The Light for Which Many Have Died

Memorial Day 2025

I always return to Memorial Day not only as a moment of remembrance, but as a reminder of responsibility. If you’ve read my earlier reflections—on the quiet lessons of cemeteries, the fraying threads of our civic fabric, or the unfinished work we inherit as citizens—you know I believe history isn’t just something we study; it’s something we carry. Memorial Day, especially, asks us to slow down and shoulder that burden. It’s not only about honoring the fallen, but about asking what we owe them—what kind of country we are building in their absence, and whether we are prepared to defend the ideals they died for with our words, our votes, and our daily lives.

There is a quiet place in the heart of Philadelphia, bracketed by trees and hemmed in by the rhythm of the city. Washington Square—once a burial ground, then a grazing field, later a parade ground—holds beneath its grass the remains of thousands of unnamed soldiers who fought for the fragile, radical idea of American independence.

They lie there still, without headstones, without certainty, but not without honor.

Their tomb is marked by a flame and a carved warning, both solemn and illuminating:

"Freedom is a light for which many men have died in darkness."

That line has settled in my head this year. It feels like a whisper from the past, growing louder as the headlines grow noisier.

These men died in obscurity, in suffering, in the confusion and chaos of a war that had not yet produced a nation. They died not for a flag or a president or a party, but for an idea—half-born, fragile, and still unproven: that people could govern themselves.

They did not live to see if it would work. They gave their lives for a future they could not claim, only imagine.

We are that future.

And the question we must ask this Memorial Day is not merely, “Do we remember them?” but rather, “Are we worthy of them?”

Because freedom’s light still burns—but it flickers.

In recent months, I’ve felt it dim in the distance, dulled by cynicism, selfishness, and a national attention span grown brittle. We argue more than we understand. We scroll more than we serve. We mock before we mourn. And too often, we confuse personal grievance with public virtue.

We’ve come to treat democracy as a spectator sport. We tally wins and losses like baseball box scores, forgetting that self-government was never meant to be a game—let alone a blood sport.

But history doesn’t unfold by accident. It is written by hands like ours—in ballot booths and classrooms, in boardrooms and around kitchen tables. The soldiers in Washington Square died without knowing who would take up the work. That task was left to us.

George Washington, in his 1796 Farewell Address, reminded the country:

“The independence and liberty you possess are the work of joint councils and joint efforts of common dangers, sufferings, and success.”

It was true then. It remains true now.

So this Memorial Day, we are called not only to decorate graves, but to defend ideals. To honor the dead not just with flags and flowers, but with action—with civic learning, civil dialogue, and a renewed belief that our shared work is still unfinished and still worth doing.

Because if freedom is a light, then we must be its keepers.

And if others have died in darkness to bring us this light, let us not extinguish it with our indifference. Let us carry it forward—however imperfectly, however urgently—so that future generations might look back and say:

They remembered.

They were worthy.

Washing Clothes, Reading History, and Rethinking the Constitution (REVIEW)

The Quartet: Orchestrating the Second American Revolution, 1783–1789
by Joseph J. Ellis

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

When I moved cross-country from Boise to Syracuse, I expected a few inconveniences—unpacking chaos, unfamiliar grocery stores, and adjusting to a colder, wetter climate. But I didn’t anticipate being without a washer and dryer for the first time in years. My appliances, loyal veterans of countless laundry days, were sitting in a storage unit across town. Which is how I found myself at the local laundromat one Saturday, armed with a basket of dirty clothes and a faint sense of nostalgia.

After jockeying for a dryer and realizing I’d forgotten both my Bounce sheets and my earbuds (rookie mistake), I did what any self-respecting person without a podcast would do: I wandered around the laundromat. That’s when I stumbled upon a weathered Little Free Library tucked beside the soda machine. Most of the offerings were exactly what you’d expect—Go Dog Go!, a few romance novels missing their covers, and Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul. But sandwiched between them was something unexpected: The Quartet: Orchestrating the Second American Revolution by Joseph J. Ellis. I didn’t know if this was divine intervention or just a misplaced donation from a very patriotic cat lover, but I grabbed it. And as the spin cycle hummed behind me, I found myself drawn into a story about revolution, reinvention, and the stubborn art of keeping a country from falling apart.

In The Quartet, Ellis turns his considerable talents to the underexplored period between the end of the Revolutionary War and the ratification of the U.S. Constitution—a stretch of time often glossed over in high school textbooks. His thesis is simple but profound: that the true founding of the United States as a unified nation happened not in 1776, but between 1783 and 1789. And it wasn’t the result of some grand inevitability, but of the determined efforts of four key figures—George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay—who understood that liberty without structure was a recipe for collapse.

I studied The Federalist Papers and read Ketcham's The Anti-Federalist Papers and the Constitutional Convention Debates in college and have always considered myself fairly well-versed in the mechanics of the Constitutional Convention. I’ve even referenced Publius more than once in polite conversation—much to the confusion (and occasional concern) of friends. Yet what struck me most about Ellis’s narrative was how fresh and human the story felt. His account offered something different: a real sense of the urgency, messiness, and sheer improbability of what Washington, Hamilton, Madison, and Jay managed to pull off. These weren’t just abstract ideas being batted around in Philadelphia meeting rooms; these were strategic gambles, emotional appeals, and backroom compromises aimed at coaxing a fragmented confederation into becoming something that could survive.

Ellis presents these men not as marble-carved heroes, but as complex, occasionally conflicted individuals grappling with the chaos of post-war America. Washington’s quiet gravitas and personal restraint become political tools in their own right. Hamilton’s financial savvy and rhetorical firepower give backbone to the argument for federal authority. Madison, the book’s intellectual workhorse, emerges as a master strategist—crafting the Virginia Plan, writing the Federalist Papers, and shaping the very structure of the Constitution. And Jay, often the most overlooked of the four, plays a crucial role in diplomacy and consensus-building, bringing legitimacy to the process through his experience and careful words.

