DC Reflections

George Washington and Michael Jackson: What a strange Fourth of July

When "George Washington" refused to shake my hand today, I could only shake my head: It had already been a very peculiar Fourth of July -- and it would get more bizarre before it was over. After studying and admiring the man for many years, I naturally leaped at the propitious moment to greet the general as he stood not far from the entrance of his Mount Vernon home.

"A gentleman from Virginia does not take the hand," he explained when I asked for the honor. "It is only from approximately Pennsylvania north where men engage in such a greeting. Where are you from?" 

"Georgia," I said. "I guess I should know better. So ... how do I greet you?"

"We bow," the courageous and patient commander said.

I immediately turned my head down and bent forward but saw out of the corners of my eyes he hadn't moved.

"But we are not monarchs," he said, gently. "There is no need for you to avert your eyes. Let us try this once more."

Feeling slightly ill at ease because of my thought that I was not worthy of the general's gaze but appreciating the lesson in equality he was trying to teach me, I maintained eye contact and bowed -- though the striking difference in our heights still made it difficult to keep him in my sight.

He nodded his head affirmatively and gave me a quick smile.

"Thank you, " I said.

Moments later, Washington's troops along with modern-day security forces jumped onto a new mission: A panicked father was screaming at the top of his lungs for his son, Teddy, last seen wearing a yellow shirt with "Nantucket" on it. The troops began their search.

Ten minutes passed, no Teddy.

Everyone on the front lawn repeated to each other the description of the boy we were looking for to make sure we had it right. Our stomachs tightening, we put down their slices of America's birthday cake as we all joined the search.

Five more minutes, no Teddy.

The father walked by, muttering to himself, "I've got to call my wife. I've got to call my wife."

Fearful tears broke out like the plague, jumping from one person to the next as the hunt continued. A voice from nowhere screamed, "We've got him! We've got Teddy!" Mount Vernon staff grabbed the father and told him they would take him to his son. He was safe.

We all breathed a hugh sigh of relief. I then went to do what I had come for -- paying my respects to the real George Washington at his tomb. I visit his home and his grave often; America would not exist today without him. As a student of the American Revolution and as a patriot, the Fourth of July means more to me than any other holiday. I well know what that whole generation endured to give us the country we have today.

My Independence Day got off to a strange start, though. First I opened The Washington Post and saw that it had published a letter I wrote last week in response to its absurd, sycophantic and worshipful coverage of the death of pop star-turned-freakish-pedophile Michael Jackson. Though I do media outreach for a living, I don't think I had ever written a letter to the editor for myself. Considering all I could say about the Fourth of July, I wasn't quite sure what to make of the fact my letter appeared today but was on the subject of the vile media and public praise of the once-talented entertainer who should have died in prison rather than in his mansion. A man does not pay $17 million to the family of a child he "allegedly" molested if he is innocent.

The Post also contained the story about Alaska governor Sarah Palin stepping down a year and a half early for no apparent reason. The Post reporters could make no more sense of the incoherent non-press conference than I could when I saw it last night. In typical Palin fashion, she took no questions -- choosing instead to ramble in so many directions with mal-formed thoughts that the viewer was left with as much clear information as before the event started.

The hormones inside me want me to like Palin because she is a very pretty woman. My conscience outweighs my porcine predisposition, though, and I just can't embrace the bubbly circumnavigator. I don't know that her departure from office, like Jackson's from the Earth, leaves any real void in our society, but I am at least happy for the wolves Palin is fond of allowing cowardly men with big guns to slaughter from airplanes. Maybe the Canis lupus will catch a break.

Paper perusing done, I hopped on my bike and headed to my first stop at the National Archives for what I thought was going to be a deeply moving ceremony that climaxed with a public reading of the Declaration of Independence. I stood ready for the air on my arms to stand up readers hit my favorite line about how "we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."

