Another February day, another American warship, another foreign harbor, and another explosion and sinking; what is it about February? It was on this day, 16 February 1804, that the 36-gun frigate USS Philadelphia was destroyed a as she lay at anchor in the harbor of Tripoli, on the Barbary Coast in what is now Libya.
Unlike the later destruction of the battleship Maine, this was an undoubted case of sabotage, for Philadelphia was undoubtedly boarded by specially trained forces whose mission was to completely destroy the vessel. One unusual aspect of these saboteurs is that they were volunteer American sailors led by American naval icon Stephen Decatur, America’s first great military hero in the post-revolutionary era.
Philadelphia was destroyed to prevent the Bashaw (or Pasha) of Tripoli from using her as a part of his pirate fleet. The warship had been captured after running aground in Tripoli harbor the previous October as she patrolled the North African waters, thereby creating America’s first foreign hostage crisis in the in the Islamic world. The crew of Philadelphia had been enslaved after their surrender, and the Bashaw demanded an enormous ransom for their release.
The potentates of the Barbary Coast had for centuries derived an enormous income from what was basically an immense extortion racket. Pirate fleets attacked merchant ships of any nation which would not pay “tribute” to the Barbary gangsters. The powers of Europe had generally acceded to this scheme for years, because it was calculated that the cost of tribute was cheaper than the expense of a military solution to the problem. The United States, perhaps with the vigor or brashness of youth, rallied around the sentiment “Millions for defense but not one cent for tribute!” and sent armed vessels to the Barbary Coast to protect American merchantmen.
On patrol in the Fall of 1803 under the command of Captain William Bainbridge, who has the unenviable distinction of being the first U.S. Naval officer to surrender a ship to the enemy, (during the undeclared Quasi-war with revolutionary France in 1798) Philadelphia ran aground on an uncharted sandbar outside of Tripoli harbor. The ship’s crew labored for hours to free the stranded vessel, finally jettisoning almost every object which could be moved in hopes of lightening the ship sufficiently to float it off of the bar. Unwisely, the ship’s cannon were finally tossed as well. During this activity, boats from Tripoli harbor began to sail around Philadelphia and men aboard began firing muskets and small guns at the helpless frigate.
By great good fortune or because of spectacular inaccuracy on the part of the assailants, no one aboard Philadelphia was wounded. Bainbridge, however, finally decided that the ship was indefensible, and signaled his willingness to parlay for surrender. Though the Bashaw promised to treat his captive according to military conventions of the day, the men were nevertheless immediately enslaved. The story of the crew’s plight and of the incredible scheme which was launched to overthrow the Bashaw, is wonderfully told in Richard’s Zacks’ 2005 book, The Pirate Coast, The truly painful irony of the ship’s surrender is that had the captain and crew borne up another two hours, the rising tide would have floated it free!
As negotiations attempting to secure the release of the enslaved sailor dragged on, America’s military leaders feared that the Bashaw might sell the frigate to one of the European naval powers. The design and features of Philadelphia represented the best in American naval technology, and there would be serious consequences if she fell into hostile hands. Accordingly, president Thomas Jefferson authorized an all volunteer force to attempt the destruction of the ship. In the aftermath of Decatur’s successful exploit, British admiral Horatio Nelson, a man who knew a thing or two about valor and duty, declared the destruction of Philadelphia to be “the most bold and daring act of the age.”
America had begun to show Europe’s powers that it was possible to stand up to the extortion of the Barbary states’ corrupt rulers. At the same time, America began a long history of strained relations with Islamic states.
It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare;
it is because we do not dare that things are difficult.
— Seneca
FURTHER READING:
The Pirate Coast: Thomas Jefferson, The First Marines, and the Secret Mission of 1805, Richard Zacks; Hyperion, 2005: ISBN: 1401300030
Zacks tells the story of the capture of the United States Navy’s Philadelphia in Tripoli and the subsequent enslavement of its crew and officers. The ensuing diplomatic crisis between the U.S. and an Islamic state could have come from today’s headlines. In the first chapter of the book, Zacks recounts the raids of Islamic slavers on Europes Mediterranean coasts, and he later describes the lot of the American sailors who were enslaved in Tripoli. This is an excellent account of a little known episode in American history.
It was on Tuesday 15 February 1898 that the United States Battleship Maine violently exploded in Havana Harbor with a loss of 260 American sailors. In the aftermath of the tragedy The United States went to war with Spain and gained for itself a far-flung overseas empire. The war also firmly established The United States as a global power.
In early 1898, Spain still ruled Cuba and Puerto Rico, her last two colonial holdings in the New World, and Spain’s rule was brutally oppressive. Cuba had experienced several rebellions in the last half of the 19th Century, and Spain struggled to suppress these revolts with harsher and more violent measures. In the United States there was a great deal of popular sentiment in support of the Cuban rebels, and there was also a strong business interest heavily invested in Cuba. As Spain tried to end the latest rebellion, the United States determined to send a major warship to monitor developments in the rebellion and to protect American citizens and American interests.
The battleship Maine was anchored in Havana harbor with the express permission of the Spanish government. The Spanish government was outraged at the U.S. request, but realized that it would be necessary to comply in order to keep the U.S. from directly intervening in the revolt.
The precise causes of the explosion and sinking of the battleship are still hotly debated. The initial investigation launched by the U.S. Navy immediately after the event concluded that a mine or shell had struck the ship and ignited the much larger and devastating secondary explosion in the powder magazine. The Navy’s report never proposed to identify the culprits responsible for the mine or shell, but it was widely believed in the U.S. that the Spanish government was behind the attack. Many ardent nationalists in Spain had proclaimed Maine’s visit an unbearable insult to Spanish dignity, and a nationalist news paper had even suggested that Spain should blow up the offending battleship.
The Navy’s initial report was based on the findings of two deepsea divers whose primary mission was the recovery of bodies. The water of Havana harbor was murky and difficult to work in, and the much of the information reported by the divers was based upon feeling their way around the wreckage. In 1911 the Navy conducted a thorough and detailed investigation. A coffer dam was constructed around the wreck and water was pumped out so that the ruined ship could be properly examined. This second investigation concluded that a mine had been detonated directly underneath the powder magazine. At the conclusion of this investigation, the wreckage, which had presented a navigational hazard, was floated out of Havana harbor and resunk about four miles off shore.
In 1976, Admiral Hyman Rickover – famed as the “Father of the Nuclear Navy” – headed yet another formal investigation into the cause of the sinking. This time the actual physical evidence was re-examined and subjected to modern technological assessments. In addition, computer models were employed to study each of several proposed possible scenarios. Rickover’s report concluded that an internal fire in a forward coal bunker had ignited the magazine, and that no external explosive device had been involved.
Most recently, in 2001, divers visited the actual wreckage once more. Based upon current photographs of the wreckage and some metallurgical analysis, the most recent conclusion is that there *was* indeed an external explosion, most likely caused by a small mine.
In the end, none of these investigations would have mattered at all. The popular press in America of 1898 – most notably William Randolph Hearst’s immense newspaper empire – whipped up public resentment against Spain. Many powerful business interests looked forward to freeing Cuba from Spain and bringing it into the United States one way or another. U.S. designs upon Cuba were first expressed by Alexander Hamilton during the revolutionary war, and were commonplace topics throughout the whole 19th Century. The administration of Franklin Pierce was greatly embarrassed by the 1854 “Ostend Manifesto,” written by key American diplomats in Europe, which asserted that the U.S. had a right to buy Cuba from Spain, or to go to war if Spain would not sell. The fallout from that episode effectively prevented the U.S. from directly involving itself in Cuban political affairs for almost a generation. But by the 1890s, the internal upheavals within Cuba and Spain, and a growing sense of the need for American Expansion revived the notion of making Cuba a part of the United States. Thus a pretext for the use of armed force was widely welcomed across America. By April of 1898, Congress made impossible demands of Spain and authorized President McKinley to send troops to Cuba. Finally, on 25 April Congress passed a declaration of war with Spain as of 20 April, though only after the “Teller Amendement” had been passed which guaranteed that the war would free Cuba and not make it a part of the U.S. (Other Spanish possessions in the Caribbean and the Pacific, Puerto Rico, The Philippines, and Guam, were not covered by such a clause; Guam and Puerto Rico remain U.S. territory.)
