It all began this morning, innocently enough. i woke up early as per my routine, made the coffee of which i should drink less of at my age but years at sea has pretty much squashed that good intention, put away last night’s dishes, set the table, retrieved the newspaper to separate the ads we never look at even the specials to throw in the recycle and put the bulk of the paper by Maureen’s setting and the important stuff you know as sports and comics by my setting, set out Maureen’s frother with all the foo foo she uses to ruin perfectly good black Columbian coffee (my favorite), and sit down to check stuff, revise my to-do list before going on what used to be my run before becoming my walk run what has become mostly walk and a little shuffle, when i was distracted. Then i had a lists of important tasks to do, cleaning around the house, working on my book, taking a nap before what is becoming the tradition of my cooking hamburgers on Sunday evenings. But all was put away (except the nap: man, that’s essential) until hamburger time.

It’s Judy Lewis Gray’s fault. She tagged me in a post about cleaning old books with a little, i mean little vacuum cleaner. i thought about old books and whenever i think about old books, i think of a special time in a special place, an enchanted place, and i forget all about shuffling and stuff. i commented on Judy’s post with a bit of a tale. Thus my morning became engaged with this post.

You see, my enchanted place was an out-of-the-way, inconspicuous little bookstore. In Dublin. No, no, no, not Dublin, Ohio or this would be a post about golf. Dublin. The Dublin. Ireland.  It was unfortunately (unfortunate because i haven’t been back since)  a long time ago. 2006. Our younger daughter Sarah was a junior at Bonita Vista High, thinking about college. She had mentioned she wanted to go to college overseas, Europe someplace.

There was this neat coinciding of events: Sarah considering higher education in Europe and Maureen’s “business” trip. Maureen was an “account executive” for Parron-Hall Office Interiors for years. “Account Executive” was their title for a person who took a project from outside sales to design, to contract, to planning and ordering, to installation, to maintenance. She was good. Really good. As a result, we got to go to a whole bunch of places we would not likely have gone. Furniture manufacturers encouraged folks in the business to use their products in such projects as Maureen’s by having business conferences in some pretty decent places. They were usually about a week long with a total of two hours or so doing business, and a spouse or other companion could accompany the salesperson — once a boatswain master chief suggested he go to Hawaii with me for one of my leadership seminars by being my “BBO.” When i asked him what “BBO” was, he explained “bags and books officer.” So i was Maureen’s BBO on most of these business trips (except cruises: i wouldn’t go on cruises i declared unless they would let me drive the ships, hence no cruises). So Maureen and her BBO went to St. Thomas, Hawaii (five or six times), Monte Carlo, Hong Kong, Barcelona, and Dublin.

And that takes us back to old books. When we were in Dublin low those many years ago, we went to see the Book of Kells at Trinity College. It was then it occurred to me Sarah might want to go to Trinity (Ireland does not have universities with multiple degrees of various kinds, it has colleges for specific fields of study. Trinity is the college of fine arts, which includes drama, Sarah’s choice for a major. It seemed obvious to me. Sarah could go to Trinity and we could move to Ireland. We couldn’t afford high end expensive housing Dublin, but we could live outside, say about forty miles in the countryside in a “Quiet Man” kind of cottage. With the great rail system, Sarah could visit us or we could visit her.

Maureen seemed dubious and it was time to eat — i have noticed Maureen seems dubious most decisions time around a meal hour…especially if i have caused the decision making. We crossed the road and began looking for a place to dine. Shunning the fine stuff, we found a side street, i’m pretty sure it was Duke Street. We had seen a sign. It read “Pub.” i said, “Great.” We went to this pub and it was like something out of “Quiet Man” only larger. The food was great and the Guinness was…well, Guinness.