What’s most striking is how much of their work feels urgently relevant today. As I read Ellis’s account of political gridlock, fragile alliances, and public mistrust of centralized power, I couldn’t help but think about our current political climate. The rhetoric may be flashier now, and the internet has certainly raised the volume, but the underlying tensions—between state and federal power, between populism and pragmatism, between ideology and governance—remain stubbornly familiar. Ellis reminds us that our system was never designed for ease. It was built for negotiation, compromise, and above all, balance:

In the long run—and this was probably Madison’s most creative insight—the multiple ambiguities embedded in the Constitution made it an inherently “living” document. For it was designed not to offer clear answers…but instead to provide a political arena in which arguments about those contested issues could continue in a deliberate fashion. (Ellis, p.174) 

This idea—that the Constitution was never meant to be a static rulebook but a dynamic framework for ongoing debate—feels particularly resonant now, when so many of our most pressing challenges hinge on interpretation, intent, and the willingness to engage across divides.

The brilliance of The Quartet lies in its clarity. Ellis peels away the mythology surrounding the Constitution’s creation and exposes the deliberate, often messy reality underneath. This was not a moment of national consensus; it was a hard-fought campaign by a determined minority who believed the American experiment needed stronger scaffolding if it was to survive. The Articles of Confederation, noble in their idealism, had left the country vulnerable—economically unstable, diplomatically weak, and internally fragmented. These four men saw what others feared to admit: that revolution was not the end of the story, but the beginning of a new and equally complicated chapter.

Ellis walks us through the Philadelphia Convention, the state ratification battles, and the artful persuasion that made unity possible. He brings a historian’s rigor to the narrative but writes with the accessibility of someone who wants his work to be read on park benches, in coffee shops—and yes, even in laundromats. His focus on character-driven storytelling makes the political feel personal, which is a good reminder that it always has been.

Reading The Quartet while navigating a personal transition gave me a deeper appreciation for the kind of collective work that goes into building anything lasting—be it a new home, a new community, or a functioning republic. Moving to a new city, starting over in many ways, I found a surprising kinship in the story of four men trying to knit together a fledgling country from a patchwork of states that didn’t always like or trust each other. It reminded me that reinvention takes vision, patience, and a willingness to wrestle with uncomfortable truths.

In the end, The Quartet is a book about second chances—not just for the country, but for the idea of America itself. It challenges us to recognize that founding principles are only as strong as our ability to uphold them. And maybe, as we navigate our own uncertain political era, there’s something comforting in the reminder that we’ve faced this kind of instability before—and that good ideas, backed by hard work and a willingness to compromise, can still win the day.

So if you find a copy in a Little Free Library—or in your local bookstore—pick up The Quartet. It won’t just teach you about history. It might just remind you why it matters.

View all my reviews

The Parapet Moment: Leadership, Courage, and the Duty to Stand

159 years later, reflecting on the Battle of Fort Stevens and the leadership lessons we still need

I have an Abraham Lincoln related photograph—not unlike the one I've shared before of my children at Gettysburg—that captures the VI Army Corps Monument, a commemorative stone and marker at Fort Stevens in Washington, D.C. The earthworks at the fort are modest now, hemmed in by suburban streets and the ordinary rhythm of modern life. But standing there, you can almost feel the weight of what happened on this sweltering July day in 1864, when Lincoln became the only sitting president to face enemy fire.

VI Army Corps Monument

Today marks 159 years since that remarkable moment, and I've been thinking about it more than usual—particularly as we approach the 160th anniversary next year and head into another presidential election season. The story of Fort Stevens isn't just about bullets and bravery—it's about leadership under pressure, the courage to stand when others might flee, and the delicate balance between personal risk and public duty. In a political climate where leadership often feels performative rather than principled, Lincoln's example on that parapet feels both distant and urgently needed.

When Leaders Must Stand

On July 12, 1864, Abraham Lincoln stood on the parapet of Fort Stevens, five miles north of the White House, watching Confederate forces under General Jubal Early probe the defenses of the nation's capital. The stakes could hardly have been higher. Early's raid represented a last-ditch Confederate attempt to disrupt Union supply lines, weaken Northern morale, and potentially capture Washington itself.

When a Confederate sharpshooter's bullet struck an officer standing near the president, those around Lincoln urged him to take cover. Whether it was General Horatio Wright who politely asked him to withdraw, or a young Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. who allegedly shouted "Get down, you damn fool!", the message was clear: the president's life was in immediate danger.

But Lincoln had come to Fort Stevens for a reason. As historian Charles Bracelen Flood observed, "It became a remarkable scene: the commander-in-chief at the head of his marching soldiers and a great crowd of civilians, all headed out of the city along a wooded road toward the thunderclaps of cannon fire." Lincoln understood that leadership sometimes requires physical presence—that showing up, even at personal risk, sends a message no speech can convey.

This wasn't recklessness. It was calculated courage. Lincoln knew that his presence at Fort Stevens would inspire the soldiers defending the capital and reassure a frightened civilian population. As one of his closest confidantes, Orville Browning, later recorded, "The President is in very good feather this evening. He seems not in the least concerned about the safety of Washington." Lincoln's calm in the face of danger became a source of strength for others.

As we head into 2024—an election year that promises to test our democratic institutions once again—Lincoln's example feels particularly instructive. In an era when political leadership too often means retreating to safe spaces, echo chambers, and carefully managed appearances, the image of a president willing to share genuine risk with those he leads offers a stark contrast.

The Moral Turning Point

What happened at Fort Stevens went beyond military tactics. Union Colonel John McElroy later called it "the Moral Turning Point of the War," arguing that the successful defense of the capital restored Northern confidence in multiple ways: economically, politically, and spiritually.

The battle inspired Americans' confidence in the Union economy—the value of government-backed currency rose from 35 cents to 48 cents after the victory. More importantly, it demonstrated that the Union could protect its most sacred symbols and institutions. As McElroy explained, "The soldiers of the North, while fighting for the preservation of the Union, always had on their hearts the capital of their country, and they fought that the government might live."

The defense of Fort Stevens represented something larger than military victory—it was a defense of democratic governance itself. Lincoln's willingness to share in the danger, to stand with his soldiers rather than retreat to safety, embodied the kind of leadership that democracy requires: present, accountable, and willing to bear the consequences of collective decisions.

The Forgotten Hero

But perhaps the most compelling lesson from Fort Stevens comes from someone who received no official recognition that day. Elizabeth Thomas, a free Black woman whose property was requisitioned by the Union Army for the fort's construction, not only lost her home and livelihood but may have saved Lincoln's life.