In hindsight, the war was obviously an easy win for the United States. Admiral Dewey completely destroyed Spain’s Pacific Fleet in Manila Bay, without the loss of a single American life (one elderly engineer may have died of a heart attack, but there were no battle casualties.) At Santiago, Cuba, Spain’s Atlantic Fleet was similarly devastated. American troops formed up in Tampa, Florida and made landing in Cuba near Guantanomo Bay. Future president Theodore Roosevelt led a wild charge of “The Roughriders” up San Juan Hill, and Spanish resistance was quickly overcome.
But in April of 1898, an easy American victory was by no means certain. The night before Dewey’s fleet sailed from Hong Kong Harbor on 27 April, the Royal Navy hosted a farewell party for the American officers. One British captain noted in his log that he expected that it was the last time he would see any of the Americans alive, as they had the impossible task of sailing into Manila Bay under the guns of “The Gibraltar of The East,” Corregidor. Spain’s navy was not quite so modern as America’s, but it could be expected to fight fiercely. In the end, the Spanish Navy underestimated the capabilities of the U.S. Navy. Dewey evaded Corregidor by sailing into the bay by night, relying on expert navigation and 200 year old charts; he was therefore able to catch Spain’s Pacific Fleet untirely unawares.
When the fighting stopped in August, Spain had no navy to speak of, and no way to control her wide-spread empire. Peace terms forced Spain to cede The Philippines, Guam, and Puerto Rico to The United States. The war also forced Europe’s Great Powers to re-evaluate the United States and to seriously consider its role in global power politics. A new Great Power had joined the club.
The lasting legacies of this war are many – possibly even including the lengthy dictatorship of Fidel Castro – but one of my favorites is just a wee footnote: the first American troops landed on Cuba at a small town between Guantanamo Bay and Santiago; in the wake of the successful landing, a cocktail of rum and lime juice became quite popular among military officers and later with the American public. The cocktail was named in honor of the landing. That small town’s name? Daiquiri!
For this was on Saint Valentine’s Day
When every bird cometh there to choose his mate.
— Geoffery Chaucer, The Parliament of Fowls, 1382
Two saints are connected with February 14. One was Bishop of Terni, (d. 269); the other was a priest or physician in Rome, who was martyred during the reign of the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius (ca. 167.)
Neither saint seems responsible for the traditional rites and rituals of Valentine’s Day. Various “legends,” such as that of an imprisoned Valentine sending his true love a note (signed: “Your Valentine”) before his martyrdom, are evidently rather recent fabrications, no older than the late 18th century.
Medieval calendrists calculated that 14 February corresponded to the date which the Roman naturalist Pliny claimed that birds went forth in search of a mate. Seemingly, birds pairing up occasioned similar activities among people. These Medieval romanticists celebrating a day of love were the same people, interestingly enough, who imagined that it was nobler to suffer years of chaste, unrequited love, than any amount of actual carnal connectings. But on the other hand, stand the ribald, bawdy songs of the Medieval Carmina Burana. One never knows what to make of the medieval folk …
The traditional Roman fertility feast of Lupercalia was celebrated in mid-February. Lupercalia featured games and races, and included throngs of athletic youths running naked through the streets of Rome, lashing at the objects of their attention with thongs. For some reason, this was thought to promote fertility. Lupercale was also a time for lovers to announce their engagement. The possible connection with the Lupercale seems to me to be the best reason that this day is so long associated with Romantic Love, though many authorities question this. There is really no documentary evidence available, and Chaucer’s assertion quoted above appears to be the first written association of the Day with couplings of any sort.
By the high Medieval period, written expressions of love were an integral part of Saint Valentine’s day, and the exchange of gifts was well established. The earliest surviving example of a “Valentine” is a letter dated 1416 written by the Duc D’Orleans to his wife when he was imprisoned in the Tower of London following the Battle of Agincourt.
By the early 1800s, note cards especially printed with love poems and pretty images became popular, helping to give rise to the Greeting Card Industry of today. In the middle Nineteenth Century, sarcastic and even insulting cards became a fad.
Flowers and sweets were certainly associated with the Lupercale, and there is possible reason to conclude that these traditions of our modern Valentine’s Day celebration are direct descendants of the Roman customs.
The iconic image of the cockled (“heart shaped”) heart seems to stem from antiquity; some trace it to Aristotle’s anatomical descriptions, but the design certainly is far older than Hellenic Greece. It is true that the “heart” figure barely resembles the actual human organ, though the two upper lobes have a plausible correspondence to the right and left atria, yet it seems a rather long stretch. It is really rather tough to explain the imagery of the “heart.” Anthropologist Desmond Morris even speculated that it represents a simplified rendering of the female form posed in sexual receptivity. In any case, it is an ancient figure.
In modern times. Saint Valentine’s Day is a commercial bonanza: it is typically the highest single-day sales volume for florists, and it is the number two greeting card holiday, second only to Christmas. Candy sales have fallen off somewhat in recent years, perhaps due to a trend for healthier lifestyles, yet they still remain huge.
No matter its origins, Valentine’s Day remains an enduring favorite. Several weeks after the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, yet still in the grip of cold, grey, and often depressing winter, people are undoubtedly ready for some good excuse to have a celebration, and why not celebrate Love amid the dreary days?
It was on 8 February 1692, in the small village of Salem, (now Danvers) Massachusetts, that Abigail Williams and Betty Parris were declared by a competent physician to be under the spell of witchcraft, thereby launching the most famous – really infamous – “Witch Hunt” in History. In 1949, Marion Starkey published her powerful and influential work The Devil In Massachusetts: A Modern Enquiry Into The Salem Witch Trials. Though the work has been criticized as offering no new research findings about the historical events, Starkey’s book is notable in applying 20th Century psychological interpretation to the events of 1692.
The Devil In Massachusetts was a great influence on Arthur Miller’s 1953 masterpiece, The Crucible, which is usually interpreted as a thinly-veiled expose of Senator Joseph McCarthy’s then-current “Witch Hunt” for Communists in the United States government. I find it most interesting that Starkey, in the introduction to “The Devil,” makes a strong case for studying the Witch Trials as a means of helping to forfend against a modern day repetition. Starkey notes that the upheavals and wars of the 1930s and 1940s had produced many a Witch Hunt, and she expresses her hope that by 1949 the world will have grown more mature, and somewhat wiser.
How terribly ironic it is then, that less than a year after the publication of The Devil In Massachusetts, on 9 February 1950 that Senator Joseph “Tailgunner Joe” McCarthy made his first public assertion that the U.S. State Department was completely infiltrated by known Communists. During the next four years, McCarthy would repeat this charge over and over, changing the numbers, and eventually changing his focus from the State Department to the Army, yet managing to retain a high profile in the public eye despite his inability to identify a single “Fellow Traveler” in his investigations.
Speaking before the Wheeling Women’s Republican Club in West Virginia on 9 February 1950, McCarthy made the shocking claim that the State Department was then employing “204 known Communists.” At first there was little media attention paid to this speech; the only first-hand account of it appeared in the local Wheeling paper. But McCarthy was asked about his claim a few days later back in Washington, D.C. and he asserted that there were “at least 81 Known Communists” in the State Department. In the next few weeks, the stated number fluctuated between a low of 10 and a high of 205.
It seems inexplicable in light of what we know today, but the mainstream media did not call McCarthy to account for his wildly varied numbers; the media did not then even request a jot of proof to support the claims. The unsupported and unsubstantiated assertions were repeated as if factual, and many came to believe them. Indeed, the question became not, “Are there Communists in the State Department?” but “How many Communists are there in the state Department?” As my older sister told me many years ago, this was precisely what McCarthy had intended. The “Big Lie,” as some political savant once observed, is more easily sold than the small one. It would seem the absurd and ever-morphing lie is even more readily saleable.
