Each year, a few red-letter days slide quietly by on the calendar, anniversaries which are noteworthy, but unnoticed, because the historical events which lend them significance are of the sort that warrant something completely opposite of celebration. They are history's dirty little secrets, our past deeds that carry implications for a future no one wishes to contemplate. Today is one such day.

Today is the anniversary of the Trinity test conducted in 1945 near Alamagordo, New Mexico. The name may be unfamiliar, but it is the official title given to the dress rehearsal for the Manhattan Project's culmination that launched us into the nuclear age. Terms such as "nuclear winter," "weapons of mass destruction," and "thermonuclear war" were unknown prior to July 16, 1945. Prior to that day, the most explosive substance known was TNT, and few would realize that this trivial fact would give rise to a new scale of measurement - the power of nuclear weapons would soon be described in terms of their explosive equivalency in tons of TNT.

The genesis of the Manhattan Project was a 1939 letter addressed to President Franklin D. Roosevelt, authored by physicist Leo Szilard and signed by Albert Einstein, advising the President to allocate funding for research into the potential use of nuclear fission for military purposes even though the United States was not actively involved in World War II at the time. Those involved in the decision, however, felt U.S. involvement in the war was inevitable.

Though the letter urged the intentional opening of a Pandora's Box of military might, those who were best informed on the issues enjoined realized that Nazi Germany was likely conducting the very same research. The pros and cons had been cautiously weighed, and in the end, it was deemed the better alternative to attempt to "beat" the Nazis to the bomb. It was, therefore, a bittersweet moment when President Roosevelt gave his authorization in August of 1939. A few weeks later, the scientific community's prediction regarding U.S. involvement in the war were confirmed when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.

The project was headed by American physicist, J. Robert Oppenheimer, and was conducted with such great secrecy that all but a few of the scientists employed to work on the project were given any information beyond their individual assigned tasks. A few would discern the project's overall objectives from context, but the magnitude of the implications was such that it was never openly discussed among them.

The final product of the Manhattan Project was an orange-sized ball of plutonium encased in a ring of uranium. The components for the Trinity test bomb were (frighteningly enough) loaded into the back of a Jeep and driven to the test site, where they were then assembled at the top of a ten-story steel tower. A heavy thunderstorm had made its way to the test area, causing some tentative joking among those present about what might happen if a lightning strike were to hit the tower. Fortunately, their nervous speculations were not put to the test.

The test bomb was detonated at 5:30 a.m. local time. Project officials, all wearing welder's glasses and slathered with sunscreen, watched from a bunker five-and-a-half miles away. They witnessed a bright flash, followed by a burning cloud which mushroomed eight miles into the sky. The Trinity bomb explosion was the equivalent of 21,000 tons of TNT and left a crater in the ground 1,200 feet in diameter. Its flash was so bright that it would have been visible from the surface of the moon and the explosion was so intense that it burned four times hotter than the core of the sun. One project official who was not present at the test said he saw the flash from his hotel room in Albuquerque over 100 miles away.

As the cloud finally dissipated, Oppenheimer, who was fascinated by the Bhagavad-Gita, purportedly turned away and recited a line from that ancient document: "I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds." A few weeks later, the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs were dropped and the world first became aware of the purpose of the Manhattan Project.

The Trinity test was arguably the most significant event in human history. It introduced the world to a new kind of fear, a fear that prompted Albert Einstein to later write, "I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will likely be fought with sticks and rocks." It was a fear borne of the reality that Mankind, from that moment forward, possessed the tools necessary to commit global suicide.

And no one I see
on the way here
knows who I am,

And no one whom
I know would ever
know where I am,

And I like it that way,
quiet and contented,
isolated from the world,

And alone in thought
atop this mountain,
close to God.

On many occasions during my lifetime, I've found myself in the familiar position of having to make an exit from the scene, but I've never quite mastered the art of doing it elegantly. In fact, it has often been quite the opposite - I miss my cue and stand around looking mutely awkward, or I stumble on my way off life's stage and fall flat on my face and leave the audience howling with laughter at my expense, or I leave early and forfeit my best lines and force the other players to ad-lib their way around my mistake.

Every time I've executed such a face-plant on my way offstage, I've vowed to take measures to do it right the next time. I have visions of exiting like Kwai Chang Caine from the TV series, Kung Fu, walking off into the distance after showing up where injustice ran rampant, spreading a little quiet wisdom, and making things right by beating the shit out of some bad guys.

Unfortunately, I've never actually gotten around to rehearsing the exit, though, so whenever the need has arisen again, I've just gone with what I knew and taken a dive. A laugh's better than nothing, right?

Now, however, I find myself once again in the position of having to make an exit (not from the blogosphere, mind you, so don't start the barrage of comments and e-mails) from a scene where I'm no longer of any use. This time, though, I'm determined to do it right and I've finally figured out what's been missing all these many years. I've needed a certain prop to complete the image.

I've spent some time envisioning what my perfect exit would be and my ideal mental movie has me disappearing into the sunset, my silhouetted figure ambling toward the horizon as the camera fades to black, the theme music rises, and the credits begin to roll. Such a dramatic exit would leave the audience feeling a sense of loss, a sense that something important happened while I was there, the magnitude of which they'll only fully realize long after I've disappeared from the scene. Such an exit is nothing short of cool.

I've played it over and over in my mind dozens of times in the past few days in various forms copied straight from the silver screen and I think the most dramatic model is that of the gunslinger cowboy hero from a western film setting his had low over his eyes and riding out of town and off into the sunset.

I was missing one thing, though, to make that image complete, so I bought a horse (the one from this post). Now, if I can just find some tumbleweeds cheap, I'll be all set. Maybe e-Bay.

One of my favorite haunts in the world is Père Lachaise cemetery. I have spent hours every time I have visited here circulating among the gathered throngs of history, reading each epitaph and learning how elegists have summarized those who have lived great lives. Some are fittingly grand tributes to those whose names are remembered in history books around the world. Others are little more than grandiose puffery, artificially inflating the accomplishments of the failed heroes resting here. Still others are remarkably blank, noting only the dates of birth and death and cheating those lying below out of proper remembrances.

I pause by the grave of Sarah Bernhardt, one of the greatest stage actresses of the 19th century. Seven years prior to her death, her leg was amputated as a consequence of a lingering injury from an accident several years earlier. She continued to act, though, wearing a wooden prosthesis, but her career eventually spiraled downward. There wasn't much demand for a Lady Macbeth with a wooden leg, I guess. As a result, during the few years prior to her death, she was relegated to perfoming Shakespeare in small taverns.

After her leg was amputated, it was purchased by P.T. Barnum, who put it on display in a jar of formaldehyde among all the other oddities he employed to squeeze the proverbial buck out of the suckers he is widely quoted as being born every minute. Some time ago, someone pointed something out to me. Implicit in the separate careers of Bernhardt and her leg is the fact that, during her last years on Earth, her leg was making more money than she was.

I think about this whenever I get depressed. It makes me feel a little less alone.