According to historical accounts, when Thomas saw Lincoln standing exposed on the parapet, she "yelled to the soldiers standing near him, 'My God, make that fool get down off that hill and come in here.'" Her quick thinking and fearless advocacy—shouting at the President of the United States to take cover—exemplifies the kind of active citizenship that democracy depends upon.

Years earlier, when Union soldiers had demolished her home to build the fort, a "tall, slender man dressed in black" had consoled her with the words, "It is hard, but you shall reap a great reward." That man was Lincoln himself. The "great reward" may indeed have been the opportunity to save his life—and with it, the future of the nation.

Thomas's story reminds us that citizenship isn't just about voting or holding office—it's about the willingness to speak truth to power, even when that power towers above you. Her courage that day was no less significant than Lincoln's decision to stand on the parapet in the first place.

Leadership Lessons for Today

The Battle of Fort Stevens offers three enduring lessons about leadership and citizenship that feel particularly relevant as we face our own civic challenges:

• First, presence matters. Lincoln could have monitored the battle from the safety of the White House, receiving reports and issuing orders from a distance. Instead, he chose to be where the work was being done—sharing the risk, demonstrating commitment, and inspiring others through his example.
• Second, moral courage is contagious. Lincoln's willingness to stand firm in the face of danger gave strength to others. When leaders demonstrate genuine courage, it creates permission for others to act courageously as well.
• Third, democracy thrives on unlikely heroes. The most important voice at Fort Stevens that day may not have belonged to the president or his generals, but to a Black woman who had already sacrificed her home and still found the courage to protect the man who embodied the Union cause.

Standing on Our Own Parapets

We may not face Confederate sharpshooters, but as we approach both the 160th anniversary of Fort Stevens and the 2024 presidential election, we face our own version of Early's raid—challenges to democratic norms, institutions under pressure, and a citizenry that sometimes seems more interested in retreating to safety than standing firm for shared principles. The question isn't whether we'll face moments that test our civic courage, but whether we'll be ready when they come.

The lesson of Fort Stevens isn't that leaders should seek out unnecessary danger, but that they should be willing to share in the risks that democracy entails. That means showing up for difficult conversations, defending unpopular but necessary truths, and remaining present even when it would be easier to retreat to the safety of like-minded communities. As we evaluate candidates and platforms in the coming election cycle, perhaps we should ask not just what they promise to do, but whether they demonstrate the kind of leadership that shows up when it matters most.

And for the rest of us—those who may never hold high office but whose voices matter just as much—Elizabeth Thomas stands as a powerful reminder that speaking up isn't just a right; it's a responsibility. Democracy doesn't preserve itself. It requires ordinary people doing extraordinary things: running for school board, speaking at town halls, volunteering for campaigns, or simply refusing to stay silent when they see something that threatens the common good.

The Unfinished Work Continues

Today, Fort Stevens remains a humble earthwork that once hosted the only moment in U.S. history in which a sitting president faced direct and purposeful gunfire from an enemy. It's a quiet place now, visited more by joggers than pilgrims. But as we mark the 159th anniversary of that July day and look ahead to next year's milestone and the choices that await us in 2024, the lessons it offers about leadership, courage, and active citizenship remain as relevant as ever.

Lincoln's decision to stand on that parapet—and Elizabeth Thomas's decision to yell at him to get down—remind us that democracy isn't a spectator sport. It requires leaders willing to share in the dangers they ask others to face, and citizens willing to speak truth even to the most powerful among us. As we approach an election that will test these principles once again, we might do well to ask ourselves: Are we prepared to stand on our own parapets when the moment demands it?

The parapet moment comes for all of us eventually—that moment when we must choose between safety and service, between retreating and standing firm. When it comes, may we find the courage that Lincoln and Thomas showed on that July day in 1864: the courage to stand where we're needed, to speak when silence would be safer, and to remember that the work of democracy is never finished—it just passes from one generation to the next, one choice at a time.

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The lessons of Fort Stevens remind us that courage isn't the absence of fear—it's the willingness to act in spite of it. As we mark 159 years since that remarkable day and prepare for both the 160th anniversary and another presidential election, we need more leaders willing to stand on the parapet and more citizens brave enough to tell them when they're making dangerous mistakes. The republic they defended that day in 1864 still depends on both.

The Middle Seat: On Liberty & Responsibility

There’s a particular kind of discomfort that comes from sitting in the middle seat on a long flight. Wedged between two strangers—one hogging the armrest, the other nodding off on your shoulder—you’re denied both the view of the window and the freedom of the aisle.. You’re stuck. But you’re also, quite literally, in the middle of everything.

That’s where I’ve found myself lately—not on a plane (even if every seat feels like a middle seat today), but in the broader sense of American life. In the middle. Again.

I’ve spent most of my adult life there—ideologically, emotionally, and professionally. Generationally, I’m a “cusper”—born at the tail end of the Baby Boom but raised with the ethos of Gen X. I remember rotary phones and dial-up internet, but I carry a smartphone that unlocks with my face. I grew up with Walter Cronkite and now scroll through newsfeeds that refresh every 30 seconds. I was taught to write thank-you notes by hand, and now I send emojis to express condolences. I’ve seen the world change—fast—and I’m still trying to figure out how to change with it without losing myself in the process.

That same “middle seat” has defined my professional life as well. I’ve built a career as a translator—bridging the gap between fundraising practitioners and the data professionals who support them. I’ve helped frontline fundraisers understand that data isn’t just a report—it’s a story waiting to be told. And I’ve helped programmers understand that “donor intent” isn’t just a field in a CRM—it’s a relationship. My job, more often than not, is to listen to both sides and say, “Here’s what I think they’re trying to say.” It’s not glamorous. It’s not headline-making. But it’s necessary.

Just as I’ve played translator in my career, I’ve also tried to translate—within myself—the often competing values of liberty and responsibility. I came of age with a healthy skepticism of government overreach, a belief in individual liberty, and a deep respect for personal responsibility. Libertarian ideals made sense to me: less interference, more autonomy, and a general wariness of anyone who claimed to know what was best for everyone else.

But some moments test even the most practiced middle-seaters. And for me, that moment came with the arrival of the COVID-19 vaccines.

As vaccines began to roll out last year, I found myself in a strange place. I believe in science. I trust the data. I want to protect my family (my oldest daughter is an ER doctor, after all), my neighbors, and the most vulnerable among us. I also believe in bodily autonomy and the right to make personal medical decisions without coercion. I can’t ignore the reality that public health isn’t just personal—it’s collective.