Hundreds of careers were destroyed in the course of nearly four years of fruitless investigations. Hundreds of lives were upended and shattered by the baseless and invidious claims made by McCarthy and his staff. His key lieutenant Roy Cohn made an especial point of exposing homosexuals – generally believed to be especial security risks whatever their politics – as a part of the investigations. Ironically, after Cohn’s death from AIDS in 1986, it became public knowledge that he himself was homosexual.
So fervid was the McCarthy team in its unsubstantiatable attempts to locate subversives within the U.S. government, and so pointless was their probing, that the term “McCarthyism” has become synonymous with “Witch Hunt” to mean a frenzied search for a non-existent threat. Nevertheless, their tactics had a chilling effect on political debate in America for years.
McCarthy’s political downfall came in 1954 after ABC television, alone among U.S. networks, decided to televise McCarthy’s hearings into the affairs of the United States Army. Though the audience share of the broadcast of the hearings was rather small, the impact from those who watched McCarthy and his hatchetmen at work was great. A watershed moment was when the Army’s attorney, Joseph Welch, turned to McCarthy and demanded: “Have you no sense of decency, Senator?!?!! At long last, have you left no sense of decency???!??!” McCarthy was revealed to be a bullying grandstander without substance to his claims. The 2005 film, Good Night and Good Luck focusses on these events.
Later in 1954 the Senate voted to condemn McCarthy for his vicious tactics. President and Mrs. Eisenhower forbade him to attend White House functions. It is hard to appreciate the impact of this seemingly social ban, but it signaled the end of McCarthy’s influence. McCarthy’s political heyday had passed decisively, though the ruined lives and careers he left behind took decades to rebuild, and many never could recover.
Yet, whatever the current assessment of McCarthy’s tactics and impact may be, it must be acknowledged that he acted from a very real and pure motive: McCarthy really, really, REALLY wanted to be politically powerful, and to have his views dominate the political process. From that, it can be seen, as is always the case in politics, any excess is excusable. Or at least explicable. And it is ever thus. It is ever thus …
The much-celebrated and ballyhooed Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this morning thereby foretelling six more weeks of hard winter weather. Well, here in North Texas the winter has been astonishingly mild, days averaging the mid-seventies. But for those who set store by the groundhog-as-weatherman, Phil’s shadow is most unwelcome.
So why is today identified as Groundhog Day? What’s that all about anyway? And what about the fact the February 2nd was known as Candlemas in olden times? As with so many apparently simple things, the explanation is a bit involved and convoluted.
An old English rhyme states:
If Candlemas be fair and bright,
Winter has another flight.
If Candlemas bring clouds and rain,
Winter will not come again.
In the Liturgical Calendar of the Church, the second of February was designated “the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord.” The Mosaic Laws of the Old testament decreed that a woman was “unclean” for seven days following the birth of a male child, and that she must stay away from the Temple for a further 33 days, making the period for ritual cleansing a total of forty days. (The period was twice that long if the baby was a female! Gender equality was decidely NOT an Old Testament concept.) At the end of this term, the mother would return to the Temple to make a sacrifice concluding her purification, and to present her child to the Temple community.
From the very earliest days of the Christian Church, the feast of The Presentation (or Purification) was an important event on the Liturgical Calendar. By the end of the Fourth Century A.D., the date of Christ’s birth had been set as December 25; calculating forty days from that date produced February second as the date for The Presentation. So far, so good?
Because this Feast celebrated the entry of The Christ – The Light of the World – into the Temple and the greater world, it became traditional by the Eleventh Century to bless the candles that were to be used in the upcoming year. Originally, just the official church candles were blessed, but eventually household candles were included as well. The Priest would bless all the candles presented, intoning the words: “Lumen ad revelationem gentium et gloriam plebis tuae Israel” (A Light to reveal You to the Gentiles, and the glory of your people Israel.”)
Possibly because the theme of this Feast was the entry of The Light into the world, or possibly because of older pagan traditions about mid-Winter – opinions are highly diverse about this – there was a tradition in lower Germany that if a certain animal should see its shadow on Candlemas day, it presaged six weeks of severe Winter weather. Again, details are hard to come by, but some sources specify that the animal in question should be a badger, others state that it should be a hedgehog. (Both of these animals “hibernate” in the Winter and very often are not awake to be looking around at shadows in early February.)
When William Penn invited German immigrants from the Pfaltz to settle in his new colony, Pennsylvania, the new arrivals carried their homeland traditions with them, including the notion that February second was an important day for weather forecasting. Hedgehogs not being found in the New World, and Badgers still sleeping away their Winter typically, a local substitute was found: the humble woodchuck or groundhog (Marmota monax.)
The first extant mention of Groundhog Day can be read at the Pennsylvania Dutch Folklore Center. It says: “Last Tuesday, the 2nd, (February 1841) was Candlemas day, the day on which, according to the Germans, the Groundhog peeps out of his winter quarters and if he sees his shadow he pops back for another six weeks nap, but if the day be cloudy he remains out, as the weather is to be moderate.”
In any case, the tradition was a highly localized phenomenon, and not widely observed in Colonial America, nor during the years leading up to the Civil War. But, as so often happens, a good promotional campaign took a local tradition and turned into a national event. A couple of Pennsylvania newspaper publishers decided to make a genuine event of “Groundhog Day,” and Pennsylvania’s first formal celebration of Groundhog Day began on February second, 1886 with a proclamation in The Punxsutawney Spirit by the newspaper’s editor, Clymer Freas.
Because of the novelty of the celebration and its homegrown character, early telegraph news services spread the story as human interest “filler” for their subscribers. By the late 1890s, Groundhog day was known across the United States. In the days when radio was the major mass medium, Groundhog Day was duly reported, but it took the advent of television to make a real national spectacle of the occasion. For Groundhog Day 2001, an estimated 35,000 people gathered in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania just to see what the Groundhog would see.
And, just FYI: no meaningful correlation has ever been made between the Groundhog’s prognosis and the actual weather subsequently recorded! But, I must ask: what else would one expect from a giant rodent?
Jamie Rawson
Flower Mound, Texas
“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” — Percy Bysshe Shelly
On this day in 1764, the notoriously ugly and immensely fascinating British politician and journalist John Wilkes was expelled from the House of Commons of the British Parliament for seditious libel and obscenity. The previous year, Wilkes had published a vitriolic criticism of George Grenville, King George III’s Prime Minister and later promoter of the Stamp Act for the colonies. In response, The Crown issued a vague and broadly applicable “general warrant” against Wilkes and his publication, The North Briton. More than forty people were arrested under this open warrant; papers and effects were seized, including personal, private papers from Wilkes’ home.
At first, The Crown attempted to prosecute Wilkes for seditious libel, but a court ruled that his position as a Member of Parliament protected him from prosecution. Not to be thwarted, The Crown dug deeper into the papers and effects seized under the general warrant. Unfortunately for Wilkes, among these private papers was a diary in which he recorded his various amorous encounters. This diary may have been intended for private circulation among Wilkes’ circle, but was not published in any sense of the word. On the basis of this manuscript, Wilkes was charged with obscenity and pornography, although it was simply his private journal and had not been intended for publication. Though a court would later overturn this charge as being completely unfounded even under the broad powers of a general warrant, Wilkes was expelled from Parliament and forced to flee to France for almost four years.
We Americans should be familiar with the history of the 1760s and 1770s in the colonies: Parliamentary overreach led to widespread discontent and unrest, ultimately fomenting the American Revolution and Independence. Less well-known is that there was great unrest in Britain itself during this period, and there was much chafing at Parliament’s dismissal of England’s traditional civil rights. Britons prided themselves on being the freest subjects in Europe, yet Parliament was ignoring their traditional liberties.
