But even as Woolly was having this wonderful memory, his expression grew somber, for he had almost forgotten what his mother would refer to as The Reason We’re All Here: the recitations. Every year on the Fourth of July, once all the food had been set out, in lieu of grace, the youngest child older than sixteen would take his or her place at the head of the table and recite from the Declaration of Independence.
When in the course of human events, and We hold these truths to be self-evident, and so forth.
But, as Woolly’s great-grandfather liked to observe, if Messrs. Washington, Jefferson, and Adams had the vision to found the Republic, it was Mr. Lincoln who had the courage to perfect it. So, when the cousin who had recited from the Declaration had resumed his or her seat, the youngest child older than ten would take his or her place at the head of the table in order to recite the Gettysburg Address in its entirety.
When that was completed, the speaker would take a bow and the room would erupt into an ovation that was almost as loud as the one that followed the finale of the fireworks. Then the platters and baskets would go zipping around the table to the sound of laughter and good cheer. It was a moment that Woolly always looked forward to.
Looked forward to, that is, until the sixteenth of March 1944, the day that he turned ten.
Right after his mother and sisters had sung Happy Birthday on his behalf, his oldest sister, Kaitlin, had felt it necessary to note that come the Fourth of July, it would be Woolly’s turn to stand at the head of the table. Woolly was so unnerved by this bit of news that he could barely finish his piece of chocolate cake. Because if Woolly knew anything by the age of ten, it was that he wasn’t any good at rememorizing.
Sensing Woolly’s concern, his sister Sarah—who seven years before had given a flawless recitation—offered to serve as his coach.
—Memorizing the Address is well within your grasp, she said to Woolly with a smile. After all, it’s only ten sentences.
Initially, this assurance heartened Woolly. But when his sister showed him the actual text of the speech, Woolly discovered that while at first glance it might seem to be only ten sentences, the very last sentence was actually three different sentences disguised as one.
—For all intents and porpoises （as Woolly used to say）， there are twelve sentences, not ten.
—Even so, Sarah replied.
But just to be sure, she suggested they start their preparations well in advance. In the first week of April, Woolly would learn to recite the first sentence word for word. Then in the second week of April, he would learn the first and second sentences. Then in the third week, the first three sentences, and so on, until twelve weeks later, just as the month of June was drawing to a close, Woolly would be able to recite the entire speech without a hitch.
And that’s exactly how they prepared. Week by week, Woolly learned one sentence after another until he could recite the speech in its entirety. In fact, by the first of July he had recited it from beginning to end, not only in front of Sarah, but by himself in front of the mirror, at the kitchen sink while helping Dorothy do the dishes, and once in a canoe in the middle of the lake. So when the fateful day arrived, Woolly was ready.
After his cousin Edward had recited from the Declaration of Independence and received a friendly round of applause, Woolly assumed the privileged spot.
But just as he was about to begin, he discovered the first problem with his sister’s plan: the people. For while Woolly had recited the Address many times in front of his sister and often by himself, he had never recited it in front of anybody else. And this wasn’t even anybody else. It was thirty of his closest relatives lined up on opposite sides of a table in two attentive rows, with none other than his great-grandfather seated at the opposite end.
Casting a glance at Sarah, Woolly received a nod of encouragement, which bolstered his confidence. But just as he was about to begin, Woolly discovered the second problem with his sister’s plan: the attire. For while Woolly had previously recited the Address in his corduroys, his pajamas, and his bathing suit, not once had he recited it in an itchy blue blazer with a red-and-white tie gripping at his throat.
As Woolly pulled at his collar with a crooked finger, some of his younger cousins began to giggle.
—Shh, said his grandmother.
Woolly looked back to Sarah, who gave him another friendly nod.
—Go ahead, she said.
Just as she had taught, Woolly stood up straight, took two deep breaths, and began:
—Four score and seven years, he said. Four score and seven years ago.
There was more sniggering from the younger cousins, followed by another shush from his grandmother.