That’s the tension of the middle seat.

A few weeks after my "booster" dose, I had a long phone call with a dear friend—someone I’ve known for years, someone I trust and admire. She told me, gently but firmly, that she and her family would not be getting vaccinated.

She asked, so I told her the reasons I decided to get vaccinated. Because of my work, because I believe in the science and the data, because I want to protect the people I love. I told her that I made the decision not because I was mandated to do so, but because I truly believe that doing so is for the collective good.

She shared her concerns about the speed of development, about long-term effects, about what she saw as government overreach. She spoke with conviction, and I listened—really listened—because that’s what I do. I heard the fear in her voice. I heard the protectiveness. I heard the love. And in that love, I heard the echo of my own concerns—quiet, but present.

And still, I couldn’t find the middle ground.

That was new for me. Unsettling. I’ve made a life out of standing in the space between opposing views and building bridges. But this time, the gap felt too wide. I couldn’t meet her halfway—not because I didn’t want to, but because the stakes felt too high. Because this wasn’t just a difference of opinion—it was a difference in how we understood risk, responsibility, and reality itself.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t try to change her mind. I set the phone down with a heaviness I couldn’t shake.. Not because we disagreed, but because I realized that sometimes, the middle seat doesn’t offer a clear view. Sometimes, it’s just a place where you sit quietly, holding on to the armrests, hoping the turbulence passes.

It’s not easy.

Because the middle seat, uncomfortable as it is, gives you a unique vantage point. You see both sides. You hear both conversations. You learn to navigate tension, to mediate, to hold space for complexity. You learn that progress doesn’t always come from shouting the loudest, but from listening the longest.

In civic life, the middle seat is often dismissed as indecision or weakness. But I think it’s where the real work happens. It’s where compromise is forged, where empathy is tested, where democracy either stretches or snaps. It’s where we ask hard questions without easy answers. Where we resist the pull of extremes and try, however imperfectly, to hold the center.

And yes, it’s exhausting.

But it’s also hopeful.

Because I still believe that liberty and responsibility are not opposites—they’re partners. This isn’t a new tension—it’s embedded in the fabric of our democracy, from the Constitutional Convention to the civil rights movement. 

I haven’t come to this belief easily. I wrestled with it. I read. I listened. I asked questions. And in the end, I chose to roll up my sleeve—not because I was told to, but because I believe in doing my part. Because I believe that freedom isn’t just about what we’re allowed to do—it’s about what we choose to do for each other.

So here’s to the middle-seaters—the bridge-builders, the skeptics who still believe. We may not have the best view or the most legroom, but maybe that vantage point is exactly what the world needs right now.

When Satire Becomes History

In a world where civic education is increasingly marginalized and political discourse seems dominated by soundbites and social media posts, the loss of comic strips like Doonesbury represents more than just the death of a medium. It's the loss of a particular form of civic engagement, one that combined entertainment with education, irreverence with insight, and daily habit with long-term perspective.

"Good news, kiddies! Time for another exclusive WBBY 'Watergate Profile!' Today's obituary—John Mitchell! John Mitchell, the former U.S. Attorney General, has in recent weeks been repeatedly linked with both the Watergate caper and its cover-up. It would be a disservice to Mr. Mitchell and his character to prejudge the man, but everything known to date could lead one to conclude he's guilty! That's guilty! Guilty, guilty, guilty!!"

— Mark Slackmeyer, Doonesbury, May 29, 1973

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One year ago today, our democracy faced its most serious test since the Civil War. As I watched the events of January 6, 2021 unfold—the breach of the Capitol, the Confederate flag carried through the halls of Congress, the threats against elected officials—I found myself thinking about a comic strip from nearly fifty years earlier, and how it first taught me that paying attention to politics isn't optional for citizens in a democracy.

I discovered Doonesbury the way most teenagers discover the things that shape them: accidentally, and at exactly the right moment.

It was fall of my junior year of high school, and I was taking an American Foreign Policy class—one of those electives that seemed sophisticated and important, the kind that made you feel like you were finally learning about the "real world." Our teacher, Dr. Alan Sheffer, was the sort of educator who believed current events should be current, not relegated to dusty textbooks. He'd bring in newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and political cartoons to supplement our discussions about détente, the Cold War, and America's role in the world. He taught us via simulation and was the first adult I knew who played board wargames.

One day, I read a comic strip I'd never seen before. Four panels of a character named Mark Slackmeyer doing a radio show, gleefully declaring former Attorney General John Mitchell "guilty, guilty, guilty" of Watergate crimes. It was dated May 29, 1973—I was old enough to remember Watergate and Nixon's resignation—but Dr. Sheffer relayed how this single strip had caused such controversy that more than a dozen newspapers, including The Washington Post and The Boston Globe, refused to run it, concerned that such a statement of Mitchell's guilt would compromise their journalistic integrity even on the funny pages.

That strip was my introduction to Doonesbury, and through it, to the radical idea that comic strips could be more than just entertainment—they could be journalism, commentary, and history all wrapped up in four panels. More importantly, they could teach civic responsibility through irreverence, showing me that democracy works best when citizens think critically about power, hold leaders accountable, and aren't afraid to call out wrongdoing—even when it's uncomfortable.

I was hooked.

The Daily Ritual

Throughout the rest of high school and into college, I developed what became a lifelong habit: checking the comics section first. Not just Doonesbury, but a carefully curated selection that formed my daily media diet alongside the news and sports pages. Peanuts for its philosophical depth disguised as childhood simplicity. Calvin and Hobbes for its perfect marriage of intellectual curiosity and pure imagination. Bloom County for its satirical edge and cultural commentary. Shoe, that wonderfully cynical bird-filled newsroom satire that felt like a master class in both journalism and gallows humor. And later on post college early-career, Dilbert for its dead-on corporate satire (this was the early 1990s, when Scott Adams was still just a brilliant observer of office life rather than... well, whatever he has become).

Each strip served a different function in what I now realize was my civic education. Peanuts taught me about resilience and the quiet dignity of persistent failure—essential qualities for any democratic citizen. Calvin and Hobbes showed me how imagination could transform the mundane into the magical, but also modeled the importance of questioning authority and thinking independently. But Doonesbury did something unique: it made current events feel immediate and urgent, and taught me that citizenship requires paying attention, especially when the news makes us uncomfortable.