Instead of an uplifting moment, the National Archives started well with music from Revolutionary War soldier re-enactors but dropped the ball with too much speech making. Adding insult to injury, the National Archives selected three children to do the reading. There is nothing more cloying than having children read a document that surpasses their understanding and that was written by grown men of great intelligence. I gagged when the first child approached the podium looking like he had just left an event at a private golf club. I left before the kid could even get to "laws of nature", giving the National Archives an "F" for its effort. Probably an F minus considering the poor quality of the sound system.

The ride out to Mount Vernon, though, was beautiful. I gave a triple thump on my heart (my own non-military version of a salute to something worth honoring) to the men buried in Arlington National Cemetery. I took in the view of the monuments sitting across the Potomac. I appreciated more than even usual the freedom to ride my bike anywhere my legs are willing to take me.

Despite the crowds, though, more odd things kept happening. Families walking on the trail kept themselves to just the right lane. Joggers only ran two to a side instead of in formation blocking the whole trail. Packs of bikers even rode single file. Weird.

On my return trip from Washington's home, I went back through security and, unlike during Inauguration Week, found LOCAL, courteous policemen and other security officers who were able to tell me how to get around security fencing to streets I needed to take. One even offered to inspect my water backpack while it was on my back so I didn't have to spend five minutes taking everything out.

With 50-plus miles under my belt on the day, I hit my own neighborhood and passed under the tracks that are but a few stone throws from where nine people died on the Metro crash last month.

Not long afterward, I saw an old man who had apparently collapsed on his driveway next to a cheap bike. He was motionless and I thought for a moment he might have had a heart attack. He sat up as I approached, and I opted not to mention the advice that a better bike would put less of a strain on him. Especially at his age.

I got home and replayed the beauty off the strange ride in my head. I thought of all the people I saw out having fun ... families of all races and melting pot mixes making all kinds of things on their grills, women jogging with their dogs, boaters cruising along the Potomac, men fishing on its banks. Friends throwing footballs and kicking soccer balls. A father pitching a Wiffle ball to his son. 

I sometimes get upset on the Fourth of July because I don't think people pay it or the generation of men and women that first gave us our freedom enough reverence. I do realize my own favorite founding father John Adams wrote that he expected this day to be commemorated with "Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other".

Though I take my history pretty seriously about every day of the year, maybe I should lighten up a little on this one. Maybe I should give my fellow Americans more credit. After all, it's almost time to watch the District's fireworks on TV while getting ready to walk over to Takoma Park's rendition.

Wait, no ... ABC News is STILL talking about Michael Jackson and bragging about the live coverage it will provide of his funeral. It's also "reporting" that staggering numbers of people are registering to obtain free tickets to his funeral service.

I sense Washington himself rolling over in his sarcophagus.

Nearly put out of "circulation": bus nearly bad news for me and bike

Became an official "DC biker" today by having my first brush with death. Wasn't even my fault. I'm not one of those crazy bikers who deserves to be hit. In about seven or so of the longest seconds of my life, I got sideswiped by a Circulator bus today as I rode alongside the Mall. I had a row of parked buses on my right and I was keeping on my eye on them in case any of them started up. All of a sudden, I feel a wall moving me over to the right and I hear the sound of my elbow and forearm squeaking against this big red blur that I now see out out of the corner of my eyes. The red blur is pushing me.
 
In that frozen moment, instead of panic setting in, everything oddly seemed to slow down. It was like I had an hour and a half to read the situation and react. Strangest moment I've ever experienced. I very calmly realized that a bus had somehow had come up behind me but not seen me and was just about one or two seconds from sandwiching me between it and the parked row of buses. I knew the wreck could be fatal if I got smashed into the parked buses or if the moving bus knocked me off the bike and to God knows where, possibly ending up under the moving bus.

