Ribs, Pie, And Independence

I am so wiped out from the big family cookout my brother threw yesterday. I am happy to report, however; None of us died during the debauchery. My brother put out a most excellent spread and my son had a great time making fun of all of his uncles. I think it was welcome break from spending his time making fun of me.
While we had a great it seems that President Bush and Vladimir Putin had a better time partying it up in Kennebunkport.

They went on a boat ride with Dubya’s dad, and just kinda hung out. I wish I could have been there to hear some of the conversation. I can hear Bush saying, “Yo, Putin, let’s get our feed bags on and choke down some ribs and tater salad. Hey Jenna, put some clothes on and bring the bar cart out to the backyard. Whadda ya mean you drank all of the vodka? Dang it Jenna…check my underwear drawer there should be a bottle of Stoli in there.”

I heard that President Putin brought flowers for Laura and was looking at her like a Russian Blue eyeing a can of tuna. Most reporters said that it was all very friendly, but I think old Vlad was trying to get a piece of Pie Alamo.

Anyway, I am going to be working on several star-spangled entires for the the big 4th of July celebration. Tuesday and Wednesday I hope to offer some, insight on our country, some funny observations, and maybe an Inky and Lola perspective on our nation’s birthday.

While I am working on that, I offer you a poem written by my dad (rest his soul) to help capture the mood surrounding our nation’s quest for Independence…

The Voice of the Revolution

Richmond’s streets were cold and bare
But signs of Spring were in the air.

Like Christians from the Catacombs
Patriots stole past Tory homes.

To St. John’s Church in stealth they came
Risking death and a traitor’s name.

Once safe inside they paused to pray
That freedom’s torch would light their way.

The roll was called, the minutes read
Approved and entered as were said.

Each cautious vote was meekly cast
When Patrick Henry stood at last.

Then like a monk before his God
His voice in measured cadence trod.

The oak floor shook beneath his rage
The Bible trembled page by page.

He crossed his wrists, despair implied
“Our chains are forged”, he harshly cried.

He spoke of liberty and death
And murmurs rose with every breath.

Then undismayed by thoughts of fear
The Yankee crowd began to cheer.

The shouts burst forth like tamarind
And Henry’s words were on the wind…

In Williamsburg, where all was still
Lord Dunmore felt a sudden chill.

He shuddered as he stirred the fire,
And saw a raging fun’ral pyre.

A musket shot, a distant bell,
And muffled hoof beats broke the spell.

Reluctantly, he grabbed his sword,
And took his pistol from the board.

Sadly, he knew, but could not say,
That England’s fate was sealed that day. © 1981 JJM

Until next time, Cheers!!