As cartoonist Garry Trudeau noted, because electronic media bring the harshest realities into every home, there was no need to avoid a satirical, humorous approach to these same topics in the comics. What he created was something unprecedented: a comic strip that refused to stay safely in the realm of make-believe, one that engaged directly with the messy realities of politics, war, and social change.

Learning History Through Satire

In college, I began reading Doonesbury differently. What had started as entertainment became a form of historical education. I'd haunt the campus bookstore, drawn to the collected Doonesbury volumes like "The Doonesbury Chronicles" and "Dare to Be Great, Ms. Caucus." I should have been reading assigned chapters about détente and Cold War diplomacy, but instead I'd find myself absorbed in Trudeau's take on the same events, learning about Nixon's presidency through Uncle Duke's gonzo antics and Vietnam through B.D.'s tour of duty.

Just this week, Browse through a bookstore bargain bin, I stumbled across "Dbury@50: The Complete Digital Doonesbury"—a massive compilation celebrating the strip's 50th anniversary. Reading the back cover brought back vivid memories of those college afternoons when I'd choose Trudeau over my political science textbooks, often learning just as much (sometimes more) from his irreverent commentary as from whatever academic analysis I was supposed to be absorbing.

The infamous "Guilty, guilty, guilty" strip wasn't just a joke—it was a snapshot of a moment when American journalism was grappling with how to cover an unprecedented political scandal. The character of Mark Slackmeyer became a kind of tour guide through five decades of American political culture, from Watergate to Iran-Contra to the War on Terror to Trump.

Through Doonesbury, I learned about events that textbooks either glossed over or hadn't yet had time to process. The strip pioneered coverage of issues like Vietnam War protests, AIDS, gay rights, and premarital sex—often years before mainstream media was ready to address these topics openly. Reading through collections of old strips was like taking an alternative history course, one where the perspective was irreverent, unfiltered, and surprisingly insightful.

I began to understand something that traditional news coverage often missed: that political events aren't just about policy and process, but about human behavior, ego, and the often absurd theater of power. When Trudeau lampooned the "bloodlust" surrounding Watergate with Mark's gleeful pronouncement of Mitchell's guilt, he wasn't commenting on Mitchell's innocence or guilt—he was satirizing those who were obsessed with seeing justice done. It was a level of meta-commentary that went over my teenage head initially, but gradually taught me to look beyond the surface of political coverage and think critically about how we process democratic discourse.

This kind of media literacy feels more crucial than ever. In an era when misinformation can fuel actual violence against democratic institutions—as we witnessed one year ago—the ability to think critically about what we read and hear isn't just useful; it's essential for the survival of our republic.

The Disappearing Daily Ritual

But here's the thing about discovering your civic worldview through newspaper comic strips: you're depending on an ecosystem that was already beginning to crumble. And when that ecosystem collapses, we lose more than entertainment—we lose a shared foundation for democratic discourse.

The golden age of newspaper comics—when strips like Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes could command massive audiences and cultural influence—was built on the foundation of daily newspaper readership. In 1931, George Gallup's first poll had the comic section as the most important part of the newspaper. Comics sections were often arranged at the front of Sunday editions, and comic strips were created by editors and publishers for a very good business reason: to attract and hold readership and, by extension, create an informed citizenry.

That shared civic foundation has largely vanished. Newspaper chains like Lee Enterprises have cut back comics pages across nearly 80 newspapers, with many transitioning to "uniform sets of offerings" rather than the diverse, locally-curated selections that once defined different papers. In Australia, major chains like News Corp have eliminated comic strips entirely from over 100 newspapers, citing "changing readership habits" and focusing instead on puzzles and games.

The economics are brutal and undeniable. While small-town newspapers still get sufficient revenue from local advertising, large metropolitan papers have lost both national advertising (which moved to television) and classified advertising (which moved online). As newspapers shrink, comics sections are often among the first casualties—seen as expendable entertainment rather than essential content.

What We've Lost

The decline of the daily comics page represents more than just the loss of a few laughs with morning coffee. It's the erosion of a shared cultural experience that once connected generations of readers—and more importantly, generations of citizens. As cartoonist Patrick McDonnell, creator of "Mutts," observes: "Over time, the characters are like family. Newspapers should consider this bond before they decide to make drastic changes."

But the deeper loss is one of civic cohesion. When we all read the same comics section each morning, we shared not just entertainment but a common reference point—a set of cultural touchstones that helped us navigate the complex realities of democratic life. In an era when we increasingly retreat into information silos and echo chambers, that shared foundation feels more precious than ever.

Perhaps no moment captured this better than the final Peanuts strip, published on February 13, 2000—the day after Charles Schulz died peacefully in his sleep. That last Sunday strip featured Snoopy at his typewriter atop his doghouse, with panels showing remembered scenes from nearly 50 years of the strip, and Schulz's own farewell message: "Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Linus, Lucy... how can I ever forget them..."

What made that final strip so poignant wasn't just Schulz's death—it was his insistence that the strip die with him. "There's a clause in my contract that says if I retire or die, the strip ends," he had said just months before. In an era when comic strip properties are often handed off to other artists to continue indefinitely (think Garfield or Wizard of Id), Schulz understood that authentic artistic voice can't be corporately maintained. His family honored his wishes: no new Peanuts strips would ever be created, only reruns of the nearly 18,000 strips he had drawn over five decades.

The contrast with today's comics landscape is stark. For someone like me, whose understanding of current events was shaped by the interplay between news reporting and comic strip commentary, the loss feels particularly acute. Doonesbury still exists, still comments on current events, still maintains its edge after more than 50 years. But it no longer reaches the broad, diverse audience it once did through daily newspapers. Instead, it exists primarily online, reaching people who already know to look for it rather than discovering new readers through the serendipity of flipping through a newspaper.

The same is true for all those strips that once formed my daily media diet. Peanuts ended with Charles Schulz's death in 2000. Calvin and Hobbes concluded in 1995 when Bill Watterson chose to end it rather than let it overstay its welcome. Bloom County has had various revivals but never recaptured its original cultural impact. Only Doonesbury soldiers on, still sharp, still relevant, but increasingly invisible to all but the faithful.