 

As the eternity ticked by, I realized I could not look left because that would force the bike left, and I couldn't stop as the bus was somehow stuck to me. I recognized all I could do was keep my head straight, the bike straight, and use my left hand to bang on the bus so that the driver would either hear me or that sure-to-be-screaming passengers would tell him to stop. 
 
So, while the bus is brushing me to the right and I'm inches away from getting flattened, I keep my right hand on the bike and start banging on the bus with my left. The bus was speeding up and still stuck to me. I banged three times and then attempted to use my left hand to push myself off the bus. I had to free myself from it and take my chances with smashing into the buses on the right. Just in that split second in which I thought the driver was going to remain oblivious and some really bad stuff was about to go down, the bus stopped and my push off hurled me forward -- still somehow in the straightest line I've ever ridden, and I clear of the moving bus.
 
I looked over my shoulder and realized I was clear. My first thought, and I'll never forget this, was not that I just survived a damn frightening deal -- I never even felt my heart rate increase; it honest to God seemed to slow down -- but that the driver was probably horrified and thinking his career was about over as surely I was about to stop, raise hell, and call the police. (The bus driver had a whole other lane he could have moved over to.) Instead, I just put in a few strong strokes, accelerated away from the bus, and kept on cruising as if nothing happened -- adrenalin racing through my veins and me feeling like Evel Knievel after getting up from something he had no business walking away from.

 

No blood, no foul, just like the way I used to play basketball as a teenager.
 
Craziest moment of my life. It was a rush, actually. Twenty seconds later, my mind still didn't dwell on what could have just happened. I was feeling a great sense of pride: "Wow, I just stayed unbelievably calm and made some pretty slick moves there. I really know what I'm doing on this bike. I'm a pro!"
 
I turned my attention back to the cherry blossom trees, the deep blue sky, the sun warming my skin, the architecture of all the Smithsonian museums and the monuments -- not a thought in my conscious mind at that point. I guess it was just too beautiful a day to die.

 

An army recruiter's toughest challenge: me

March 29, 2009 Sunday

Valley Forge, Pennsylvania -- Considering the turmoil America is in, it has got to be tough to be an Army recruiter like Sgt. Jeff Blessing. He can't lie to potential recruits: the hours can be long, the duty dangerous, and the pay but a pittance. Heat can annihilate you in the summer and you can freeze in the winter. Weapons can be hard to come by and their accuracy even more arduous to obtain.

Still, the sergeant knows he has a fish on the hook in the form of yours truly. I have approached him hesitantly, equal parts and excited and scared. My questions reveal that I've long thought about putting my love of liberty to the test, of defending my country, yet they can not mask the fact that I am for all practical purposes a city slicker. Never been much for sleeping on the ground, missing meals, or firing guns. I'm very athletic but I've got flat feet that make standing still a challenge and I already suffer from a constant ringing in my left ear. I can't even ride a horse.

Sgt. Blessing does have a few things on his side of the ledger, though. There's the spirit of adventure, patriotism, and those beautiful blue uniforms. Ah yes, the ladies do love a man in uniform.

The army man hands me an application. Just sign here, son, he says. We'll take care of you.

I walk away for the moment, afraid of making such a commitment. I tell the sergeant I'll be back. I need to think about it some. Maybe talk to my folks.

Not only will I be leaving home, I'll be stepping back in time -- all the way to the late 1770s. Sgt. Blessing, after all, is seeking men to join the Second Pennsylvania Regiment of The Continental Line -- a nonprofit, educational organization whose mission is to accurately depict American troops during the American Revolution. He and his brother-in-arms Jim Liddle also make ends meet in these uncertain economic times by adding to the ranks of the King's 43rd of Foot. (Don't spread that word 'round these parts. Blessing and Liddle are good men and they don't think the lobster backs are going to prevail in the end anyway.)

I turn my attention to other interests for the remainder of the "The Lock, Stock, and Barrel" Revolutionary War symposium sponsored by The Friends of Valley Forge Park.

All of the lectures stimulate my brain.

