Happy Birthday America! For a little perspective, I am continuing a tradition I started last year, by reprinting one of my favorite Fourth of July remembrances. For those of you scoring at home, I’ll also celebrate by playing golf with my dad.
I have a poem by Harvard University and Trinity College’s own Sophie Wadsworth, poet emeritus. It’s called Fourth of July and it’s in her award winning collection called Letters From Siberia.
Sophie’s great-great-great-grandmother, Roxanna Lord Pray, was dragged away from her beloved Berwick, Maine by her husband to live in Siberia. Over thirty-plus years, she sent back thousands of letters. Sophie turned these letters into an erudite, poignant book of poems, full of literary charm and wit, historical portraits, devoted love, and ardent patriotism. Though Roxanna was half a world away, America was in her heart forever. Remember this for some inspiration: the next time Cindy Sheehan wants to bawl her way into the spotlight and act like a fake martyr, wrapping herself in the flag, here are the words of a woman who’s heart was mighty enough to cross an ocean on that same flag:
“Fourth of July”
By Sophie Wadsworth
(Reprinted with permission)
Dear Sister,
Today Fred sailed the clerks
to set off Chinese firecrackers
across the bay. Our third year here.
Mileetseeya in town arrest anyone
with an inch of powder.
I begged to light the first:
a “Red Warrior” with a thick muzzle
and twist of rice paper,
the fuse quick the way I like it.
A blast and black smoke.
Police-bah! The shore was ours.
Our cowhand from Texas belted out:
My country ’tis of thee
sweet land of liberty…
Made me ache to cheer
our Yankee boys as they march
past the porch. Were they glorious this year,
firing muskets until your ears rang?
I lit a bigger one, a “Double Dragon,”
black gold, knotted with silk thread.
The fuse crackled,
then exploded in my hand.
Heat like the sun on my chest,
burnt hair. Fred slapped his hat,
frantic to smother the flames.
Can you imagine?
No skin burnt, luckily,
just eyebrows – and my best blouse!
Sleeves in shreds, my face blackened.
Clara, you’ll think me mad
but it thrilled me to my smallest veins,
better than a cannon blast
(and you know I love those).
Everyone cheered and sang until hoarse.
Still, it wasn’t half enough celebrating
for me. Wish I’d burned the whole blouse up.
Enclosed is a singed piece for you to see.