When Wilkes returned to England in 1768, he was again overwhelmingly elected to Parliament. He was also arrested almost immediately thereafter. The crowds which gathered outside the prison where Wilkes was being held grew so large that The Crown feared rebellion, and troops opened fire on the Londoners, killing several. Widespread rioting followed. An American who was in London at this time was greatly disturbed at the unrest and the mob violence, and comforted himself with the thought that America would never fall into riot and rebellion. Ironically, this American was in London to argue in support of American complaints against Parliament: Benjamin Franklin!
Wilkes remained in prison until 1770; upon his release he again strained the limits of Parliament’s patience by publishing accounts of Parliamentary debates in his newspaper. His printing staff was arrested in early 1771. Later that same day, an immense and angry crowd surrounded Commons, chanting “Wilkes and Liberty!” “No Liberty, No King!!!” and similar slogans. The government released the prisoners to avoid riot and rebellion. No further attempts to prevent the publication of Parliamentary debates were made.
Wilkes was elected Lord Mayor of London in 1774, and he was an outspoken critic of The Crown’s handling of the colonies and the American Revolution. Wilkes was in regular correspondence with Boston’s Sons of Liberty, and with key figures of the American Revolution such as John Adams and John Hancock. Wilkes advocated fair and rational responses to the legitimate grievances of the colonists, and he predicted that Britain would lose the colonies if matters were not addressed sensibly. But his words fell on deaf ears in Parliament.
Wilkes was truly a radical reformer in his day. He championed and pioneered Freedom of the Press. He also advocated broad electoral reform and campaigned against “rotten boroughs,” Parliamentary seats held by men who had never even visited the district they were to represent. Unusually for his time, Wilkes also advocated religious tolerance and the removal of legal debilities on minority religions. Later in his career he moderated his “radical” politics and fell from favor with the electorate.
Wilkes’ legacy was partly legal: The courts ruled that The Crown could not use general warrants as unlimited power to find any possible misbehavior. For example, in seeking evidence of Wilkes’ sedition, his personal journal of romantic adventures was irrelevant, despite it having been seized under the warrant. British Courts circumscribed the power of The Crown and defined a standard of personal expectation of privacy which even the government must not impinge upon. Additionally, precedents set in various cases concerning Wilkes have been repeatedly cited in decisions of the U.S. Supreme Court, including the famous 1969 decision which prevented Congress from barring Adam Clayton Powell.
Wilkes’ legacy was partly pragmatic: Though Parliament did not soon repeal its prohibition against publishing its debates, in practice it yielded the matter so that by late 1771, the publication of Parlimentary debates was an assumed right of the press. It is no accident that the major British newspapers were founded in the years following (eg: The Times, 1785.)
And Wilkes’ legacy was partly architectural: When the Houses of Parliament had to be rebuilt in the late 1830s after a fire, the new structure was abutted right onto the bank of the River Thames. This was done, as the Duke of Wellington insisted, to prevent “the people” from exacting their demands by simply surrounding Parliament!
Wilkes’ stand on civil liberty struck a particularly resonant chord among the discontent colonists of British North America. But on both sides of the Atlantic Wilkes was seen as a champion of civil liberties. In Pennsylvania, the townsfolk of a new settlement in the Wyoming Valley named their town Wilkes-Barre, in honor of John Wilkes and Isaac Barre who supported the American colonists in Parliament. The name John Wilkes became synonymous with Liberty. In the colonies, many children were christened “John Wilkes Smith” or the like. Sadly, John Wilkes’ most famous namesake did much to halt the advance of civil liberty in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Sadder still, too few Americans know of John Wilkes and his legacy of influence on the liberties of an independent United States.
Jamie Rawson
Flower mound, Texas
The condition upon which God hath given liberty to man
is eternal vigilance; which condition if he break,
servitude is at once the consequence of his crime,
and the punishment of his guilt.
— John Philpot Curran, 1790
FURTHER READING:
John Wilkes: The Scandalous Father of Civil Liberty, Arthur H. Cash; Yale University Press, 2006; ISBN: 030010870
This wonderful book was the first full biography of Wilkes to appear in more than a generation, and it was long over due. Cash treats Wilkes “warts and all,” never hesitating to make note of Wilkes’ less admirable character traits. Cash places Wilkes in the larger historical context of mid-18th Century Britain, a time of social turmoil, economic upheaval, and political unrest. Wilkes’ story is told in a consistently engaging manner which makes for a highly informative work that is also extremely entertaining. Cash captures the reader from the very first sentence of the book’s prologue: “This book is about an audacious journalist and politician who was born in the City of London in 1726 and died in the City of Westminster in 1797, his life spanning a time that included the American Revolution, which he admired, the French Revolution, which he hated, and the industrial revolution, which he did not know was happening.” A must-read!
I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.
Their faithful Friend and Servant,
C. D.
December, 1843.
In the Fall of 1843, English writer Charles Dickens found himself short of cash. With his wife expecting their fourth child, he decided to write a novel – rather than the stories which he had been supplying magazines and periodicals – which he could publish himself, thereby earning all the profits.
Dickens immediately hit upon the idea of writing a Christmas story, since he felt he could write such a tale rapidly enough to see it published before the holiday. Today, we can readily see the sense of his notion; we all know Christmas as a hugely commercial bonanza, but in 1843, Christmas was not quite the retail boom that it later became. Dickens’ wife is supposed to have asked him to write an uplifting, moral tale, because she felt it would be most apt for the season, and perhaps would help offset the fairly crass commercialism of Dickens’ motive. It is also true that Dickens had a frankly political motive in mind as well: he wanted to call attention to the plight of England’s poor and uneducated, and he felt a Christmas tale would provide just the right setting. [1]
Dickens right away set about to write his book, but he experienced an uncharacteristic “writer’s block.” He started several drafts of different stories, but none seemed sustainable. With Christmas less than eight weeks away, Dickens had yet to produce any usable material. Working late one night, the story goes, Dickens drifted to sleep over his writing desk. He awoke with a start at 1:00 in the morning, his candle nearly guttering and his fire gone cold.
Ever after, Dickens claimed that the story’s key features came to him – complete – in a sudden flash of vivid inspiration. He lit a new candle and started feverishly working on his story, writing rapidly. As far as can be determined from the surviving manuscript, Dickens worked with no outline and needed very little editing. The story apparently flowed from his pen nearly in its final form. [2]
With less than a month before Christmas remaining, Dickens took the book to the publisher. There was quite a bit of wrangling over the exact nature of the final product. Dickens insisted that no expense be spared, and he finally triumphed. The first edition of A Christmas Carol – among the most valuable first editions in English literature; a good condition copy was recently offered for auction by Sotheby’s, fetching £181,250.00 ($288,555.44) [3] – was a work of art: decorated with engravings, six color plates, and a handsomely adorned fine fabric binding.
The book was published Tuesday, 19 December 1843.
The rest as they say is history: that first edition of A Christmas Carol sold out rapidly; it has not been out of print a single day in the past 167 years. There have been dozens of plays, musicals, movies, radio dramatizations, and television specials, more or less based upon the timeless tale of hope and redemption. So closely did Dickens become associated with Christmas in his own day, that when he died in 1870, children in England were said to have feared that Father Christmas would have to die as well.
In our own time, Ted Geisel, Dr. Seuss, distilled the key points of Dickens’ masterwork into the modern classic How The Grinch Stole Christmas, which has developed a life of its own.
Dickens’ prose is rather convoluted and florid by today’s tastes, and his story is filled with digressions, so that abridged versions are most popular these days, but the basic plot of A Christmas Carol, its archetypical characters, and its message of the true meaning of Christmas are as valid today as they were in London in late 1843.
As we approach this Christmas in our frenetic and anxious modern world, I can do no better than to quote from the last paragraph of A Christmas Carol: … and it was always said of [Scrooge], that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!
Jamie Rawson
Flower Mound, Texas
I haven’t missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can.
— Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, 1843
FOOTNOTES:
[1]Dickens and the Popular Radical Imagination, Sally Ledger; Cambridge University Press, 2007; ISBN 9780521845779
When first I wrote this brief piece more than 15 years ago, there was no Wikipedia to give easy access to this story. The current Wikipedia article is much more detailled and extensive than my piece, and it is well worth reading:
The Man Who Invented Christmas: How Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol Rescued His Career and Revived Our Holiday Spirits, Les Standiford; Crown Publishers, 2008; ISBN: 9780307405784
In this wide-ranging book, Standiford explores the circumstances of Dickens’ unhappy childhood which profoundly influenced both his inclination to randical politics and his views of contemporary British society, the development of international copyright law, aspects of 19th Century British publishing, and manages to fit in the actual story of A Christmas Carol as well. All the while, he keeps the subject fresh and compelling.
The Annotated Christmas Carol: A Christmas Carol in Prose, Charles Dickens, Michael Patrick Hearn, Ed.; W. W. Norton & Company, 2004; ISBN: 9780393051582
Both an invaluable reference work and a lovely presentation of the work, copiously illustrated with samples from every famous edition’s illustrations.
It is hard to believe it, but it is now thirty-two years since the Cal Band made its appearance in the short-lived Garden State Bowl! It was on Saturday, 15 December 1979 that the game was played and that the Cal Band justified the effort and expense of sending us to the East Coast to carry California’s name and her mighty fame to the jaded audiences in and around metropolitan New York.
What an exciting, even historic event it was! (There are many wonderful, memorable events in the long history of the Cal Band, but I have made it a sort of project to be sure that the Garden State Bowl is recorded and documented and such; in addition to posting this account, I always look for your additional memories, notes, tidbits, and corrections!) In December of 2007, after many years of meaning to/needing to, I dug into a stack of boxes that I have moved with me since I packed them up at Tellefsen Hall in June of 1982; I knew I must have some materials about the Garden State Bowl among these invaluable treasures, and so I did! I have my boarding passes from the outbound flight on Thursday, 13 December 1979, and the flight home after the Game in the evening of 15 December. Such are the paper-trails we pack-rat types can construct! I also have the travel poopsheets and such, a copy of the I Love New York travel guide from the Fall of 1979, and an “I ♥ NY” button! Ah, the memories!
The road to the Garden State Bowl was a rather circuitous one; the Bears’ up-and-down 1979 season under coach Roger Theder was interesting, to say the least. Though marred by a painful late-in-the-game loss to UCLA, (27 – 28!) and an expected loss to U$C, (14 – 24) the Bears managed a winning season, (barely: 6W – 5L) capping it off with a Big Game victory (21 – 14.) Then came the news that Cal had been invited to the Garden State Bowl! (The Garden State Bowl???) Playing Temple (Temple???) But it was a BOWL GAME!!!
This would be Cal’s first post-season appearance in 20 years!!! (In point of fact, slightly less than 21 years, being that the previous bowl appearance had been The Rose Bowl, 1 January 1959!) What excitement! What questions! Would the Band be able to go? Would there be any monies available? How many would go? How long would we be there? Was there a parade? When would we rehearse? Where would we rehearse? It was a heady time of questions, frantic if uncertain planning, and rumors.
Fortunately, things began to come together for The Cal Band. Though the Bowl provided little money for the Band (and the Athletic Department was unwilling to part with more than the allotted funds) Chancellor Albert Bowker saved the day with a last minute infusion of cash, stating that it would be ridiculous to present Cal Football to the nation without including the Cal Band. (It seems to me that the vast sum contributed was something like $10,000.00; any memories?)
There was an unbelievable jolt of joy down in 57 Student Center when the news was confirmed. Our Senior Manager, Steve Spafford, (Trumpet `76) broke the news to the gathered crowd and the cheers and whoops were excited and energetic, and seemed to go on and on. Because ExComm and AdComm had already begun working on logistics even without confirmed funding, there was a large map of New York city on the wall above the PRD’s desk. I recall looking at it and thinking, “Wow! We’re really going there!” It wasn’t the Rose Bowl, but in one way it was even more exciting: we were heading to “The Big Apple!”
The afternoon we learned of the Chancellor’s support, we immediately put together a Straw Hat Band to play at University House as a “thank you.” We knocked on the door and entered, apparently unexpected, as some sort of rather formal reception was going on. The brass and flash of an enthusiastic SHB contrasted mightily with the staid decorum of the Chancellor’s reception, to say the least. But we were well-received all the same, and Chancellor Bowker told us, “I can always count on the Cal band.” The reception guests also had various positive things to say, being very pleased at the surprise entertainment. (I have always suspected that whoever coordinated the thing had some inside information about the whole situation, because dropping in on the Chancellor unannounced seems rather bad form, but I really don’t know for certain.)
Since the Band would have to fly to New York/New Jersey for the game, a novel way to reduce the cost of airfare was adopted. In mid-year of 1979, there had been a lengthy and difficult strike at American Airlines. In order to attract business, American offered half-fare coupons to all travelers (these eventually morphed into the well-loved Frequent Flyer Miles we so enjoy today!) Cal Bandsmen combed hill and dale, implored family and friends for anyone who was willing to donate these coupons to help defray the cost of air transit. And it worked!
Members of ExComm and AdComm that year worked overtime-plus to arrange the logistics of the trip: busses, hotels, meals, and all the adminstrivia that is part and parcel of any large organization traveling, with some of those uniquely Cal Band concerns added on, such as where to play in New York. The DM and TA’s coordinated a “WTP,” as it was informally dubbed (“Winter Training Program.”) This consisted of two days of intense rehearsal, Tuesday and Wednesday in Memorial Stadium, and a three-hour music rehearsal in BRH Tuesday night.
Immediately before the start of WTP, many folks who lived too far away from Berkeley to venture home for the weekend simply remained at Tellefsen Hall. The TH Board had generously decided to support the Bowl trip by providing meals Tuesday and Wednesday during “WTP” at no extra charge to house members, and Tellefsen Hall’s popular cook, Myrtle Davis (Ladle, `77) agreed to do duty, but for the weekend and that Monday we were on our own.
It happened that 1979 was shaping up to be a bumper year for the Dungeness Crab fisheries, and Spenger’s offered fully cooked, whole crab at the irresistible price of $1.09 a pound! Accordingly, I proposed a crab feast. The interested parties all pitched in something like five bucks each, and armed with about $60.00, my brother Rob, (Trombone `78) and Lou Khazoyan, (Trumpet `78) and I drove to the Berkeley waterfront and stocked up on about 25 pounds of crab. En route back to TH we spent the remaining funds on sourdough loaves, tart green apples, sharp Tillamook cheddar, and a couple of huge jugs of Gallo Chablis. Thus was born what for the next couple of years was something of a minor tradition – and one I sorely miss these days, living in Texas!
WTP ran smoothly and productively. Many of the components of the halftime show were quite familiar, being built upon several successful drills from the 1979 season, with contributions from other seasons, so it was more a matter of fine-tuning and polishing than of actual learning. The show was ready in record time, and it showcased a wide range of Cal Band talents. The result was a show which not only displayed the breadth and depth of the Cal Band’s ability, but a show with which we felt confident of wowing the crowd
Despite the rather long days, WTP seemed over in a flash, and almost before we knew it, it was time to head east. After rehearsal on Wednesday, we loaded the rented truck with uniform boxes (remember those?) and the large instruments, plus all manner of other necessary equipment. Whew! After two days of concentration and work, we felt well prepared for the bowl game performances.
Through the miracle of modern technology, you can view the halftime performance on the web:
On Thursday the 13th, we had to show up at BRH at 6:00am, no exceptions. Sticking to the schedule, our busses departed at 7:00am sharp. The famous “Yellowstone Policy” was in full force. Steve Spafford had distributed an information sheet which stated: “We have alternates for those who aren’t on the busses at 7:00am.” And for once, no one was late! We looked about as respectable and presentable as possible, because we were to travel in coat and tie — it was a different world back then. So we bussed to SFO and flew non-stop to JFK.
