I’ll likely use this day each year to sing the praises of a man who was useful in the events of 19 April, 1775.

Samuel Whittemore was a serious badass. From Wikipedia:

Whittemore was in his fields when he spotted an approaching British relief brigade under Earl Percy, sent to assist the retreat. Whittemore loaded his musket and ambushed the British Grenadiers of the 47th Regiment of Foot from behind a nearby stone wall, killing one soldier. He then drew his dueling pistols and killed a grenadier and mortally wounded a second. By the time Whittemore had fired his third shot, a British detachment reached his position; Whittemore drew his sword and attacked.^[6] He was shot in the face, bayoneted numerous times, and left for dead in a pool of blood. He was found by colonial forces, alive, trying to load his musket to fight again. He was taken to Dr. Cotton Tufts of Medford, who perceived no hope for his survival. However, Whittemore lived another 18 years until dying of natural causes at the age of 96.

They leave out the fact that he fathered more children after he recovered from his wounds.

A less (very much so) version can be found here. Language warning.

Long live the spirit of this sort of man.