Everyone or rather every poet seems to be taking a bit of a trimming these days. Ever since we decided to invade Iraq I’ve been reading letters to the editors that persist in comparing soldiers to poets in a way that favors the soldier.

“Did poets give us freedom?&uot; Inquires one of these missives and answers itself, “No, soldiers gave us freedom.”

It’s a vague question with an even more vague response.

Soldiers do not have freedom. Politicians in this age tell them where to go and what to do when they get there. Which of our freedoms is being defended in Iraq?

Every time I run into this comparison between soldiers and poets I think about David in the Bible. David, as you no doubt remember, was a great warrior. He was also a great poet. I suppose everyone remembers how David slew the giant Goliath, but did the story really carry the comfort that say the 121st Psalm still does hundreds of years later.

It’s the poems and not the firecrackers that enhance my pride in what we celebrate on the Fourth of July. I had a friend who, as a child, was given a choice between firecrackers or the same amount of money for new books.

I regret that the choice was not put to me. From my earliest recollection of fireworks I didn’t like them. They were noisy, they were sinister and I almost put out my eye throwing a torpedo, when I was nine, not to mention putting a hole in my favorite underskirt with a firecracker when I was seven.

If lots of noise and plenty of fireworks are signs of patriotism, let it be known that my family took a back seat to no one in the matter.

My parents were first on the program. Even before the other relatives arrived &045; and there were other relatives, dozens of them from both sides of the family, including three of my father’s aunts.

The aunts were particularly dangerous. They always brought fireworks never seen before by human eye. They were obviously designed to kill rather than merely maim. There was one for each of the kiddies, including the toddlers and a few extras against the possibility of some of the neighbors’ children showing up. As if anyone in the neighborhood would let one of theirs cross our path when we were being patriotic.

But I digress. My parents, as I said were first on the program. Up not later than 4 a.m., they tippy-toed around the neighborhood, missing no one, playing no favorites, only pausing under the windows long enough to fire a couple of shots from my father’s Colt automatic.

Both of my parents were small, thin and light on their feet, so they made their rounds in record time and were snugly back in their still dark house before their victims were up and making loud noises in protest.

We were the only family in the neighborhood on speaking terms with everybody else in the neighborhood. It was rather interesting in the weeks that followed to hear each one of them explain who shot the shots and why. Some very reasonable detective work there, just incorrect.

If the larger part of the family survived the fun stuff we took our fried chicken, potato salad, biscuits watermelon and such, crossed the Missouri and swam all afternoon in a sandpit. Then we finished the food, went

home, cleaned up and drove out to watch the fireworks.

I resented the fireworks. Without them we could have had a fine, quiet day.

The television always does a good job with the Declaration of Independence and suitable music.

But since I don’t like to leave anything out, I always repeat two of my favorite quotations for the day:

“I have sworn upon the altar of God, eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the

mind of man.&uot; &045; Thomas Jefferson

“There is nothing more frightening than active ignorance.” &045; Goethe

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column runs Thursday.)