Philander Chase probes the mind of George Washington. Chase spent 35 years in the company of our first commander in chief, retiring recently as the editor of The Papers of George Washington at the University of Virginia. Chase may know the general better than any many alive yet even he can't answer one of history's mysteries: Why did Washington suddenly change his penmanship? No one knows.

I sit a spell with Jim Hollister, a National Park Service ranger and education coordinator at Minute Man National Historical Park in Massachusetts. He delivers a riveting presentation examining the age-old riddles of what really happened at both Lexington and Concord. He weaves eye-grabbing photographs and gripping eye-witness accounts into his remarks, which end with me on the edge of my seat using my i-phone to check the price of train tickets to Boston. I later go out to dinner with him and his fiance Emily Murphy, a historian at Salem Maritime National Historic Site, and discover they are both sterling personal representatives of the park service. They're good people, as we say back in my parts.

I peek in on Valley Forge in 1778, where Paul Lockhart of Wright State University is recounting the fantastic story of how Prussian immigrant Friedrich de Steuben showed up on Washington's doorstep, convinced him that he could transform his army into a disciplined fighting force, and promptly proved himself worthy of the post. Lockhart's book, "The Drillmaster of Valley Forge"  is next on my reading list, though it pains me to think I didn't later ask him to sign a copy for me while he was standing right next to me -- at Valley Forge -- with his book in my hands.

Scribbling notes as has been my occupational and educational hazard for more than 20 years, I struggle to keep up with Thomas McGuire -- author of "Battle of Paoli" and of a book that's the subject at hand this day: His high-octane tour across The Philadelphia Campaign serves as yet another reminder of how much more I still have to learn about the Revolution, a subject that has long been the focus of a great deal of my energy.

I wish the conference could last longer but the clock is ticking on the weekend. I head back to Valley Forge for a very special tour -- a "behind the closed vaults" experience lead by NPS ranger Scott Houting. Most people quickly turn their attention to the authentic muskets, swords and powder horns that are always the eye candy of Revolutionary War exhibits. Behind locked doors, however, my eyes are immediately drawn to something that cranks up my heart rate.

No way, I think.

Yes way. Sitting before me is a letter written in 1777 by Washington's artillery commander, the Boston bookseller turned military genius who also became America's first Secretary of War -- Henry Knox, one of my all-time faves. But this is not just any letter. It is one of the very kinds of letters I have been studying lately for a magazine essay I'm working on. It's a love letter to his wife, Lucy. Of the great many poignant exchanges during the Revolutionary War, few are more touching than the favors traded by this pair. 

"I have received my dearest love letter of the 25th ultimo," he begins. "I want words to express the pleasure it gave me." 

The sweet sentiment rolls through the course of the missive and endears me yet more to the general and to his wife -- a woman of British parents who made great personal sacrifices to marry and stay loyal to her rebel husband.

I couldn't imagine a more beautiful way to take leave of the Lock, Stock, and Barrel event but I knew there was one thing I still needed to do. I followed the sound of the musket and cannon fire to the top of a hill so that I could shake Blessing's hand and affirm that I will consider his offer; I've just got a lot to think about as joining Washington's men would be a serious commitment of time and money.

The good sergeant, though, has my attention -- and every good Army recruiter knows that is truly half the battle. Especially at Valley Forge, where our troops must persevere if America is to have a chance.

Saving history with "my tribe"

March 27, 2009 Friday

Valley Forge, Pennsylvania -- "Where's my tribe?" That's a question I've asked myself many times over the years. I found at least one answer here at Valley Forge National Historical Park where our army spent a grueling winter in 1778 and 1779 and where I spent time today amongst a community with whom I share a great common interest and bond.

