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“Goodbyes are like lemon drops. They’re sweet at first, and then you crack a tooth.” – P.D.
Wally’s surrender essentially marked the end of the war. There were still a handful of battles that followed it, but we Americans had thoroughly embarrassed the King and Parliament by our victory over one of their grumpier generals. Before long, the King called off his dogs entirely. Why anyone would send their pets to fight by proxy, I’ll never know. It shows how desperate the British were at that point in the conflict.
For the first few years after the war, I split my time between Philadelphia and Rinky-Dink. I was personally invited by Washington to attend the negotiations of the peace treaty at Paris. It was a difficult decision, but I turned down the offer. I’m not typically one to refuse an opportunity to serve my favorite country, but I couldn’t bear the thought of another transatlantic voyage—let alone, writing about another such voyage in this memoir. I stayed at home and read about the negotiations in the papers months after they occurred like the rest of the United States, as we’d begun to call it. They might not have had me there to soften up the British, but they did have a close second—the great bore himself, John Adams. I’d sign away anything but Zippy to get out of a negotiation with him.
Those wobbly signatures on the treaty at Paris were the end of the end for the American Revolution. We colonists had exerted our rights and won them by force from the King and his armies. The forests, fields, and dells of the colonies had been stained with the blood of fallen heroes who stood up to a tyrant and his little tyrants to be. Those brave soldiers shall be remembered for an extended period of time stretching far into the foreseeable future.
Speaking of bravery, I’ve just remembered an interesting vignette that took place in Rinky-Dink a few months before the war’s conclusion. The British attempted to seize several powerful shipping companies headquartered in Massachusetts not far from my hometown. The redcoat-sporting fiends even attempted to shut down the old cork factory, but they were repulsed by my siblings and cats who used corks and slingshots to protect the family business. They would’ve used rocks as slingshot ammo, but the natural rock formations in the area are much too pretty to disturb. Once my family routed the British, the redcoats were promptly laughed out of town—never to return.
Now for the less interesting part. When we grew tired of our old routine, Zippy and I began hopping about the United States, moving every few months. When the congress’ invisible ink contract wasn’t renewed, the money and Zippy’s salivary glands dried up. I plied my trades—street sweeping, mostly—wherever we went, providing me with sufficient income to enroll my wee mule daughter in additional obedience lessons. The years have passed rapidly. As I write this, I’m in the declining years of my life. You could say, at this rate, I’m over the hill, through the woods, and at least half-way to Gammy Dot’s cemetery plot. Zippy still putters about my quarters, although I haven’t surfed on her back for many years. She’s adjusted to the life of a full-time satchel mule at this point in her life.
And what a life it’s been. I can’t think of anyone other than myself who witnessed such a broad swath of historical events at the birth of our fine country. That’s not a self-aggrandizing statement. I really can’t remember anyone else. Sammy passed away a few years ago as have Paps, Mum, most of my siblings and cats, and Gammy Dot—who, I later discovered, was still alive and seated under Mum during my prior visit to Rinky-Dink.
I’ll share one last story before I stick a cork in my memoir and call it done. For those of you reading this during my lifetime, I don’t have to remind you that we just finished another war with England early last year in 1815. I’ll include the context all the same in the unlikely event someone in the future cracks the spine of this book. On August 24, 1814, Zippy and I were seated on a bench in the garden of an inn where we were vacationing in the town of Bladensburg, Maryland. All of a sudden, British soldiers began to swarm in the distance. I scooped up Zippy, plopped her into her orthopedic travel satchel and shuffled to what cover existed in the surrounding countryside. I turned and glanced back at random intervals and saw America’s seventh-finest troops clash with the British regulars. The whole thing was a cataract-fogged blur, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.
After they’d routed the American forces, the British halted. I jumped a bit in fright when I heard a high-pitched voice call out behind me, “‘Ello, gov, do you know da way to Washington? I’m lookin’ for me pop.”
I turned and found a short youth standing beside me. He wasn’t wearing a red uniform, so he couldn’t have been a British soldier. I figured there couldn’t be any harm in being neighborly. That was, after all, one of the founding principles of our great nation. It’s in the Constitution or something. I patted him on the head and replied, “Sure thing. It’s right over there.” I pointed in the direction of Washington. He bowed and ran back toward Bladensburg. I called after him, “Be careful, little boy. There’s British about. I hope you find your father safe in Washington.” Zippy kicked me through the satchel. Her arthritis has a tendency to act up in tense situations like the one we’d just escaped.
We had no possessions to recover from the inn, so, as the British soldiers began to march in the distance, I strode in the opposite direction—two steps forward, one step to the side, then crossover, back to the front again, and a skip for good luck. We didn’t make very good time both due to my unusual gait and advanced age. Late that evening, I turned around to enjoy the view of the sun setting in the distance, toward the capital at Washington. Even though my eyesight was poor and had only gotten poorer of late, I could make out huge plumes of smoke rising from the nation’s capital.
I remember thinking—it frightens me to recall it—that I had something to do with the fire. Perhaps, that little boy had been a spy all along, and I’d fallen into his trap. It was the Delaware crossing all over again. My face—still devoid of worry lines, I’ll add—fell as I realized that my foolishness may have cost the nation its finest public buildings. Zippy brought me back to my senses by leaning her head out of my satchel and licking me on the cheek. “Nah,” I thought. It was too improbable. The British must’ve found some undiscerning sap to give them directions on the way. I’m not sure if anyone’s settled on a name for our second war with the British, but my money’s on “The Other One” or the equally catchy “Re-Revolutionary War.”
Consider that final salvo of words my literary farewell. I can count my completion of this autobiographical work as a victory over BJ’s own attempt to chronicle his life. He didn’t even get halfway through before he keeled over. If we were speaking with you face-to-face, I’d say, “Pound thy fist with mine!” But, since that isn’t possible, you’ll have to pretend. Ouch! That was too hard. Be more careful fist bumping your elders.
Goodbye, dear reader, and remember that history is only as boring as you make it.... Zippy wants me to let you know that she sends her best. Darn, Zippy’s late desire to bid you adieu ruined my planned closing line. After a few hours of deep thought while napping, I’ve come up with something nearly as good and have included it below.
History is the fertile soil in which all things grow. Sure, there are areas that have long since born their fruit, left dry and cracked by the winds of time. Other sections of the proverbial garden of life may be undesirable and stinky, causing us to think, “Who thought that looked good there?” But, in the end, history is a part of every one of us, informing our opinions and actions. The worst thing we could ever do is turn a blind eye or attempt to disguise it with a rock garden, however tasteful. No, we should learn from history and use it to form a better and more diverse horticultural future. But what do I know? I’m oblivious!