As we had entered we had passed next door a very nondescript but quaint (hmm, almost an oxymoron but not in this case) bookstore. After lunch, we decided to check it out. There were some newer books on the asymmetrical, ramshackle shelves in all sorts of places in addition to the built-in shelves. We wandered, checking out what was there. It was musty but neat. Then, in one cavity in the built-in’s was this book opened, on a bookstand. It was open to the title page with the colophon on the left side facing page. The book was The Tower by William Butler Yeats. i thought, man, this thing looks old. i checked out the colophon. First edition, 1928, it revealed. And below the title was handwriting inscribed in a scrawling indecipherable hand. But i knew it was signed by Yeats. i sighed. i wanted to touch it, but felt it was too fragile, no: too sacred.

i stared for a while in a trance. Finally i slid reluctantly away to find myself next to another open book. It was another first edition, Oscar Wilde’s  The Selfish Giant, published in 1888, and yes, good ole Oscar had signed this one.

And of course, another cavity in the bookshelf had one of James Joyce’s books, first edition, signed: Dubliners, 1914. There were others around the shop. i wanted to stay, and oh how i wanted to pick one up, sit in the corner by the window and read.

But it was time to move on. Like i said, i think it was on Duke Street. i’m not sure if i could find it again. But i would go back to Dublin just to be in that pub and spend, oh, about ten years in that bookstore. i would have to spend it there. i’m sure the books were too expensive for me to purchase.

Maureen was reluctant to pursue this idea of Sarah at Trinity. i threw in the idea we could live in our little cottage for two years and with Sarah having her feet on the ground, we could spend another two years in Southern France. i was thinking Antibbe. She seemed a little more supportive of the idea.

Then we got home and Sarah did not want to go Trinity in Dublin. She wanted to go to London. On and off for about eight months, i would bring up the possibility again. Then on opening day of the Padre baseball season in 2007, Maureen and i were waiting for the trolley to go to the game. i brought up the subject again. She got that Maureen look in her eye. i knew it was a dead issue.

“You don’t want her to go to Trinity and us live outside of Dublin, do you?”

“No.”

“Why? It’s such a great opportunity for all of us.”

And she said simply, “Too many pubs.”

She does know me well.

At least the Padres beat the Giants, 7-0.

i know the perfect place to do this. It’s a book store on a side street across Nassau Street from Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland. i think it was Duke Street. i know it was next door to a pub that felt like something out of “The Quiet Man” when you walked in (the food was good). It was a musty place with ramshackle shelves filled with books, a few new but mostly old. In separate cases, several books were displayed. There were signed, first editions of Joyce, Wilde, and Yeats. Yeh, i could definitely clean books there. Thanks.

i woke early.

It’s my job. i smoke the turkey (the tongue-in-cheek recipe was in an earlier post this week).

You have to get up early to smoke a turkey for a 3:00 p.m. dinner. To smoke it right, that is.

It was a bit tougher this year. It started raining last night. It’s on and off today. That increases the work involved with smoking a turkey, especially if you are not used to it, and i certainly am not used to it. i  don’t think i’ve ever experienced a Thanksgiving in the Southwest corner when it was rainy. It’s usually dry, and for some reason, there have been a lot of Santa Ana’s on Thanksgiving: wind flow from the desert making the day even warmer for the season.

Not this year. i donned my rain gear, struggled with getting the coals started, made sure stuff i used was protected from rainfall, and will be monitoring more frequently than normal from now until closing in on mid-afternoon.

i love Thanksgiving. It’s about giving thanks, not about getting stuff, not about praising others, not about going out and having fun. It’s not using it as a political platform. It’s about home, family, and, of course, giving thanks. It is also about what things should be, should have been. People sharing with people.

So it’s not too hard to get up when i can see the stars. But there were no stars today, not just overcast but drizzles. First light was muted with the cloud cover, but still stirs me as it has for years  especially on the morning bridge watches.

It’s worth it.

There will be moments of sadness for me. i will regret my grandson Sam, Blythe, and Jason aren’t with us. But i will be comforted knowing they will be having a lovely thanksgiving with a delicious turkey and trimmings from Sam’s grandmother. i will feel an empty spot for Joe and Martha but again be okay because i know they will have their families around them.