The Enduring Power of Satirical Truth

What strikes me now, looking back on that high school classroom where I first encountered Mark Slackmeyer's gleeful proclamation of John Mitchell's guilt, is how prescient that moment was. Mitchell was indeed found guilty of conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and perjury in 1975, and served 19 months in prison. The "Guilty, guilty, guilty" line became such an iconic piece of political satire that Trudeau recycled it decades later during the Trump administration, demonstrating his ability to connect past and present political scandals.

The lesson wasn't just that satirists can sometimes see truth more clearly than straight journalists—though that's certainly part of it. The deeper lesson was about the power of sustained, honest observation. Trudeau has been watching American politics for more than five decades now, developing the kind of institutional memory that allows him to spot patterns, call out hypocrisy, and provide context that 24-hour news cycles often miss.

That's what we lose when newspapers abandon their comics sections: not just entertainment, but a particular form of cultural memory, a way of processing current events through the lens of humor, irreverence, and long-term perspective. The comics page once served as a kind of national conversation, where different strips offered different viewpoints and approaches to making sense of the world. When we lose that shared conversation, we lose part of what holds a diverse democracy together.

Digital Displacement

The strips I grew up with have found various forms of digital afterlife. Doonesbury maintains a strong online presence. Classic Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes strips circulate endlessly on social media. New webcomics have emerged that tackle political and social issues with the same fearlessness that once characterized the best newspaper strips.

But something profound has been lost in translation. The daily ritual of sitting down with a physical newspaper, the shared experience of readers across a community encountering the same strips on the same day, the serendipitous discovery of new perspectives while flipping through the paper—these created a kind of cultural cohesion that fragmented digital consumption struggles to replicate. When everyone reads different things at different times in different ways, we lose the common ground that healthy democratic discourse requires.

Moreover, the economic model that supported comic strip creation has largely collapsed. Modern newspaper comics often prioritize licensing and merchandising over actual storytelling, leading to what one critic describes as "inane, artless garbage" that bears little resemblance to the medium's greatest achievements. We've traded civic engagement for corporate branding, sharp social commentary for safe platitudes. The result is a comics landscape that entertains but doesn't challenge, that comforts but doesn't educate.

The Classroom Connection

I've pondered Dr. Sheffer's decision to bring that Doonesbury strip into his classroom. He understood something that many educators miss: that learning about civic life requires more than just studying institutions and policies. It requires understanding how citizens actually process and discuss political events, how humor and satire shape public opinion, and how comic strips can sometimes capture truths that straight journalism misses.

That single strip opened up a way of thinking about politics that has stayed with me through decades of elections, scandals, wars, and social changes. It taught me to look for the human drama behind political theater, to appreciate the power of persistent observation, and to understand that sometimes the most serious insights come wrapped in humor.

The Legacy of Looking

The comics section taught me how to read—not just literally, but how to read between the lines, how to spot patterns, how to find humor in darkness and hope in absurdity. Doonesbury showed me that politics is fundamentally human drama, full of the same petty motivations, grand aspirations, and comic failures that characterize all human endeavors. But more than that, it taught me that paying attention is a civic duty.

As newspapers continue to struggle and comic sections continue to shrink, I find myself grateful for that accidental education I received through the funny pages. It was an education in media literacy before that term existed, a lesson in critical thinking disguised as entertainment, and an introduction to the idea that democracy works best when its citizens are informed, engaged, and just a little bit skeptical of those who claim to lead them.

Forty-four years after Mark Slackmeyer first declared John Mitchell "guilty, guilty, guilty," Trudeau recycled the gag for Donald Trump, demonstrating how certain patterns in American politics seem to repeat themselves. The medium may be dying, but the need for that kind of sustained, satirical observation remains as urgent as ever—perhaps more so after what we witnessed one year ago today.

Maybe that's the real lesson of Doonesbury: that paying attention is a civic duty, that humor can be a form of resistance, and that sometimes the most important truths are hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone brave enough—or foolish enough—to point them out in four panels or less. In an era when lies can incite violence against the very foundations of our republic, we need voices willing to stand up and say, clearly and without apology: "This is wrong."

So thank you, Garry Trudeau, for fifty years of fearless truth-telling. Thank you, Dr. Sheffer, for showing a sixteen-year-old that citizenship begins with paying attention. And thank you, Doonesbury, for proving that sometimes the most important lessons come disguised as entertainment, hidden in plain sight on the funny pages where we least expect to find them.

The Vanishing Center: What The Right Answer Still Gets Right

The Right Answer: How We Can Unify Our Divided Nation
by John K. Delaney

My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

In December 2019, a friend gave me The Right Answer by John K. Delaney as a holiday gift. At the time, I was vaguely aware of Delaney as the first Democrat to enter the 2020 presidential race, but I hadn’t paid him much attention. The field was crowded with louder voices, flashier platforms, and sharper ideological lines. The gift felt like a gesture of quiet hopefulness—offering not just a book, but an invitation to consider what politics might look like if we chose construction over conflict. By the time I sat down to write this, Delaney’s campaign had long since ended—he suspended his bid in January 2020, before a single vote was cast. And yet, the book lingers—not as campaign literature, but as a thoughtful reflection on what our politics might be if we made more space for decency, data, and the discipline of governing.

I read The Right Answer that winter, noting passages that spoke to the civic impulses I still believe in: common ground, mutual responsibility, the hard but necessary work of listening. Delaney’s vision, laid out in earnest and unvarnished prose, wasn’t revolutionary—and that was precisely the point.

Delaney, a former congressman from Maryland and successful entrepreneur, brought a rare combination of business acumen and policy pragmatism to the national stage. Before entering politics, he co-founded two publicly traded companies focused on healthcare finance and lending to underserved communities—ventures that reflected his interest in both innovation and equity. Elected to Congress in 2012, he represented Maryland’s 6th District for three terms, earning a reputation as a pro-business Democrat who valued bipartisanship and data-driven legislation. His 2020 presidential bid was an extension of that philosophy: a campaign rooted in optimism, civility, and practical solutions—what he called “facts over fury.” He stood, in many ways, as the last echo of a brand of politics that once thrived in both parties but now seems dangerously close to extinction.

None of Delaney’s campaign was designed to set Twitter ablaze. All of it was grounded in the belief that Americans still wanted their government to function.

