[R. S. Gwynn]

The Swearing-in of Calvin Coolidge
Plymouth Notch, Vermont, 1923


Strange, the postman's loud, insistent knock
(The nearest phone, in town, two miles away)
Which roused them out of bed at nine o'clock,
Tired from bringing in the August hay.
And stranger still, two telegrams they read
By lantern light: official ones, and both
With urgent news from Washington, that said,
"The President is dead. Please take the oath."
But in Vermont--where even summer skies
Can whisper that it's time to stack the wood,
And every breath on northern air implies
You're running out of days to do some good--
No one would be surprised, or think it odd
To see a man look up and say "So help me God."

I had admired this one on an earlier thread. It has the feel of a Norman Rockwell painting, and I like the qualities of time--time of day and of season--that work metaphorically in the poem.

I'd suggest checking a couple of historical details:

"postman"? or "courier" perhaps?

The words from the two telegrams are given as a direct quote. Why two telegrams? Were they identical? And did either of them say this exactly?

Was Grace Coolidge at the farm when this happened? I assume that she's the other part of "they," or are we speaking of more than two? I do miss the fact that Coolidge was sworn in, I recall, by his father, a justice of the peace or county judge.

I wonder a little about "every breath on northern air." Should it be "of"?

The poem shows great respect for the English sonnet's structure, with "Strange" and "stranger" holding the first two quatrains together and "But" initiating the turn.

The "odd/God" rhyme is a tough one to bring off, but it works pretty well here, maybe because the enjambment and final alexandrine keep it a little off balance and unpredictable.

A very fine sonnet.

[Roger Slater]

I found this online:

Vice President Calvin Coolidge was vacationing at his father's homestead in Plymouth Notch, Vermont (a village within the township of Plymouth). Early in the morning of August 3, 1923, Col. John Coolidge awoke his son, addressed him as "Mr. President," then delivered the telegram containing the news of President Warren G. Harding's death at 7:30 the previous evening.

There were no telephones in the Coolidge home. The original announcement had been telegraphed to White River Junction, Vermont, from San Francisco by George B. Christian, secretary to President Harding.67 At White River the operator telephoned W. A. Perkins, "in charge of the public telephone at the village of Bridgewater," who sought out Erwin C. Geisser, the Vice President's stenographer, and Joseph N. McInerney, his chauffeur, who in turn roused reporter William H. Crawford. Perkins then rushed the message by automobile to the Coolidge home.68 Geisser, McInerney, and Crawford arrived soon after.

Activity in the household quickly escalated. The Vice President and Mrs. Coolidge dressed and proceeded downstairs. Left upstairs to sleep were housekeepers, Aurora Pierce and her assistant, Miss Bessie Pratt. Outside, the automobiles began to arrive.

More than half the reporters assigned to Coolidge when President Harding's condition worsened had been recalled by their editors when Harding's health stabilized. The remaining reporters received word at the hotel in nearby Ludlow and hastened to the scene.69 Amid the caravan that made its way to the homestead was an automobile carrying recently resigned congressman and Senate candidate Porter H. Dale of Vermont; L. L. Lane, president of the Railway Mail Association of New England; and Joseph H. Fountain, editor of the Springfield (Vt.) Reporter (a weekly newspaper and also representing the Associated Press).

The Vice President, sitting at the desk where many of his schoolboy reports had been written, put pen to paper composing a note of condolence for Mrs. Harding. He then dictated a statement for arriving reporters, many of whom immediately departed to file their stories of Coolidge's first reaction— unknowingly missing out on witnessing the oath-of-office ceremony.

Across the road at the general store, Coolidge discussed the ceremony by telephone with Secretary of State Charles Evans Hughes (also next in line to the presidency). Hughes urged the Vice President to take the oath of office immediately.71 "It should be taken before a notary," said the secretary, who then approved the Vice President's choice— the senior Coolidge— also a Windsor County notary.72 Preparations inside the home continued as a copy of the Constitution was located.

The home was a stark contrast to formal settings for presidential oath-of-office ceremonies. The fourteen-by-seventeen-foot parlor was the "essence of rural America." At the center of the parlor, dimly lit by a kerosene lamp, was a table on which rested three books: the Revised Laws of Vermont, a catalog of farming tools, and a Bible that had belonged to Coolidge's mother, Victoria.

The Bible remained on the table, highlighted by the light from the lamp, as the senior Coolidge readied to become the first father to swear in his son as President. The colonel and the Vice President faced each other as soon-to-be First Lady Grace Coolidge stood nearby. The President recalled Dale, Geisser, and McInerney being in the room, while Mrs. Coolidge remembered the presence of Crawford.