In town for the second historical symposium, "Lock, Stock, and Barrel: The World of The Revolutionary War Soldier", I spent the afternoon riding my bike alongside Washington and his men. I have grown quite close to our first commander in chief over the years and sometimes feel his presence more strongly here than I do at his home at Mount Vernon. I looked across the fields and could not fully  imagine what life was like for our troops that winter but listening to their stories through my cell phone at stops along the way made it seem even more personal. Like they were right there in front of me. Breaking a comfortable sweat in my summer clothes and top-of-the-line tennis shoes, my heart reached out to the men who stood barefoot in the snow.

After a quick shower, I returned to the visitor's center for a kickoff reception sponsored by The Friends of Valley Forge Park -- organizer of the weekend workshop. I quickly realized I belonged with this group ... people who think about the same things I do and who have the same passions, fears and hopes.

These are people, patriots all, who seek to share our love of American history and the Revolution in particular. We are also people trying to prevent its death.

A demise of history -- the failure to pass to the next generation the joy of learning what it can teach us and how it can inspire us -- would be a crippling blow to our culture. History is what sets forth the virtues and ideals that we as a nation strive to uphold. It's also the wildly exciting account of how flawed people just like us managed to overcome their own limitations and global events to give us all the opportunities to pursue our own happiness in whichever ways we choose. The struggles they faced, though different in time and technology, are challenges that offer insight for us today.

History is not fairing very well, though. It's hardly taught in school anymore and the people who love it the most won't be with us much longer. Already facing decreasing political support before the economy crashed, federal and state funding for historical places and programs sits with its neck exposed to a chopping block.

People like Michael and Michelle Harris can read the diagnosis as well as anyone. The husband and   wife  who work for Brandywine Battlefield Park and Lower Perkiomen Valley Park are on the front lines of the battle to plant seeds of excitement in the hearts and minds of more citizens. Picking up on the common thread of conversation that night, they talked about how important it is for history lovers to reach out and expand the base. (I frequently lament that history is often the domain of old white male, white collar men --even if I'm nearing a three-for-three on the demographic myself.) 

When their generation passes, who will be there to advocate for the gold mine of civic engagement that history inspires? Who will provide the grassroots political and financial support for institutions like Valley Forge and those the Harris duo works for? Who will be left to tell America's story and and guide us in the fight for her future?

Michael and Michelle feel the urgency of passing the torch to more hands. Greeting every visitor they meet as if it may be America's last chance to spark an interest in her history, they talk to old and young. They talk to white, black and every shade in between ... to the rich and to the struggling. Though they may never know the fruits of their labor, Michelle is constantly energized by stories she heard about the impact she made as a 19-year-old museum intern. Unbeknownst to her at the time, she gave a presentation to a young girl who became so enamored with the subject that it propelled her to turn her life around by getting interested in school for the first time.

Stories of lives changing through the gentle embrace of history aren't limited to children. Barbara Pollarine, a National Park Service deputy superintendent for Valley Forge, tells the story of a man who was ordered by his doctors to get in shape or face dire consequences. He turned to the park as a site for exercise, falling in love with the place and going on to dedicate his time and talents to its mission.

Don Naimoli, meanwhile, is one of the field generals of that operation. As chairman of The Friends of Valley Forge Park, he is orchestrating plans to protect and preserve the park. The site is sadly sometimes the victim of its own success and needs great upkeep. It must thwart the attacks of land and road development and other challenges. It must advocate for the federal funding needed to run it. He hopes to increase the troops enlisted in the Friends' organization so that more people are able to lend their voices to the cause. Every person who joins gives the volunteer organization that much more muscle and clout.

I could have talked to everyone in that room all night long, and nearly did. I realized it was time to go when only the Friends' board members were left and they had brooms in their hands. I admire everyone I met today and hope to do my part in the coming years to share the thrill of American history with greater numbers of people. I can think of a thousand ways I can use my brain, keyboard and enthusiasm to accomplish exactly that.

I sit here at my hotel room desk tonight still buzzing with the joy of meeting so many people today, and the Lock, Stock and Barrel workshop doesn't even start until Saturday. I see now that this is what it feels like to spend a day uniting with my tribe -- both the living and the dead.