Steve Spafford’s informational sheet was not all gruff and tough. It was entitled: “GARDENSTATEBOWLGOBEARSBEATTHEWHO?INFOSHEET” and it concluded with the statement, “This is going to be a greater experience than you can imagine, so be ready to have a great time and put on a great performance!” One detail I had forgotten after all these years was that every band member participating was asked to contribute $30.00 to the meal fund. “If we do get the money you will be reimbursed – if you are nice.” I believe we did get the funding, but I just do not recall that detail precisely. Of course we were advised to pack warm clothing, but I have to smile that on the “what to bring list,” in subtle Cal Band fashion, someone had slipped in, “… long underwear, gloves, mufflers, swimsuit …” And under “Optional equipment,” the travel poopsheet advised: “Parachute, Black notebook and camera to record your favorite CBR.”
We loaded busses at JFK and headed to our hotel in Clifton, New Jersey. I’ll never forget the hotel’s marquee on the highway reading: “Welcome Calf State” (who the hell was “Calf State????”) They quickly corrected the error. My former roommate Eric Abrahamson (Clarinet `76) who was in graduate school at Northwestern at the time flew to New Jersey for the game, and met us in the lobby of our hotel. A gathering of other alumni had arrived as well. It was really great to see these folks. To this day, I still feel that the most compelling of reasons to go to a bowl game is the chance to meet up with friends.
Friday morning we rehearsed at the Meadowlands in Giants Stadium where the bowl was to be held. It had been quite wet the day before, and the temperatures overnight were well below freezing. The result was a field surface that was both slick and slippery and hard as a rock! What’s more, the first-generation Astroturf carpet was decidedly “long in the tooth,” looking rather threadbare in places, and coming up at the seams in others. If you weren’t careful, a curled edge could easily trip you!
Though it was several degrees above freezing, it was nevertheless bitterly cold. The damp, chilly wind seemed to draw the heat out of everyone. I can still recall the image of bandmembers bundled up in down jackets and scarves as we ran through the halftime. Pregame, though, was another story all together. Off came the jackets and winter gear for the final run through (and right back on after!)
We then bussed into Manhattan to perform at Lincoln Center, the CitiCorp Tower, Rockefeller Center and sundry other venues. Sleigh Ride, March of Carols, (lovingly dubbed Marathon of Carols!) and other holiday fare along with several tunes from the 1979 season, and of course the core of Cal songs; we played for hours to appreciative crowds of harried Manhattanites. That evening we had time in Manhattan, and Bob Briggs (Cornet `48, Baton `71 – `95) had arranged for several of us to see A Chorus Line at the Schubert. (I think that the vast bulk of the audience was mystified, wondering what joke they had missed when the balcony erupted in laughter at the line: “That’s step – pivot – step – step – pivot – step.” We all cracked up because the line was nearly identical to an exhortation from the DM’s tower during the day’s rehearsal.) In another sign of just how long ago this really was, the balcony tickets for the show were $13.00! Yes, it was a different world.
Saturday dawned cold and clear. It was 26 degrees at 7:00am, according to a bank sign nearby the hotel. During the game, things warmed up to a balmy 36 or 38 degrees or so, quite a cold day for folks used to the Bay Area’s more moderate highs and lows. Saturday morning rehearsal was again conducted with patches of ice on the field’s Astroturf, and brass players had to keep their mouthpieces under their jackets to avoid “freezing” their lips. But the warmth of the day’s excitement made the cold seem trivial.
The pregame show gave us a taste of how receptive the crowd would be; though there was a rather small contingent of loyal blues who had made their way to East Rutherford, New Jersey to root on the Bears, there was a hearty roar from the crowd when pregame was over. The only jarring note from pregame was “the bomb.” It was apparently identical to every other Cal Band Pregame Bomb that we had ever used, but perhaps the cold weather had affected its chemistry, for it exploded in a huge shower of sparks with an unusually small amount of smoke. It looked impressive enough, but it was definitely not the usual effect.
The first half of the game saw a desultory performance by the gridiron Bears, but the game was by no means decided. The halftime show was a triumph! Opening with Fat Bottomed Girls (and the ethereal effect of vocals provided by percussion, basses, and anyone else who wasn’t playing!) moving on to Le Regiment de Sambre et Meuse for a display of classic Cal Band countermarches, then to the lyrical melody of Eres Tu, concluding with the rhythm and drive of The Letter; it was a well balanced and well performed show. Not flawless, of course, but a triumph. And the crowd went wild! Folks sitting on the row after the bass section were congratulating and complimenting the Band: “Go Bay-ahs! You guys are great!”
Alas, the football Bears could not muster the points to defeat Temple: Temple 28 – California 17. Perhaps the Bears had been jinxed; on the schedule in the poopsheet, someone had included for Saturday’s agenda: “4:30 p.m. Postgame — Band plays Palms of Victory.” (Surely we ought to have known better) The scoreboard at the stadium, featuring animated graphics of the most primitive sort, added insult to the injury by displaying a scene of an Owl – the mascot of Temple – flying over and pooping upon the head of a Bear! (Only in New Jersey!) But after the game Chancellor Bowker was reported to have observed that it was a good thing for California’s pride and reputation that the Band had performed at the game.
The post-game logistics were a challenge, as we had to get back to the hotel, change, pack up, and return to JFK for the flight home. During one leg of the bus trip, one of the bus drivers took extreme exception to the Band’s traditional bus driver greeting, and slammed on the brakes as we hurtled down the highway, sending Don Brownson (Trombone, `76; StuD, `79) flying into the stepwell of the bus. We thought he was seriously injured, but Don gamely continued from his prone position, “Let’s all say hello to the …”
We arrived back in California about 12:30am and back in Berkeley even later, exhausted, yet despite the loss, glowing with satisfaction. The Cal Band had fully upheld its end of the day.
There are so many memories from that trip: “Ten Columbus Circle! (Boom!) TEN Columbus Circle! (Boom!!!) TEN COLUMBUS CIRCLE!!! (BOOM!!!)” Masked “terrorists” on the plane flight (not even conceivable in this day and age!) Beefsteak Charlie’s. Mamma Leone’s. Broadway in its late 1970’s depths of tacky, tawdry, and seedy. “I ♥ NY” buttons. An errant and much-disputed subway token. Legal drinking at 18. New Jersey governor Brendan Byrne being booed loud and long during the pregame ceremonies. I can barely begin to recount all the tales told from that adventure. But what stands at the forefront are memories of a lot of hard work, a really fine trip, and a truly outstanding performance.
JAMIE RAWSON
(Bass, `77)
15 December 2011
Flower Mound, Texas
After I posted these recollections in 2004, on the occasion of the Twenty-Fifth anniversary, Scott Dreisbach (Trumpet `77) wrote to share:
My three favorite memories from the bowl….
1) The ridiculous amount of time Hutch (Jim Hutcherson, trumpet `75) and I spent at domestic customs trying to get the ‘bomb’ while you all were snuggy-wuggy in Clifton. Can you imagine the trouble we’d have THESE days!!?? Then, on the parkway. Dear Lord . . . Hutch was driving the rental truck and the last sign I saw before entering the on-ramp was ‘No Trucks’. Sh*t! Of course they don’t have off-ramps every mile or so. We were on that bad boy for at least 10 miles before we finally got caught and pulled over. ‘Whatcha got in the truck, boys’, says the cop. I repeat, Dear Lord! The last thing we put on the truck was the effing ‘bomb’! We were going to jail for sure, right? Fortunately, we happened to put the ‘bomb’ in with the ‘explosive’ DOT tag towards the uniform boxes. He let us go. Again, Dear Lord!!!
2) I didn’t get the memo that we were to bring ‘civies’ for our New York City free time jaunt. I ended up walking the streets of the Large Apple in band pants, suspenders, a white shirt, black shoes and spats. I do miss the spats, by the way. Anyhow, I got a ration of sh*t here and there, but basically I wasn’t badgered too much…..I mean, you must really be a bad-ass to walk the dark streets of NYC dressed like that, right? The cool thing was that I was walking around with about 4 other bandsmen, including MadDog (Tony McElligot, trumpet `78) I think, and they were amused at my dress as well. Anyhow, after leaving one of the pubs, and having had a few we came upon a remarkable sight. A 4 foot wide, 10 foot tall white board tacked to a wall that had been spray painted with the simple missive, ‘Welcome to New York, Scott’! Pretty cool, huh. Don’t remember who took the photo with me by the sign, but my right arm in trade if you know who has it….
