Polite Kid

In the discussion about American culture, cabbageroll observed that
I think Americans used to have a cocky self-assuredness. Like the gun slinging cowboy. We like those types ... Annie get your gun. Don't tread on me. Straight talkin', straight shootin'.''
That reminded me of this part of Carl Sandburg's 'Good Morning, America', where Sandburg reels off a list of American sayings, slang, and proverbs that seem to sum up a lot of quintessentially American qualities.
A code arrives; language; lingo; slang;
behold the proverbs of a people, a nation:
Give 'em the works. Fix it, there's always
a way. Be hard boiled. The good die young.
Be a square shooter. Be good; if you can't
be good be careful. When they put you in
that six foot bungalow, that wooden kimono,
you're through and that's that.
The higher they go the farther they drop.
The fewer the sooner. Tell 'em. Tell 'em.
Make 'em listen. They got to listen when
they know who you are. Don' t let 'em know
what you got on your hip. Hit 'em where
they ain't. It's good for whatever ails
you and if nothing ails you it's good for
that. Where was you raised--in a barn?
They're a lot of muckers, tin horns; show
those slobs where they get off at. Tell 'em
you're going to open a keg of nails. Beat 'em
to a fare-thee-well. Hand 'em the razz-berries.
Clean 'em and then given 'em carfare home.
Maybe all you'll get from 'em you can put in
your ear, anyhow.
They got a fat nerve to try to tie a can
on you. Send 'em to the cleaners. Put the
kibosh on 'em so they'll never come back.
You don't seem to know four out of five
have pyorrhea in Peoria.
Your head ain't screwed on wrong, I trust.
Use your noodle, your nut, your think tank,
your skypiece. God meant for you to use it.
If they offer to let you in on the ground
floor take the elevator.
Put up a sign: Don't worry; it won't last;
nothing does. Put up a sign: In God we
trust, all others pay cash. Put up a sign:
Be brief, we have our living to make. Put
up a sign: Keep of the grass.
Aye, behold the proverbs of a people:
The big word is Service.
Service--first, last and always.
Business is business.
What you don't know won't hurt you.
Courtesy pays.
Fair enough.
The voice with a smile.
Say it with flowers.
Let one hand wash the other.
The customer is always right.
Who's your boy friend?
Who's your girl friend?
O very well.
God reigns and the government at Washington lives.
Let it go at that.
There are lies, dam lies and statistics.
Figures don't lie but liars can figure.
There's more truth than poetry in that.
You don't know the half of it, dearie.
It's the roving bee that gathers the honey.
A big man is a big man whether he's a president or a prizefighter.
Name your poison.
Take a little interest.
Look the part.
It pays to look well.
Be yourself.
Speak softly and carry a big stick.
War is hell.
Honesty is the best policy.
It's all in the way you look at it.
Get the money--honestly if you can.
It's hell to be poor.
Well, money isn't everything.
Well, life is what you make it.
Speed and curves--what more do you want?
I'd rather fly than eat.
There must be pioneers and some of them get killed.
The grass is always longer in the backyard.
Give me enough Swedes and snuff and I'll build a railroad to hell.
How much did he leave? All of it.
Can you unscramble eggs?
Early to bed and early to rise and you never meet any prominent people.
Let's go. Watch our smoke. Excuse our dust.
Keep your shirt on.''
He captures the jauntiness, the bravado, the toughness, the playful spirit, the cynicism, and the self-assuredness of America. I wonder how well this fits us today -- or are we still the same people as in Sandburg's day?

Labels: American Culture, Poetry

Oliver Wendell Holmes, physician, author, critic, and poet, was born on August 29, 1809, in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Most of us, in earlier decades, read his poems in school, notably 'Old Ironsides' a patriotic poem about the frigate Constitution, which had defeated the British ship Guerriere in the War of 1812. When Holmes read a newspaper story indicating that the ship was to be dismantled, he was moved to write the poem.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar;--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the God of storms,--
The lightning of the gale!
The poem was credited with saving the ship, which has been preserved and can be seen in Charlestown, Massachusetts.
Holmes, (who is often confused by later generations with his son, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., who was a Supreme Court Justice,) also wrote many prose pieces, notably a series called the Breakfast Table series, which appeared in the Atlantic Monthly.
Here are a few quotes from Holmes:
The very aim and end of our institutions is that we may think what we like and say what we think."
"A page of history is worth a pound of logic."
"I value a man mainly for his primary relations with truth, as I understand truth, - not for any secondary artifice in handling his ideas." - The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table
"Language is a solemn thing," which "grows out of life - out of its agonies and ecstasies, its wants and its weariness. Every language is a temple, in which the soul of those who speak it is enshrined." - The Professor at the Breakfast Table
"The one great thought" that the American "inherits as his national birthright; free to form and express his opinions on almost every subject, and assured that he will soon acquire the last franchise which men withhold from men, - that of stating the laws of his spiritual being and the beliefs he accepts without hindrance except from clearer views of truth." - The Professor at the Breakfast Table
If a person "chooses to vote for the Devil, that is his lookout; - perhaps he thinks the Devil is better than the other candidates; and I don't doubt he's often right, Sir!" - The Professor at the Breakfast Table