Blood on the sidewalk

I stumbled into the Smithsonian's S. Dillon Ripley Center today, realizing the tiny kiosk of an entrance wasn't just housing for a brochure wrack or water fountain. My accidental discovery of a portal that sits invisibly in the shadow of the great castle beside it lead me down a winding staircase to an underground world of riveting exhibits -- including one that should be seen by everyone who thinks Barack Obama's election means it's time to stop talking about how we can improve racial relations ... if they can stomach the sight of a black man's blood spilling across the sidewalk.

The "Road To Freedom" drew me in because its focus -- photographs of the Civil Rights movement from 1956-1968 -- hit close to home. A Georgia boy who's a product of the New South, I knew I'd recognize many of the subjects. They're heroes to people like me and I've had the fortune to meet several of them. The exhibit itself is presented by Atlanta's High Museum of Art and some of the photos are being displayed for the first time.

Enter the exhibit and you are confronted by a nearly life-sized photograph of Martin Luther King Jr., and his wife Coretta marching toward you. All sound disappears as you get lost in the inspiring, and sometimes gruesome, display of black and white photos. Initially, I got lulled into happiness: There's a photo of a baby-faced Julian Bond, another of King standing in front of a portrait of Gandhi. There's a shot of King deep in concentration with his friends John Lewis, who would become an Atlanta congressman, and Andrew Young, who would become my hometown's mayor.

The levity didn't last.

I saw the National Guard snatch a photographer for the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee out of the hands of protesters. I absorbed shots of Rosa Parks getting arrested, a white man hitting a black reporter on the head while the valiant Little Rock 9 put their lives on the line.

I watched another white man pour cleaning agents into a swimming pool in Florida while black swimmers tread for equality. Police dogs tore into the flesh of another young African-American man, smoke poured out of a Freedom Rider bus, and James Meredith took a sniper's bullet. Police stung protesters with water cannons. White men attacked a group of black people who had the audacity to try to spend money in stores.

Ought of nowhere, I caught a glimpse of King sitting on the floor of his home relaxing with his family: Coretta and his daughter sat on the couch while King kept his son from wandering away with a hula hoop. I don't think I have ever seen an image of King smiling. It's almost hard to imagine a martyr experiencing moments like regular people but it felt good to think there was some joy in his life.

Several shots of a skinny Jesse Jackson threw me off, too, including one of him leading a poor people's march in front of the Washington Monument. He has been a headline-chasing demagogue for so long that I had forgotten he was once a more real person capable of independent thought. Though I was honored to meet him in my college days, I had tuned him out for ages -- but I had been thinking about him a lot since television caught him crying during Obama's inauguration. He became more human to me again.

I have also been thinking a lot about the Dr. Joseph Lowery, the reverend who gave the benediction at Obama's inauguration. I had the honor of working with Rev. Lowery on a particular crusade for justice earlier in this decade and found him to be one of the finest human beings I have ever met. On January 20th, I couldn't stop wondering what must have been going through his mind as he thought about America on the National Mall  when King shared his dream and America on the National Mall as Obama took the oath of office.

A friend of mine watching the ceremonies on TV with her nine-year-old son and some of his friends seemed to have it figured out. "Obama made King's dream come true," one of them said. "No," countered another, "the American people did."

I'm not sure which side Lowery would take, but he, Jackson, and Lewis did all answer the repeatedly asked question from reporters about whether they thought 40 years ago that a black man (or even a bi-racial one) would ever be elected president of the United States. They all said yes but they just didn't know when. It's hard for me to imagine they really thought that back then -- believed yes, but thought, no. How could it not have seemed preposterous at the time?

My train of thought came to a halt when I looked up and saw a shot of an unknown black man face down on a New Jersey sidewalk, blood pouring out of his skull, across the cement and onto the street.