3) On the flight home, I was granted the honor of NOT wearing ‘school clothes’ since I was in charge of field set-up, and had certainly put in my due on that trip. They had those little, itty-bitty bottles of red wine for sale, and I really enjoyed a sip. The sips turned into at least a half dozen bottles, which translated into sleep. Somewhere over Omaha, I slipped away (cause nobody wants to fall asleep in the general populace of a band trip….THAT’S from experience) to one of the planes ‘heads’. I didn’t awaken until the deployed landing gear signaled our reentry into the ‘safe’ confines of the Bay. I felt quite ill for the next day or two…..ugh.
Barbara Goodson (Mellophonium `77) also recalled:
I have vivid memories of the whole thing. First, that Karl Bizjak (Bass Drum, `74) was invited to perform as an alumnus. Then spending my birthday there and going out for drinks with some folks.
“S-C-O-A-H, Score, Score (with the accent).” “Ten Columbus Circle, Eleven PM (bump, bump, bump)” “IIIII, Heart NY (sung to the ad jingle)” Our bus driver BACKING UP on the turnpike. Having a “George of the Jungle” contest on the bus. Bob Briggs getting “merry” on the plane and singing, “if you knew Susie like I knew Susie” “Where you kids from? We’re from Berkeley! Ah, yeah, Brooklyn!” The only time I was warm on the whole trip was right after pre-game!
My brother Rob (Trombone `78) added his memory:
Add the story about the Manhattan matron, fur bedecked, at Lincoln center who (apparently miffed by a recent concert-going experience) told Bob Briggs, “You play better than the New York Philharmonic.”
Too, I would add about the teasing we got on the way out of the stands at halftime, “Yo, you guys gonna do drugs?”, “Got any marijuana?” This, because it contrasts so nicely with the warm post-show reception from the same people.
And digging through my email archives, I also accumulated replies and memories elicited by earlier Garden State Bowl postings:
A drinking age of 18 in New York… How about “Brown-man’s bus! Brown-man’s bus!”, we won’t mention the “New Jersey Four”, marching up and down the aisles on the flight home with airline pillow covers on their head chanting “Down with de Shah!” (this WAS 1979), Scotty walking the streets of New York with his spats still on (who and where was our uniform manager?)
Oh! And: “We want Sleigh Ride!”
Bob Colburn
Tenor ’77
(1994)
Speaking as a brass player who actually was at the Garden State Bowl in 1979, I was not aware of any Cal Bandsmen who had their lips freeze to their mouthpieces. We were all warned in advance to coat our lips with petroleum jelly before playing. Thus, the problem was one of the mouthpiece sliding of the lips while trying to blow at 100db+++ while marching high-step down the field on hard-packed, poorly-maintained, artificial turf. The other problem was that despite switching from slide cream and water to oil for lubricating the old slush pump, my slide still froze up when ever my horn was not blown for a period of 2 minutes or more. Therefore, advance warning was necessary when playing from the stands. We needed to blow through our bones for about 30 seconds before starting a song, or the first 30 seconds of notes would be B-flat, F, and D.
Douglas Fouts
Trombone `75
(1994)
Q: How about the pain of the freezing cold? I heard it got pretty chilly out there; lots of stories about lips freezing to mouthpieces!
A: A popular myth! The temperature at game time was 46 degrees. It got down to about 38 by the end of the game; not too bad for New Jersey in December.
We had a great halftime: Fat Bottom Girls, Eres Tu (with the patented Tony Martinez arm raises), a march .. I think it was Le Regiment, the one Ohio State uses, and the finale was The Letter with the stick dance (no sticks). Very fun and well-received by the 50,000 or so who were there in The Meadowlands. As we walked back to our seats, one fan yelled, “Your football team is crap, but you got da best band I ever saw.”
The REHEARSAL the day before was quite cold and windy. It rained the night before, and the water on the Astroturf froze by morning. The turf was hard as a rock. The temperature was about 35, but with the wind chill, it was probably down around 15 or so. That is really cold for Californians, but not cold enough to freeze lips to the mouthpieces.
Randall Rhea
Sax `79
(1994)
I also recall a few thousand high school bandsfolk in the crowd, many of whom were very complimentary as we returned to our seats after half-time. I don’t think any of them showed up at Cal in the two or three years following the game, though… Maybe the California heat was as fearsome to those natives of NJ, NY and PA as the NJ cold was to some of us.
Alan Barton
Bass `78
(1994)
Wow, I’m the subject of a trivia question! What an honor. At any rate, Jamie, your memory serves correct. I marched pre-game and stood on the ladder for half-time. Why? Because I loved to march but felt my place at half-time was on the sideline. John Fleming (mellophonium, `74) created the precedent for this practice in 1977, I believe. Before John, the StuDs did not march.
There were plenty of interesting memories from that trip. I certainly remember playing banjo at the Lincoln Center – even if it was out in front. I thought my fingers would break off from the cold. The game itself wasn’t that cold; it was the rehearsal before it where the Astroturf was frozen. As for the antics on the plane trip home, I don’t remember too much because I was wondering if my back had been broken by a certain incident on the bus ride from the stadium. That was when the bus driver slammed on the the brakes after I led the traditional greeting, sending me flying into the handrail at the front of the bus. Ah, the memories….
Don Brownson
Trombone `76
StuD, `79
(1996)
Stanfurd was originally slotted to attend the Garden State Bowl, but thanks to a 21-14 loss in Big Game, they finished 5-6 and were knocked out of the bowl picture. Cal won on a Rich Campbell to Joe Rose TD pass, which has the distinction of being the only play in Cal history that was reviewed from the press box and reversed by the officials. (The Stanfurdites were so stupid they forgot to paint the entire end zone white, leaving a few inches of green next to the end line. The official thought Rose was out of bounds.)
Several other teams were rumored to have received the invitation to travel to New Jersey in December. Cal was a longshot with only a 6-5 record, although the losses were all very narrow to highly ranked teams like U$C and Michigan. On Tuesday, November 20, we heard that Cal received and accepted the bid, just after the year-end Band meeting. (Remarkably, the Fiesta Bowl- yes, the Fiesta Bowl- had also invited Cal, but the Bears had already accepted the Garden State bid.) Nobody thought the Band would attend such a minor bowl game. Legendary columnist Herb Caen reported in the San Francisco Chronicle that “the money to send the Cal Band just isn’t there, so All Hail will be sung a capella at the Meadowlands.”
Well, not so fast, Herb. After some amazing scrounging of half-fare coupons and political maneuvering by Band officers, outgoing chancellor Albert Bowker kicked in the needed funds to put the entire Band onto an American Airlines 747 to JFK airport. I remember the moment Ex-Comm announced that we were going; I’ve never seen a happier or more excited scene at 57 Student Center. I was particularly excited, never having experienced New York City or even a long plane trip.
The rehearsal on Friday, December 14th was truly Arctic. You may remember comments from the Monday Night Football crew this year about the winds in Giants Stadium. Well, combine 30 MPH winds with 25-degree temperatures, and you get a bunch of frigid, shocked Californians. I won’t even talk about the frozen, icy Astroturf (it rained the night before, then froze), which felt like marching on concrete. Everyone then remembered that a bowl in the Northeast in December is not a very good idea. (The Gotham Bowl went defunct after the 1962 Nebraska-Miami clash at Yankee Stadium … the Garden State Bowl gave up the ghost in 1981.)
