Yankee, Go Home

Yankee, Come Home—Yankee, Get Lost

Sixty years ago an incident lodged in my memory forever as it seems, as I walked with the beautiful redheaded young lady who paused to ask me a question.  There above an old outbuilding—I hesitate to call it a barn—there was a weathervane appearing as the silhouette of a rooster.  But this image was perforated by several holes—.58 caliber, as I was later to learn—and my mother had a question for me: Now just who made those holes in the weathervane?  I had no idea, but the answer suggested some thoughts to ponder: “The Yankees!”  Whoever Yankees were, I, apparently, was not one of them, and neither was that lady with an abundance of red hair.  And though I have known my share of disappointments since, the most deflating was to find out later that “foreigners” thought I was a Yankee.  What a bummer, as they say in the parlance of our times.

I am still in contemplation of the implications of the image of the rooster and its ventilation.  I was to learn more from the lady with the red hair—for example, that her paternal grandfather had fought in the Civil War.  Though I could have asked for no better company than what I had at that moment of the blasted weathervane, I have sometimes thought that I could have used some additional feedback from, say, Homer, Heraclitus, Hegel, Marx, and Berra.  Among the five of them, they could have straightened...

Join now to access the full article and gain access to other exclusive features.

Get Started

Already a member? Sign in here