prepared to sing for, out of key of course, but completely sincere... and grateful.







Resource

About The Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small andhome-based businesses learn how to profit online. Attend Dr. Lant's live webcast TODAY andreceive 50,000 free guaranteed visitors to the website of your choice! Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books.

Republished with author's permission by Howard Martell http://HomeProfitCoach.com.


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