America has certainly come a long way since then, as President Obama and Dr. Lowery can attest. Just because one dream has been achieved, though, doesn't mean we should stop talking about the sacrifices people made to get us here. We should remember the non-violent marchers and the boy-cotters, the students and the swimmers ... all the folks who took a beating or surrendered their lives to help America cross a literal and a figurative bridge to become a nation where more people who don't look alike can get along, and where everybody has an equal right to pursue all the happiness and freedom our country offers.

One of the best things we can do to honor their memory is continue to confront our own prejudices and encourage our friends and families to the same. One dream may be realized but we still have the chance to make it more concrete. More permanent. We can make it come true for increasing numbers of people, too.

We can also visit exhibits like the "Road To Freedom", even if like racism they're sometimes hidden in plain sight on the very Mall where America's greatest dream was born.

 

 

Christmas card to a recovering American soldier at Walter Reed

A friend of mine asked me if I would join her in writing Christmas cards to some soliders recovering from war wounds at Walter Reed Medical Center. Seems like the least we can do, so I thought I would share the first card I've written and ask that you take a few minutes and a few pennies to write a card yourself. Don't worry if they don't make it by Christmas day. It's the thought that counts.

The various programs helping generate such cards advise not to put your return address on the card itself (just the envelope) as the cards aren't designed to foster pen pal relationships. They also request that you not put anything in the cards such as small gifts. Just write what you have to say, sign it, and send it along. Below is the address and the first note I've written. Will you join me?

Address your card to: A Recovering American Solider

c/o Walter Reed Army Medical Center

6900 Georgia Avenue NW

Washington DC 20307-5001

Dear Soldier:

Although no words can fully express my gratitude for the service and the sacrifice you've made for this country, I did want to say thank you.

Thank you for your courage, your dedication and your patriotism. Please know that you have countless countrymen who are just as grateful as I am for what you're doing. I can not imagine how difficult it must be to be wounded and then shipped to another strange place far from home to recover. I hope that you find the strength to fight through it and to find the happiness in this life that you so truly deserve.

Sincerely,

Christopher Lancette

I know the economy is bad but ...

How desperate do you have to be to apply for this job?

Saw this on the Metro. It's real.

Choir knocks out Scrooge at Mount Vernon Estates

The Mount Vernon High School Choir lifted me up and took me to a higher place on Saturday with a Christmas performance to remember. I'm not big on most holidays and Christmas music drives me up a wall, but there was a little magic in the air at George Washington's estate yesterday.

Perhaps it was the combination of the music and the setting, and the fact that the young singers were dressed in 18th Century garb --and that they were giving it everything they had. 

I spend a lot of time at Mount Vernon and I've observed its beauty on all kinds of different days and seasons, but I don't know that I've ever seen it as beautiful as it was decked out for the arrival of Santa Claus.

If you haven't paid your respects to our first president lately, you should visit soon. The Christmas spirit is there waiting for you.

Confessions of a 2008 National Book Festival rookie

I totally blew it today. Bombed. Dropped the ball. Didn't plan the work and work the plan. Came up short. Failed.

I move to Washington D.C. in part to take advantage of the unending sea of new intellectual opportunities this city offers -- then I fumble away my first visit to the National Book Festival sponsored by my beloved Library of Congress. I could have spent the whole day on the Mall soaking up the festival, taking in the whole experience of it. I normally squeeze every last drop of enjoyment out of events like this.

Not today.

My bumbling started with my failure to clear my calendar for this morning. I had an appointment I could have changed but it was already, well, on the books, so I figured I'd just head down to the event and enjoy whatever struck me once I got there.

What a doofus.

The author I most wanted to see was scheduled to speak while I was at my other commitment. This denied me the chance to listen to historian Gordon S. Wood talk about his newest book -- The Purpose of The Past: Reflections on The Uses of History. I am still new to a lot of contemporary history written about the American Revolution because of my affection for all things antiquarian and original, but Wood is a writer I wanted to hear. No better way for me to start the festival than by listening to an accomplished writer talk about the uses of my favorite subject, history, that I'm so passionate about.