There will be no sadness when i remember all of those Tennessee Thanksgivings: Castle Heights Avenue, Wildwood Avenue, Waggoner (yes, i still spell it that way as the west end street sign was spelled “Waggoner,” and the east end was spelled “Wagoner” now adopted for the whole street; but i still prefer what was apparently a misspelling) Street, Lebanon; White Oak and Greenwich Avenue, Red Bank (Chattanooga), and (was it Kingston Avenue, Nancy Schwarze?), Rockwood. Family, big classic dinners, children running everywhere, the kindest adults anywhere in the world who loved to laugh, autumn leaves covering the ground, and after dinners belly-full naps, fires in the fireplace (Chattanooga only). Good times for which to be thankful.

And today, thanks for sister-in-law, at least one daughter here with us. Smoked turkey.

And thankful for all of those folks who have suffered injury and disease but survived.

And thankful for all of those who loved and lived and shared their living with me but are now gone on to another thanksgiving.

And thankful for the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag tribe in Plymouth who showed us how to live peacefully together and helping each other. According to Wikipedia, ninety Wampanoag’s and fifty-three Pilgrims, the remaining folks who came over on the Mayflower celebrated the harvest for three days. With the lead of Squanto, a member of the Patuxet tribe and former English slave who lived with the Wampanoag’s and served as the interpreter; Wampanoag Chief Massasoit, and Plymouth Governor William Bradford for making it happen and providing the fowl and deer for the feast. And let’s not forget Eleanor Billington, Elizabeth Hopkins, Mary Brewster, and Susanna White who cooked the feasts, not a small feat by any measure. They showed us how to co-exist, which most of us have ignored since then.

The smoker needs to be tended. The sun is peeking out of the clouds sporadically. And it is a good day. It is not like my brother’s day today. He and Carla posted photos of Vermont snow. i noted my idea of a perfect Thanksgiving comes from a song:

Over the river, and through the wood,
To Grandfather’s (sic: apparently the original was this; i always and still prefer “Grandmother) house we go;
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.

Joe is living it for me.

And then from that Wikipedia item, there was the painting of  Jennie Augusta Brownscombe. It took my breath away while i was waiting for the coals to get hot.

Yes, today is for thankfulness:

Snooky was a 5-11, 195-pound fullback who ran like a freight train except low like a bowling ball. Gang tackling was about the only way the “T” team defense could bring him down and that was not frequent. But i being my size could get lower than Snooky’s battering ram helmet and frequently tackled him by hitting him around the ankles. The coaches were impressed enough to award me by putting me on the travel squad.

The waitress at the Birmingham restaurant was not impressed. Manager. Harump. Before i could explain, Kent Russ, Snooky, and several other PG’s interrupted. They told the waitress they used me as a football. Everyone laughed but me.

And we left Birmingham.

Marion Institute was both a prep school and a junior college. A number of their football players were recruited by the big football colleges. Tennessee four-year high schools did not normally desire to play prep schools with PG’s.To fill out the schedules each season, Castle Heights would play junior colleges and freshman college teams. In 1963, the Tigers from the Hilltop played four conference games, one four-year high school, a junior college, a college freshman team, and a college “B” team, concluding the season with a 5-4 record.

Marion was the most impressive team on the schedule. The offensive line averaged 230 pounds. The star of the team was a tight end at 6-4, 220 pounds who went to Alabama the next year. It was a cool night in the Marion stadium. The field was not in great condition with large patches more the red gritty sand-clay soil than grass. Marion beat the Tigers into the ground physically.

Late in the fourth quarter, someone decided to let some linebackers get a break from the pounding. The score was already 21-7. My name was called. i ran onto the field to play one of the linebackers in the 6-2 defense. i did not know whether to be thrilled, excited, or scared as hell.

Marion had the ball on their thirty-yard line on second down. The quarterback broke the huddle and scanned the defense before getting under center. Seeing me, he called an audible. i might not have had any common sense, but i was smart enough to know the play, whatever it was, was coming at me.

The quarterback dropped back for a pass. The All-American to be tight end, who, to me, resembled one of those skyscrapers that awed me in Birmingham cut across the middle in front of me. The quarterback zipped him a pass. i could not see the ball coming with the running building in front of me, much less get around that building to knock down the pass. The behemoth caught it at full speed. i matched him stride for stride.

