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Booms roll across the night sky, the sound of freedom this time each year. Americans like the idea of blowing things up in a semi-controlled way.

The American infantryman crossed the Ludendorff railroad bridge in darkness, crawling on his hands and knees, his gear dragged along on the chance, if he fell in the Rhine River below, that it would not pull him like an anchor to the bottom.

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Missouri’s own Harry Truman, faced with the Founding Fathers’ insistence on three co-equal branches of government, discovered the system to be maddening at times.

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In a less entertaining way, I consider advanced mathematics in the same manner as professional athletics … which is to say, I’m not capable of either.

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The language of isolation continues to evolve. Americans had been exhorted a couple of months ago to practice discipline and help “flatten the curve.” We hear more often these days a more uplifting phrase, “when all this is over.”

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One day late last week, I had the television tuned to a cable news show as a parade of public officials stepped to a microphone to lament the death of George Floyd and the unrest that ensued.

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A lifetime ago, I interviewed a guy named Tom French. I noted his infectious optimism. The story I wrote also mentioned he had one of those super-sized bottles of aspirin on his desk.

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Consuelo Velazquez wrote the song “Besame Mucho” before the age of 20. It would be her biggest hit.