publishes a revised version of her poem "America the Beautiful" in 1904.  A professor at Wellesley College as well as a poet, Ms Bates lived for twenty-five years (1890 - 1915) with fellow professor and social activist Katharine Coman in a Boston Marriage.



A Memorial Day Parade from days gone by. 

There is so much ground to cover when you're talking about America; more than lots of people ever get to see.  Just this weekend we're driving down to Costa Mesa when my buddy Jim confesses he's never been to Newport Beach, so naturally I insist we stop there for lunch.  The Balboa Peninsula is, in my opinion, one of the nicest places you could find to keep your yacht and have a second home on the west coast, if you could afford to.  I had in fact spent many pleasant weekend hours with my big brother who could do just that a few years ago, touring the inlets and channels around the man-made islands in his boat.  As you can imagine, when you grow up on the Great Lakes, Newport is definitely nice.  Top of the line.  It doesn't get any better, as they say.

Of course without a boat you don't get quite the same effect, and perhaps in the spirit of the holiday I'd built it up a little too much, but I was not prepared for my friend's reaction. "But what do people do here?" he asked with an unmistakable tone of incredulity and even dismay.

"Why, lots of things," I explained.  "Take a ride on your boat."  I looked around us as we walked down the main thoroughfare off shops and restaurants.  "And shop.  And eat.  And drink."

He eyed the other pedestrians and the shops.  "I see white people," he said, like the kid in The Sixth Sense.

I admitted it was pretty Republican.  Everyone around us had blonde hair.

"Ten points," he said, "if you see a gay couple.  Or a person of color.   Or a gay person of color."

"Look," I said, trying to distract him and pointing to the attractive varnished harwood benches spaced neatly down the narrow albeit charming tree-shaded sidealk.  "The men sit here and the women go in the stores and buy things.  Then you eat and go back to the boat."

We cross the gender line and go in a store, crammed to the brim with decorative accessories and books by Bunny Williams who, it must be said (and Jim does) makes Martha Stewart look like a felon.

"Can't breathe," Jim whispers hoarsely, clutching his throat.  I blame the Casswell-Massey display and usher us out.

The next shop has an extensive offering of nautical paraphernalia -- brass ship's bells and needlepoint pillows with jaunty boating expressions ["All Aboard!" and "First Mate"] and jewelry boxes covered with seashells; the one after that carries a line of hand-blown Christmas ornaments and a bevy of finely crafted carollers in velvet and lace and rich plaids, "hand-made in Pennsylvania," we are informed.  "I know you need a few more carollers for your collection," I observe to Jim.

"Can't... breathe...." he replies.

"You know," I explain when we are outside the store and he is self-consciously lighting up ("I'm the only person smoking," he points out, and he's right), "You know there was a time my brother suggested I sell a screen play and make a fortune and buy a house with a dock here so he could have a place for his boat instead of the yacht club -- as you can imagine, the slip fees can be exorbitant ..."

"You can't be serious," he snaps, and I hasten to add that okay, the part about the screenplay was a bit of a stretch perhaps but --

"You'd drink yourself to death by the Fourth of July," he predicts.  I argue that he's being ungenerous.

"This is the American Dream," I insist.

"This is not normal," he corrects me.  Then, taking pity on me, he adds, "Okay, so I have cousins in New Canaan who'd probably think it was nice."

"See?" I say, encouraged.  "I mean, it isn't at all like that silly show O.C. made it out to be, except for being in Orange County and the idle rich and hanging out on yachts and ..."

"It's not really America, though," Jim insists.  We are back at the sign that welcomed us onto the island: "Land of the FREE BECAUSE of the BRAVE," it says.

"Isn't that supposed to be, 'Home of the Brave'?" he asks.

"It was Land of the Free and Home of the Brave when we were being inclusive and we were all free AND brave because we had not yet become Red States Versus Blue States and arguing about who was Not Supporting the Troops," I explain.  I do not add that this was back when George still drank and Laura still smoked and we all smoked and drank and the Clintons were in the White House.  It seems like a thousand years ago now.

"Let's go home," my friend announces wearily. 

Home is only about fifty miles as the crow flies.  Not that far, and a world away.  Not even as far as the purple mountains.  Not even all the way to the amber waves of grain. 

Oh spacious skies.