Labels: American Culture, American History, Birthdays, Literature, Poetry

Those who read this blog last year at this time may remember reading the following poem; I think it's worth repeating at Christmastime.
A new wind rises out of the hills
of America, and the song it
sings permeates the land.
It is a song of time and the moment.
It is a song of beginnings.
George Washington, the father of our country,
found a fount of new beginnings
when he knelt in prayer.
(Do we kneel today to ask for moments
that reveal some far horizon?)
Thomas Jefferson searched for an enduring
source of strength. And as he claimed
that source, it was a moment that became
for him a new beginning. "God who gave us
life gave us liberty," he said.
(Are we searching now for an enduring
source of strength?)
At Arlington, at every burying ground
where soldiers sleep, the wind is
but a whisper as it tells of memories.
Unnumbered crosses quietly proclaim that freedom
has been dearly bought to bring us
new beginnings.
(How do we honor those who gave
the gift of life?)
A new wind rises out of the hills
of America, and it sings of new beginnings.
We do not need new keys that open
to new worlds,
but old keys, making turns in
old familiar locks such as enduring
honesty, integrity, deep silences, and roots
of faith and hope and love.
Old keys, trusted and tried, that always open
to a world of new beginnings.
Oh, let a new wind rise
out of the hills of America---
now, at Christmas,
and as the old year turns.
- Melva Rorem

Labels: American Heritage, Christmas, Poetry

The quality of these trees, green height; of the sky, shining, of water, a clear flow; of the rock, hardness.
And reticence: each is noble in its quality. The love of freedom has been the quality of Western man.
There is a stubborn torch that flames from Marathon to Concord, its dangerous beauty binding three ages
Into one time; the waves of barbarism and civilization have eclipsed but have never quenched it.
For the Greeks the love of beauty, for Rome of ruling; for the present age the passionate love of discovery;
But in one noble passion we are one; and Washington, Luther, Tacitus, Aeschylus, one kind of man.
And you, America, that passion made you. You were not born to prosperity, you were born to love freedom.
You did not say "en masse," you said "independence." But we cannot have all the luxuries and freedom also.
Freedom is poor and laborious; that torch is not safe but hungry, and often requires blood for its fuel.
You will tame it against it burn too clearly, you will hood it like a kept hawk, you will perch it on the wrist of Caesar.
But keep the tradition, conserve the forms, the observances, keep the spot sore.
Be great, carve deep your heel-marks. The states of the next age will no doubt remember you, and edge their love of freedom with contempt of luxury. -Robinson Jeffers

Labels: American Character, Poetry

A new wind rises out of the hills
of America, and the song it
sings permeates the land.
It is a song of time and the moment.
It is a song of beginnings.
George Washington, the father of our country,
found a fount of new beginnings
when he knelt in prayer.
(Do we kneel today to ask for moments
that reveal some far horizon?)
Thomas Jefferson searched for an enduring
source of strength. And as he claimed
that source, it was a moment that became
for him a new beginning. "God who gave us
life gave us liberty," he said.
(Are we searching now for an enduring
source of strength?)
At Arlington, at every burying ground
where soldiers sleep, the wind is
but a whisper as it tells of memories.
Unnumbered crosses quietly proclaim that freedom
has been dearly bought to bring us
new beginnings.
(How do we honor those who gave
the gift of life?)
A new wind rises out of the hills
of America, and it sings of new beginnings.
We do not need new keys that open
to new worlds,
but old keys, making turns in
old familiar locks such as enduring
honesty, integrity, deep silences, and roots
of faith and hope and love.
Old keys, trusted and tried, that always open
to a world of new beginnings.
Oh, let a new wind rise
out of the hills of America---
now, at Christmas,
and as the old year turns.
-Melva Rorem

Labels: Christmas, Holidays, Poetry, Traditions

I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving, with lots of good company and good food; I hope that you all may be surrounded by those you love.
In honor of Thanksgiving, I offer you a poem by Edgar Guest, and it may be a little on the corny side, but if we can't enjoy corny, sentimental, homespun poetry on Thanksgiving, when can we enjoy it? We live in a cynical age and a little corn will do us all good.
Thanksgiving
Edgar A. Guest
Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice,
An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;
An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they
Are growin more beautiful day after day;
Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men,
Buildin' the old family circle again;
Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.
Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all.
Father's a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin' our stories as women an men.
Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there.
Home from the east land an' home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an' best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We've come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank,
Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.
Give me the end of the year an' its fun
When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin' with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.
Happy Thanksgiving, all, and may God bless you.
Note: the illustration above is from a magazine cover by Wilbur G. Kurtz. The picture was 'Home for Thanksgiving', and it appeared on a 'Progressive Farmer' magazine cover in 1934.

Labels: American Customs, American Heritage, Holidays, Poetry

God give us men! A time like this demands
Strong minds; great hearts, true faith, and ready hands.
Men whom the lust of office does not kill:
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;
Men who possess opinions and a will;
Men who have honour; men who will not lie;
Men who can stand before a demagogue,
And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking;
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog,
In public duty and in private thinking,
For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds
Their large professions, and their little deeds,
Mingle in selfish strife - O! Freedom weeps
Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps.
- Maltbie Davenport Babcock
Update: the writer of the poem, which I originally identified as Josiah Gilbert Holland, was apparently Maltbie Davenport Babcock.
Thanks to a reader for pointing this out.

Labels: American Culture, Poetry