But The Right Answer arrived—and was largely ignored—at a time when the political center was already disintegrating. In the 2020 Democratic primaries, Delaney's moderation felt out of sync with a party energized by sweeping structural reforms and ideological purity. His voice was steady, not soaring; his appeal was to voters’ practical instincts, not their tribal loyalties.

Looking back, it’s clear Delaney wasn’t just running for office—he was submitting a kind of civic preservation report. His book reads like a blueprint for a governing philosophy built on what used to be bedrock: compromise, incremental progress, mutual respect. It now feels like a dispatch from a version of American politics we are dangerously close to forgetting altogether.

The erosion of the political center isn’t just about polls or party labels—it’s a slow unthreading of the civic fabric. We trade in the deliberative processes of governance for the dopamine hits of outrage. What once lived in Rotary halls and town meetings now festers in comment threads and curated feeds. The incentives are all wrong: media algorithms reward extremity, primary systems punish moderation, and fundraising emails raise more when they vilify than when they unify.

This isn't a plea for false balance or nostalgic centrism—but a recognition that without a stable center, democracy cannot hold. The center is where the work gets done: where laws are negotiated, budgets are passed, and citizens feel heard rather than herded. It’s where humility still has a seat at the table, and where policy is shaped not by purity tests but by lived experience. When we lose that space, we don’t just lose consensus—we lose the conditions necessary for pluralism to survive.

And so The Right Answer stays with me—not as a relic of a failed campaign, but as a reminder of what we still risk losing: the belief that governance is possible without vilification, that policy can be more than theater, that democracy is slow, communal, and—if we’re lucky—boring. But if the center fades at the top, it still flickers below. It’s in church basements, PTA meetings, Rotary clubs, volunteer fire departments, and union halls—places where Americans still come together not as partisans, but as neighbors.

Reviving the center doesn’t begin in think tanks or TV studios—it begins with regular people doing regular things with civic intent. Democrats and Republicans alike can help breathe life into the center by simply showing up: for school board elections, for community listening sessions, for city council public comment. We ask harder questions of our political leaders—about real solutions, not slogans—and support candidates who are willing to risk a primary loss to preserve their integrity. We reward bridge-building over brand-building and remember that pluralism isn’t a liability—it’s the heart of the American promise. The work ahead is ours. Civic strength doesn’t trickle down from elite circles; it bubbles up from participation, trust, and collective effort. The center doesn’t have to be mushy; it can be muscular—rooted in values, powered by engagement, and carried forward by people who understand that compromise is not capitulation, but courage.

I don’t know if John Delaney would have made a great president. But I do know he wrote a book full of humility and resolve, and I’m grateful someone thought to give it to me. Like reading real history or sorting laundry by hand, the work of democracy is quiet, deliberate, and unfashionable. But it’s still worth doing.

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The Unfinished Work: Civic Understanding and the Fragile State of American Democracy

Abraham Lincoln has been one of my heroes for as long as I can remember—second only to my parents. My earliest memory of a family vacation is a cross-country road trip that included a stop at Gettysburg, not long after the Civil War Centennial. I was four years old, standing on those hallowed grounds. At that age, I couldn’t grasp the full weight of history in a place where so many had given their lives for the idea of a more perfect union. But that visit sparked a lifelong fascination with Lincoln—the statesman, the writer, the moral compass of a divided nation. I’ve been a Lincoln buff, a fan, maybe even a nerd ever since.

His Gettysburg Address, just 272 words long, remains to me one of the most powerful expressions of American ideals ever written. More than a dedication of a cemetery, it was a recommitment to democracy, equality, and national purpose. Today, as we navigate a political landscape marked by division, disinformation, and declining civic understanding, Lincoln’s words are more than a historical artifact—they are a call to action. The erosion of civic education threatens our ability to live up to them, and the “unfinished work” of democracy must remain at the center of our national consciousness.

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.

Civic Illiteracy

In just 272 words, Lincoln distilled the moral foundation and political aspiration of the American experiment: that a nation “conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal” must continually prove its capacity to endure. Delivered in the blood-soaked shadow of the Civil War, his address transcended its moment to articulate a timeless challenge—one that feels especially urgent in today’s divided political climate.

While we are not engaged in civil war, we are experiencing a profound erosion of trust in democratic institutions, rising polarization, and a drift away from shared civic understanding. One of the less discussed but deeply consequential causes of this crisis is the long-term decline of civics education in American schools. Without a firm grasp of how our government functions—or why democratic participation matters—citizens are ill-equipped to take up the "unfinished work" Lincoln called us to continue.

Lincoln’s speech reminds us that democracy is not self-sustaining—it must be nurtured, practiced, and defended. He avoided partisan rhetoric, choosing instead to elevate principles of unity, sacrifice, and shared responsibility.

Yet in recent decades, we have allowed our civic muscles to atrophy. Civics—once a core part of American education—has been marginalized or dropped entirely in many school systems. As a result, generations have come of age without a meaningful understanding of the Constitution, the rule of law, or their responsibilities as citizens.

This civic illiteracy has real and dangerous consequences. Without an understanding of the electoral process, misinformation spreads more easily and undermines confidence in election outcomes. Without knowledge of the First Amendment, Americans are less equipped to identify and defend against threats to press freedom and free speech. Without an appreciation of checks and balances, they may support authoritarian measures, misinterpreting them as strength rather than erosion.

In Lincoln’s time, the existential threat to democracy was open warfare. Today, it is disconnection, apathy, and extremism born of ignorance. Reinvigorating civic education—in schools, communities, and media—is not a luxury; it is essential to national stability. A democracy cannot thrive on instinct or symbolism alone. It demands active, informed participation.

Lincoln concluded his address with a hope: “that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.” Whether that government endures depends not only on elections and laws, but on education—on equipping every new generation with the knowledge, habits, and values necessary for self-government.

Postscript

The kids at Gettysburg, Nov. 2003

Today, the 155th anniversary of the Gettysburg Address, I found myself reflecting on a moment from years earlier when I stood with my children at the Gettysburg National Cemetery. We paused in front of the simple granite marker believed to mark the spot where Lincoln delivered his immortal words. I’ve had the Address memorized since I was a boy, and I recited it for them while imagining what it must have felt like to hear those words for the first time.