An aside: i loved wearing the maroon and old gold uniforms. They felt good. i felt like i was cool. To enhance that coolness, i shunned wearing my sleeves down as they were made to be worn. i rolled them up past my elbows. Cool. But playing in southern Alabama sandy clay, stupid. Really stupid.

i was on the heels of the tight end getting ready to dive at his legs. He decided to straight arm me, throwing his right arm back at the diminutive, pesky gnat chasing him. With no other option, i grabbed his arm. He flicked his arm like i might really be a gnat and sent me flying. They said i must have slid about ten yards in that gritty clay.

Shaking myself off, i felt my arms burning. i looked down and both forearms, supposedly protected by the sleeves i rolled up to be cool, looked like raw meat, bloody from elbow to wrist.

i had slowed the gargantuan enough for two defensive backs to tackle him after a gain of about twenty yards. Marion scored their last touchdown on that drive.

My arms burnt for three days. i never wore my sleeves rolled up again.

And i never went back to Birmingham.

Wow! i have a tradition.

Actually, i have a bunch of traditions, some of them are closer to superstition, some are just to keep some folks happy, and a few, like this one, are mine, all mine.

The more i think about it, the more i like this tradition. It’s sort of in line with JB Leftwich, the Coach’s tradition. Every year about this time but just a tad later, Coach would write one of his weekly columns for The Lebanon Democrat about a fruit cake recipe. i think it was a fruit cake, and i’m pretty sure it was his mother’s, but i am too lazy to look it up this morning. But i like the idea of following in Coach’s footsteps. It’s hard to go wrong that way.

The below is from last year’s post. i should add i still cling to Mr. Dickel’s version of sour mash even though the Prichard brand with a distillery up in Kelso, Tennessee, must have some family connection. Both Jo Doris and Estelle carried the maiden name of Prichard, and it’s without the “t,” which makes them fairly unique. Someday, someday, i will find the Prichard family connection among the Leftwich’s, the Jewell’s, and  the distillery.

This, i think, is my new tradition.

i wrote this recipe (sic) in 1990. i now am the Turkey Smoking Go-To at the Jewell household whenever we have Thanksgiving here with more than two people (If it’s just Maureen and i we find a very nice restaurant usually without a turkey dinner).

i have published this a couple of times in The Democrat and posted it here several times. There is a more serious version with more exact directions, but i forget where it is every year and wing it. i was going to blow off putting it out in the newspaper or on the web this year, when Bill Goodner described how he smoked his turkey, i remembered turkey smoking being a JB Leftwich family Thanksgiving or Christmas tradition for Jim and Jack to smoke a turkey while tending to it with a Prichard whiskey in  hand (it used to be George Dickel, and i still stick to the Tullahoma brand). My brother-in-law Daniel Boggs and my nephew Bill Boase, pride themselves on technically correct smoking.

Well, i ain’t technical. i use an old Weber smoker, not as good as my smaller original like Jimmy Lynch used back when, but my smaller one rusted out about twenty years ago and you just can’t find them anymore. So now i add charcoal and chips throughout the process.

A couple of months ago, we got a new Komodo dragon grill…just kidding: it’s  a knock off of a “Big Green Egg” smoker Char-Griller dubbed the “King Griller Akorn Kamado Kooker” (“kamado” is the term used for a Japanese smoker, which looks like an egg). Therefore, i could become more technical. But i am a sentimentalist, and getting up in the wee hours of the morning to start the coals, top them with the soaked hickory chips (i tried mesquite chips once, but i’m from Tennessee: hickory chips are the only chips), put the turkey on the grill, pour the marinade from the bucket over the turkey and into the drip/water pan, and then tending to the fire and chips randomly and very carefully throughout the day gives me a sense of fulfillment.

i am learning the awesome powers of my Komodo dragon grill and have found grilling steaks, pork chops, etc. is great, and i plan to to expand to seafood, fish, and Cornish game hens in the near future, but i think i’ll stick to my old smoker for the turkey.