The game was a disappointing Cal loss to the mighty Temple Owls. The halftime show was nothing less than a spectacular hit, sending 50,000 fans to their feet. The songs were Fat Bottom Girls, Le Regiment, Eres Tu, and The Letter (with stick dance sans sticks), basically a “late 1970’s Cal Band greatest hits” collection, showing remarkable versatility. The standing ovation from the New Jersey crowd was my favorite moment as a Cal Bandsman.
Thus ended the Cal Band’s only bowl appearance in the three decades between 1960 and 1989.
Randall Rhea
Sax `79
(1996)
I was a freshman this fateful year. We didn’t have enough current band members available to go, so a few alumni ringers were allowed to go. This provided the only time my brother Bill (alto, 74?) and I would be in Cal Band uniform together. I still have the cherished photo of the two of us. For that I will always be grateful to all who made the trip happen, and who allowed Bill to go.
The halftime completely rocked, and I thought we did use the sticks for the dance during The Letter. The Letter was great — I wish the current band would replace Misoverplayed for it.
Brent DeHart
FA `75-`78, Trumpet `79-`82 (the “Play”), EZD `83 -`85 or `86. (I can’t remember.)
(2007)
I was also a freshman that year, and had horrible tonsillitis which I contracted right before WTP. The show must go on, of course, so back East for me! After all the practice, my mello mouthpiece (playing a long horn back then) came out into my right armpit on jog-on at halftime, only to drop to the ground at the close-rest-up! Got to join in with the percussion and basses during FBG’s and sang every stinkin’ off-beat of Le Regiment! After flying back home to LA Saturday night, I went in to the doc Monday morning, and had my tonsils removed Tuesday. No regrets, whatsoever!
Cal Band Great!
Briana Connell
Mello ’79-84
DM ’84
(2007)
Recently I received a touching and sentimental tale of how a mega-hype retail magnate had corrupted his town into accepting the lowly and disrespectful “Xmas” to replace “Christmas,” because Christ no longer mattered. The story expounds at length upon how wicked it is to use “X” instead of Christ (because “X is the lowliest of letters and can mean anything!”) and that the use of “Xmas” is just an attempt to secularize the celebration.
Well, let me make a rather important point, as this misconception seems to be growing. I suspect that part of the reason for the present-day concern is that Christmas has been very secularized (and for a very long time) and there is a trend toward identifying this time of year as “The Holidays” in a generic attempt to encompass the many traditions that have celebrations at this time of year. (I have no dispute with “Happy Holidays,” yet I do find “holiday tree” rather affected … but I digress.)
As for the abbreviation “Xmas,” it is perfectly legitimate and a fully respectful, proper abbreviation of the word Christmas; “Xmas” means “Christmas,” and should be read as such. I know of no one who reads the familiar “Mrs.” as “mrizz” yet many folks do say “Eks-muss” when looking at “Xmas.” But it really is “Christmas.” And Xmas is no less respectful than writing “St. Nicholas” instead of “Saint Nicholas.”
Far from being a modern introduction, Xmas goes back very far into the history of the English language, and the use of “X” in as an abbreviation for “Christ” dates back at least to the 4th Century AD. The oldest such usage in the British Isles can be found in the Book of Durrow, The Book of Kells, and the Lindesfarne Gospels, all glorious manuscripts of the Gospels. The abbreviation has its origins even earlier times, very likely as far back as the days of the early Christian church.
In the Greek language used at the time of St. Paul and in the early Church, the Hebrew title “Messiah,” “anointed one,” was translated into Greek as “Christos,” with the identical meaning. The way “Christos” would be written in 1st century Greek can be rendered in our own Latin alphabet:
XPICTOC
The initial letter is the Greek chi, familiar to many fraternity and sorority folks; it is pronounced as a hard ch, translitterated as ch, and written exactly as our own letter X. As the initial of “XPICTOC,” X, was used to mean “Christos” very early on. And this usage was formerly extremely widespread with absolutely no sense of any short-changing or lessened respect in such usage. Today we use many abbreviations commonly, but abbreviations were far more common when everything was written by hand.
Elizabethan court records most often render the name “Christopher” as “Xopher.” The transcript of the Coroner’s inquest into the death of Christopher Marlowe spells out Christopher just once in the text. And the abbreviations “Xian” for “Christian” and “Xianity” for “Christianity” are commonly used in handwritten texts until the end of the 19th Century. In no sense is “X” a disrespectful or crass abbreviation in these usages: it simply makes sense in a world where many, many other abbreviations were commonly used.
Xmas shows up in America well before the Revolutionary war, but I cannot locate any reference to its first appearance in a commercial context. Undoubtedly, some sign-painter was conserving space or saving time, just as handwriters had been doing for hundreds of years. In today’s highly commercial, highly secularized, and highly diverse society, it may seem that “Xmas” is an attempt to take Christ out of Christmas, but it is no such thing. It is an abbreviation, pure and simple. It was acceptable to the holy brethren on Iona in the 6th century, and they were as observant and respectful as could be. One might just as well bemoan the fact that the “-mas” in Christmas is an abbreviation of “mass” (itself a shortening of the Latin missa, meaning – roughly – “complete:” Ite. Missa est.)
So, friends, enjoy this holiday season. Celebrate Christmas or Xmas, or Hanukkah or any holiday which you prefer. Have a restful, relaxing, contemplative time, and share it with family and friends. Love those who are here and recall those who have gone. I am deeply grateful to my mother who taught me about Xmas almost as soon as I learned to read (“Why Xmas? …”) and I think of her especially at this time of the year. Cherish what we have, and share with those who need. Above all, be at peace, be happy.
A multitude of blessings upon you and yours, my friends!
It was on this day in 1854 that Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s classic poem The Charge Of The Light Brigade was published in London’s Examiner. The Charge itself had occurred on October 25th that year – the renowned “Saint Crispin’s Day” of national pride in England, famous for the victory of Henry V over the French 439 years earlier. For most of the century which followed the poem’s publication, it was a classroom standard throughout the English-speaking world. The poem’s rapid, rhythmic cadence, suggestive of the thunder of charging horsemen, its use of plain, mostly familiar vocabulary, and its story of unquestioning valor and unthinkable tragedy made it a popular exemplar of literary artistry and patriotic virtue. Many a shoolchild had to memorize all or part of the poem for public recitation.
By the 1960’s, though, the poem was falling out of favor. It’s praise for mindless obedience to utterly brainless orders was seen as epitomizing all that was wrong with conformity and “the system.” It is ironic that at the time it was published, Tennyson’s poem was criticized as being anti-war and unduly fanning the flames of public opinion against its conduct.
The Crimean War was the first war in which public opinion played a crucial part because it was the first war in which correspondents could file dispatches almost immediately back to home via the telegraph. As the war dragged on and on without seeming purpose, the public demanded to know why its sons and brothers were in a far-off foreign land, ill-supplied and ill-led, dying of disease and in battle. All for a cause which few people really understood.
The report of the pointless charge of the Light Brigade roused public indignation against the apparently incompetent conduct of the war. Tennyson’s poem was written in an atmosphere of disapproval of the war and the military. His aim was not to glorify the war, but to be sure that people did not villify the soldiers who did their duty, even as they condemned the commanders who blundered.
Much less well-known is Tennyson’s other poem about the battle of 25 October 1854, The Charge Of The Heavy Brigade. This poem also commemorates a charge on the same day as that of the Light Brigade, but it is almost never recited, almost never included in poetic anthologies. For one thing, it is quite simply nowhere near as good a poem as Light Brigade. But, too, it is even more openly anti-war than its famous companion piece, and perhaps 19th century anthologizers felt somewhat uncomfortable with it. The Charge Of The Heavy Brigade concludes with an epilogue that is unambiguous as to its aim:
EPILOGUE
IRENE:
Not this way will you set your name
A star among the stars.
POET:
What way?
IRENE:
You praise when you should blame
The barbarism of wars.
A juster epoch has begun.
Note: “Irene” is Greek for peace.
And if it has been a while since you have looked at it, here is Light Brigade:
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
“Charge for the guns!” he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Someone had blunder’d:
Their’s not to make reply,
Their’s not to reason why,
Their’s but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
History Day By Day 