William The Coroner’s Forensic Files

Saturday, 11, September, 2010

9-11

Filed under: Circle Game,Haterade,In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 12:28

Do not forget.  I am in no mood to forgive, either.

Sunday, 6, June, 2010

D-day

Filed under: History,In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 09:50

Saturday, 5, June, 2010

Midway

Filed under: History,In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 09:46

USS Constitution sails into Boston Harbor. The crew of Constitution hosted approximately 125 members of the Wounded Warrior Project during an underway Battle of Midway commemoration. (U.S. Navy photo by Chief Mass Communication Specialist James Devine)

Sunday, 30, May, 2010

Nolite umquam oblivisci

Filed under: In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 18:43

Never Forget.

Never forget that the freedoms we enjoy were paid for in blood. The founders pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their honour to establish them and young men died to keep them.

Never forget that freedoms are hard to maintain, and we must be vigilant and avoid external and internal enemies. Freedom must be maintained not only at the borders but at the ballot box. That corruption is insidious, and might be more dangerous than a blustering demagogue. It is also worth remembering that the worst devils have the fairest faces and the most seductive voices.

Never forget that there are many symbols on the gravestones, and many skin colours of the people underneath them but blood is always red.

Never forget that there are men still on duty, from the jungles of southeast Asia to the beaches of Normandy, from Bellau Wood to the Coral Sea.

Tuesday, 4, May, 2010

Try To Remember

Filed under: Circle Game,In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 08:17

The Fantasticks is fifty years old, I am reminded. My old junior high had a synchronized swim show every year–and Try To Remember was always the finale number. The swimmers made a floating W.

This also put me in mind of she shootings at Kent State forty years ago–which shows the folly of using poorly trained soldiers in a role that they’re not really prepared for.

Anyway, here’s that old song and dance man, the original El Gallo, Jerry Orbach.  He was more than Lenny Briscoe.

Wednesday, 28, April, 2010

This Is MUTINY!

Filed under: History,In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 19:00

28 April.  The anniversary of the Mutiny on the Bounty.  Go eat some breadfruit and have some rum, why don’t’cha?

Friday, 23, April, 2010

Happy Birthday Will

Filed under: In Memoriam,Poetry — williamthecoroner @ 16:41

Happy Birthday, Will!

Monday, 19, April, 2010

Concord Hymn

Filed under: History,In Memoriam,Poetry — williamthecoroner @ 05:08

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare,
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

BY the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept; 5
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone; 10
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 15
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Sunday, 18, April, 2010

Paul Revere’s Ride

Filed under: History,In Memoriam,Poetry — williamthecoroner @ 21:11

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,–
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;=
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Tuesday, 9, February, 2010

Virginia

Filed under: In Memoriam — williamthecoroner @ 09:47

Virginia 7-IV-21–9-2-99. We miss you.

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