So Bill, i don’t think i can be of much help on electric smokers, but it i thought you might like this recipe. This year, there is no dog. When i put Lena, my last one down, i vowed not to have another dog until i was sure it would outlive me and put me down rather than vice versa. i still want to have a dog again, but not for helping me smoke a turkey.

Dec 10, 1990, 10:36 pm

SAN DIEGO—Holidays, except for the weather, are pretty much the same for me out here in the southwest corner or back in Tennessee. To start, no one will let me smoke the turkey.

When I was growing up in Lebanon, and every time I return there for a holiday, my mother cooks the turkey. When there are only a few of us there, she makes a chicken taste like a turkey. She roasts the turkey, or the chicken, in the oven, and it comes complete with dressing and gravy. When we have a holiday out here, my wife cooks the turkey the same way my mother cooks the turkey. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, I volunteer to cook the turkey. Every year, whether in Tennessee or out here in the Southwest corner, whoever is in charge of turkeys says no. They profess to love the turkey the way I fix it, but they say another time would be better. They say they want a traditional turkey.

I picked up turkey cooking while I was spending some considerable time about two-thirds of the way between here in the southwest corner and Tennessee. The Colonel, grandfather of my oldest daughter, lived up in Paris, Texas, and he fed me my first smoked turkey. I loved it. Since then, I have modified his recipe somewhat and do cook one fine smoked turkey. Since I can’t have it out here or in Tennessee, I thought someone with fewer traditionalists in their immediate family might like to have the recipe to try for the holidays.

Smoking a Turkey

INGREDIENTS:

1. This is fairly important to the success of the whole affair. Pick a good one. The critical part is to make sure it will fit in the smoker
2. 1 container large enough to hold the turkey and cover it with the magic elixir. I’ve been known to use a plastic bucket, but sometimes the dog gets upset as we normally use it for his water dish. This is okay as long as we stay out of biting reach of the dog for two or three days.
3. 1 smoker, probably any kind that claims to be a smoker and any number of possible jury rigs would work; however, if I were using a “Weber” or like vessel, I would make sure that there was extra water in the smoker).
4. 1 bottle of beer. Beer in longnecks is preferable but one should not become too concerned about the type of beer as “Lone Star” is a bit too elegant for this type of cooking. Besides, we wouldn’t want to waste a beer worth drinking on some dumb turkey. If one is desperate and doesn’t mind subjecting oneself to abject humiliation, it is permissible to stoop to using a can of beer.
5. 1\2 cup of Madeira. Again, I wouldn’t be overly concerned about the quality of the wine, and in truth, any red wine is probably okay. However, I would stay away from “Night Train” wine as it has been known to eat through barbecue grills, smokers, and anything made of material weaker than that used in hulls of nuclear submarines.
6. Angostura bitters
7. Worcestershire sauce
8. Chili powder
9. Oregano
10. Sage
11. Honey
12. Molasses
13. Undoubtedly, there are numerous items that I have forgotten to list here, but that’s okay as it really depends on what your individual taste is — I don’t suggest substituting low fat milk for the beer, but most everything else is probably okay — and if it’s really important, I’ll realize I left it out when I get to the narrative of how to use all this stuff and include the forgotten ingredient there.

PREPARATION:

Thaw the turkey. Take all those weird things that they put in those plastic packages inside the turkey and cook them in a skillet without the plastic packages, turning them frequently. Then feed what you just cooked to the dog. It might placate him enough to keep him from biting you for taking away his water bucket. If there are traditionalists in the bunch, give the stuff to them rather than the dog and let them make gravy.

Put the turkey in large container. Pour beer and Madeira over turkey. If you have not allowed about 24 hours for the turkey to thaw or about 8-12 hours for marinating the turkey, call your invited guests and advise them that the celebration will be about two days later than indicated on the original invitation.

Sprinkle other ingredients over the turkey. Be plentiful. It’s almost impossible to get too much.

Crunch the garlic cloves I didn’t mention in the ingredients and add to the container. I normally use about four normal sized cloves for a normal sized turkey. Also add the previously omitted bay leaves, about 6-8 for that same normal sized bird.