The comings and goings of automobiles had aroused the neighbors, of whom about fifteen joined reporters holding vigil on the veranda to witness the ceremony through the bay window. Only the voices of father and son could be heard through the still night air. At the conclusion of the oath, they heard a brief pause, then the voice of the new President added, "So help me God!" As the clock showed the time to be 2:47, Colonel Coolidge affixed his notary seal to the typewritten oath, which was signed in triplicate by the new President and the witnesses.75 Both Fountain and Lane were thought to have been present and were noted in numerous newspaper accounts. The signed oaths that could prove their presence have since disappeared.

This would suggest that it wasn't a postman who delivered the telegram, but the "So help me God!" part and many other details are right on the money. Enjoyable sonnet, and I learned something as well.
\

[Tim Murphy]

When Coolidge died, I think it was Dorothy Parker who said "How could anybody tell?" Then there's the famous story about the lady who asserted she could make him say more than three words. He responded, "Madame, you lose."

Unlike almost anyone here, I agree with Paul Johnson's assertion that after Reagan, Coolidge was the best president in America's twentieth century.

But my views on politics conflict with those of our judge and agree with those of the author of this dignified sonnet. I think it is very hard to write such a poem. Lord knows, I can't do it with anywhere near this degree of aplomb. Timothy

[Janet Kenny]

I was deeply engaged with the discussion of this sonnet and loved it then and now. I remember problems with the resolution. All resolved now. A simple and noble sonnet.
Love it!
Janet
The Swearing-in of Calvin Coolidge
Plymouth Notch, Vermont, 1923


Strange, the postman's loud, insistent knock
(The nearest phone, in town, two miles away)
Which roused them out of bed at nine o'clock,
Tired from bringing in the August hay.
And stranger still, two telegrams they read
By lantern light: official ones, and both
With urgent news from Washington, that said,
"The President is dead. Please take the oath."
But in Vermont--where even summer skies
Can whisper that it's time to stack the wood,
And every breath on northern air implies
You're running out of days to do some good--
No one would be surprised, or think it odd
To see a man look up and say "So help me God."

[RCrawford]

At the risk of blowing my cover, here's the passage that this poem comes from (Paul Johnson, <u>A History of the American People</u> (Harper Collins, 1997; pp.712-713):

"...when Vice_president Coolidge was summoned to the White House in August 1923, he was at his father's farm, spending two weeks of his vacation helping to get in the hay, swinging a scythe, handling a pitchfork, and driving a two-horse 'hitch.'...The scene when the news penetrated to Plymouth on the night on August 2 that the local boy was not the thirtieth President was indeed arcadian. There was no phone at the farm, the nearest being 2 miles down the hill. The Coolidge family were awakened by a Post Office messenger pounding on the door. He brought two telegrams: one from Harding's secretary gving official notification of the President's death, the second, from the Attorney-General advising Coolidge to qualify immediately for the office by taking the oath. So the oath was copied out and Coolidge's father, being a notary public, administered it by the light of a kerosene lamp, for there was no electricity at the house. It was just a tiny farmhouse sitting room, with an airtight wood stove, an old fashioned walnut desk, a few chairs, and a marble table on which stood the old family Bilble, open. As he read the last words of the oath, the younger Coolidge placed his hand on the book and said, with great solemnity, 'So help me God.'"

The poem came from these "facts." As I found out more I changed some things--Plymouth to Plymouth Notch for instance (and I will change nine o'clock to one o'clock to reflect that they were propably roused early in the morning of August 3). Some of the other details were under dispute, or not completely accurate; for example, the two telegrams were not both from Washington as I had presumed, one, at least, was from San Francisco, and the Coolidges had gone to dinner that evening, not simply gone to bed after a long day haying. Johnson, writing what seems like three, 2000 page books a month, is probably not the most reliable source for every last detail, but I decided to keep the poem mostly as it was--a faithful rendering of what I imagined from what I first read. That certainly wouldn't fly if I was writing history, but am I allowed a certain latitude when creating poetry? Does it really matter where the phone was as long as it wasn't in the Coolidge's house? And I don't ask those questions defensively. They are serious questions.

I guess it comes down to what the reader and I are comfortable with--the poem is only partly about Coolidge anyway.


--Robert Crawford



[This message has been edited by RCrawford (edited March 29, 2004).]