I took this photo that day—my children, much younger then, standing where Lincoln once stood, surrounded by the headstones of the soldiers whose sacrifice gave his words such meaning. That photo sits framed in my office today. I often find myself looking at it, especially when today’s civic challenges feel overwhelming.

It gives me hope—not just that I’ve passed along some of these civic lessons to my own children, but that their generation may be ready to carry forward the legacy of Lincoln’s 272 words. The unfinished work, as Lincoln reminded us, belongs to each new generation. And in that image, I am reminded that there is still reason to believe they will be up to the task.

Memorial Day

In a 2008 blog post, I wrote that it has become passé to remember Thomas Jefferson's admonition that "Liberty needs to be watered regularly with the blood of tyrants and patriots." Almost three years on from that scribble, our collective memory seems to be fading more markedly than I first thought.

Today the immortal words of Winston Churchill ring more true than ever: "never was so much owed by so many to so few". The rights and freedoms that we enjoy are hard earned privileges, not entitlements. As Jon Meacham of WNET points out in this PBS Need to Know essay, the separation between most American citizens and those who serve (and pay) to protect our nation has widened almost to the point of non-recognition:

This Memorial Day takes place not even a month removed from the killing of the "most wanted man in the world", the face of the "global war on terrorism", Osama bin Laden. Yet Americans are decidedly removed from a sense of urgency in our current conflicts in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya, let alone remembering the sacrifices of years gone by. Collectively, we seem to have forgotten the simple act of remembering the cost, in human lives, that has been paid to ensure that we have the freedom to enjoy three-day weekends, to eat hamburgers and hot dogs, and share the company of our friends and loved ones on this holiday weekend.

In his General Order #11, marking the first Memorial Day on May 30, 1868, General John A. Logan wrote:

Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time, testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten, as a people, the cost of free and undivided republic.

If other eyes grow dull and other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain in us.

Logan's words are prescient. At the sesquicentennial of the Civil War, there are no longer living veterans who remember the sacrifices of their comrades. America's last World War I veteran passed away in February 2011, and World War II veterans are passing at a rate of 1,000 vets per day. Remembering—not just on the last Monday in May, but in the quiet, ordinary moments. I’ll remember when I see someone else stepping up to serve, or when I pass by a memorial that too many people don’t notice anymore, I'll remember when I speak my mind and disagree openly and without fear. It doesn’t have to be some grand gesture. Sometimes it’s just taking a beat to acknowledge that what we have didn’t come easy—and that someone else paid a price so we wouldn’t have to.

Memorial Day 2011, a photo by thrunance'seyes.

Without those who saw these sacrifices first-hand, it is up to each of us to put into practice General Logan's words.

Today, I choose to remember the sacrifices of the men and women, some of them my friends, who gave themselves for something we are allowed to take for granted. That feels like the least I can do. 

Remembering Poppy Day

This past weekend, while I was out running errands with my daughter, she received a small red flower from a man in front of the grocery store (after I made a small donation into his collection bucket). The gentleman wished us a happy Poppy Day, and my daughter turned to me and asked if she got presents for Poppy Day (obviously confusing these gentlemen with the men who ring the Salvation Army's bells at Christmas time).

Never one to miss the opportunity to give one of my children a civics lesson, I explained to her that the armistice ending The First World War ("The Great War") was signed on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month: November 11th, 1918. I told her that we celebrate this day to honor all of the men and women who have served our country in the military, and that is why she had a long, four-day weekend.

When she asked me, "Why did the men give us a flower?" I told her that these flowers, poppies, grow all over the fields of Flanders (in northern Belgium), where so many of the men who were killed in that war are buried. I told her about the famous poem that commemorates the sacrifice of these men "In Flanders Fields" and while she can only barely comprehend these notions, she understood that the Poppy was symbolic and she proudly wore the flower on her dress the rest of the day.

After having this conversation with my daughter, it struck me that not enough people really know or understand the meaning of the poppy (as a symbol of this day) nor what our vacation day actually commemorates.

To most Americans, Poppy Day is better known as "Veterans Day" honoring all of America's Veterans. Europeans commemorate November 11th as "Armistice Day", while citizens of the Commonwealth know 11/11 as "Remembrance Day", and in Poland armistice day is also celebrated as that country's independence day.

Given that so many countries celebrate this day as a way to honor those who have served their countries as well as those who are serving, how is it that our children (and many of us) have come to "forget" the day's meaning? I could blame the usual cast of characters, our educational system, our consumer-oriented culture, generational changes, or a hugely unpopular war that makes it passé to remember Thomas Jefferson's admonition that "Liberty needs to be watered regularly with the blood of tyrants and patriots."

What is missing isn't a physical space or thing. There are monuments and reminders in nearly every corner of our towns, states and nations commemorating the sacrifices of the men and women in our military. The content of what these men and women have done is certainly not lacking. In fact with the election of the United States' first African-American president (and all of the historical comparisons drawn by our media) there is quite a bit of content and context to accompany these physical objects commemorating our veterans.

The actions that bind the content and these objects together are what are missing. When I was a child all of my friends knew what the poppy stood for. Our grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, and teachers made sure we knew why they wore poppies to church on Sunday or on Veteran's Day. Our pastors recalled the sacrifice made by others when they called upon us for two-minutes of silent remembrance. We knew why we flew our flags on these days and we watched as military color guards raised their flags to half-mast.

Certainly, these actions still happen. But my daughter's question made me realize that they are no longer part of our society's lexicon. The ritual associated with these actions does not exist any longer. Which if not shameful, is at least a shame.

Nearly 10 million military personnel died during The First World War. The poem, "In Flanders Fields", was written by a Canadian military physician, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, to commemorate just one of those deaths. He penned these words on May 13, 1915, in the trenches on the battlefront -- one day after he witnessed the death of his friend Lieutenant Alexis Helmer:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

No matter if you are a hawk or a dove, for or against our current military policies, as you enjoy your day off from work or school, as you curse when you walk to the mailbox only to recall that today isn't a mail day, or hear the mournful wail of a far off bugle playing Taps at a ceremony honoring the service of those men and women who ensure our security, past and present...

Please put a poppy in your lapel, display your flag, or stop and observe 2 minutes of silence at 11:11 A.M. today and let us remember those who gave their "last full measure of devotion" -- in Flanders Fields, and elsewhere.