Add enough water to cover the turkey although it probably wouldn’t be a disaster if a leg partially stuck out. Then put the container in a safe place, unless of course, you want the dog to be rapturously happy and not bite you until long after his teeth have fallen out.

Allow to sit undisturbed for 6-10 hours (longer is better and ten hours is not necessarily the upper limit but exceeding ten hours may have some impact on when you either eat or get tired of the turkey taking up all that safe space).

Put the turkey on smoker grill above water pan after lighting the charcoal (one or two coals burning well is the best condition for the charcoal) and placing soaked hickory chips, which I also forgot to mention, earlier on the charcoal — again, be plentiful — after soaking the chips for at least 30 minutes. Pour remaining magic elixir over the turkey into the water pan. Add as much water to the water pan as possible without overflowing and putting out the fire below. Cover. Do not touch. Do not look. Do not peek…unless it doesn’t start to smoke in about thirty minutes. Then peek. If it’s smoking, leave alone for at least six hours for a large normal sized turkey. It is almost impossible to overcook if you have added enough water at the outset. You should check and add water or charcoal throughout the process. I have found that mesquite charcoal is the best, as it burns hotter. Regular charcoal will do fine but will require more checking.

The secret to the whole process is to cook extremely slow, as slow as possible and still start the fire.

Serve turkey, preferably without the garlic cloves or bay leaves. Now is the time for “Night Train” wine or the good beer. Serve “Night Train” very cold as indicated on the label.

The turkey’s also good cold.

Shoot the dog.

i had a good day today. With the help of daughter, i touched my toe in the water of the cyber world, learning how to survive there because for goodness sake one cannot live by bread alone: he must be able to navigate the “cloud” and new fangled no-chord technology. We aren’t talking about Philco radios or RCA Victrolas any more.

i wrote quite a bit. i did some home projects. i created a post or two i liked. i did some work outside and in my garage. i like to tinker and i tinkered away. Good day.

Then i tired from those enjoyments and decided to end the day sorting and throwing away office stuff and cleaning up my documents. There i found the below file i had almost finished but put aside.

i think it captures my mood about our country today:

Thomas, John, James, Abraham, and Mose

In 1776, Thomas Jefferson penned the draft for the “Declaration of Independence.” His words: 

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

The idea had far deeper meaning than Jefferson and the fifty-five other British colony representatives who signed the document could have imagined. The idea is no less powerful for their lack of understanding the depth and breadth the meaning of those words would come to hold for everyone, and i mean everyone, who would become, one way or another, citizens of this country, and to the world at large.

*     *     *

James Madison is credited for being the major writer of our Constitution, from which our country formed the best governing system, which remains so today. It begins:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Madison likely had no idea how impactful his words were to become to the country, but his lack of knowledge of the future does not detract from the power of his concept.

*     *      *

Abraham Lincoln spoke to a large crowd it the Gettysburg Civil War battlefield to honor the fallen Union troops. It is known as “The Gettysburg Address:”

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate — we cannot consecrate — we cannot hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

As our forefathers before him, Abraham Lincoln did not fully grasp the breadth and depth these words have come to mean to us. Abraham Lincoln was not ready to accept racial equality. Where he lived when he lived was not ready to accept races as equal. That was true of all races. The dominant powerful races ruled, but had the “Native Americans,” the Negroes, and all of the other races had the technical superiority and power of the Caucasians, they too would have considered themselves superior, and quite likely did. Yet Lincoln’s words, especially the last part of the last sentence from that address: “…that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth” captured the essence of equality we not only continue to strive for, but believe in all of our hearts, at least those who try to be pure of heart.

These forefathers’ worlds were different than ours today. But their ideas captured what we should be still attempting to achieve in the true, complete sense of the words they wrote and spoke even though it was not a complete, perfect thought in their minds. It was their ideas of freedom and equality that has made this country great.

It seems to be we have forgotten their ideas of freedom and equality for all humans.

Mose Allison recognized this in his song “Mercy:” 

Everybody crying mercy when they don’t know the meaning of the word…
Everybody crying justice, just as long as they get theirs first…
Everbody crying peace on earth just as soon as we win this war… 

i am sad.