I missed his lecture but did intend to make it there in time to buy a couple copies of his book and get them signed. That's when I made one smart decision -- not taking the Metro. Wood's signing time ended at 12:30. I was already pressed for time and I couldn't take the chance that I'd catch a quick red line train from Takoma and an equally prompt transfer to the blue to get to the Smithsonian stop. I would have considered the eco-friendly route had more time been available. Instead, I threw my bike on my car and zipped to my office parking garage downtown and then raced over to the Mall.

I hitched the bike to a tree, ran to the book buying tent, gobbled up the books, and sprinted over to the signing area. I made it to him at 12:25 and got my prized signatures. Wood himself was not much in the mood to acknowledge his readers, though. Or at least not me.

I made several efforts to say hello while he was sitting right in front of me signing my books. He made no eye contact, didn't look up at any point, and just dutifully penned his name and inscription -- while looking around me, seeing only one other person remaining in line, and saying with glee that he was about done. I thanked him for taking the time to sign my books but he still didn't acknowledge me.

Kind of made me mad, to be honest.

I've never been to a book signing in which the author didn't even make eye contact with his readers as he signed. I had to bust my tail to get there and shell out the dough for the books; I wasn't looking for an invitation to his personal library to discuss the late 1700s over brandy, but a "hello" or "you're welcome" would have been nice. Word of mouth marketing is, after all, the best kind of publicity any author can get. Even if you are already a Pulitzer Prize winner.

I decided to try to give Wood the benefit of the doubt: He had been there for an hour. He's an old man and his signing hand had to hurt. It was a bit nasty outside, and it was lunch time. I told myself that I'd try not to let the personal slight affect my ability to read and enjoy the book.

Then it was back to the consequences of my poor planning.

I turn into a great big monster when I miss my feeding times. Or more like a salmon-starved grizzly bear in New Balance sneaks. I had to eat quickly and the only place around was the concession stand, which forced me to drop about 14 clams on a steak burger, fries, and, horror of horrors, a Pepsi. I normally walk out of any restaurant that sells Pepsi instead of America's number one fizzy beverage -- Coca-Cola. I knew a migraine would hit me if I didn't get my mid-day caffeine injection, though, so I had to swallow the Pepsi and hope I'd later find a Coke to wash out that tongue-repulsing taste.

Studying the schedule for the rest of the day, I realized I didn't really have it in me to hover around waiting for the other authors that might be interesting. Again, had I studied the schedule before today, I would have moved my morning appointment, gotten down to the Mall early, and settled in for the long haul knowing I could pop over to museums when there was not an author on stage that I wanted to hear. Probably would have brought a lawn chair or blanket for some book and tree cuddling.

I also would have bought multiple books in one trip through the book store part of the event. I could only grab the Wood books because I was racing against the clock, and the line at the Barnes & Noble checkout stand was mighty long. I didn't feel like going back in and hitting it a second time. 

I was antsy at that point, and probably still a little annoyed by Wood. Didn't feel like experiencing that twice, either. So I passed on the Library of Congress pavilion and the chance to talk about preserving my own antiquarian books with a real professional. I whiffed on the chance to see Walter Isaacson, author of a book I read on Benjamin Franklin. I didn't get to hear Bob Schieffer, an old-school TV journalist and anchor whose rock steady and false-drama-free delivery I've long appreciated.

I missed the chance to learn about the life experiences of authors that would have been new to me, like Immaculee Ilibagiza, a woman from Rwanda who lost most of her family during a 1994 genocide. If I had gotten really crazy, I might have even left the history and biography pavilion and tuned in to other genres. (Anything is possible.)

Marisa de los Santos would have captured my attention by surname and dust jacket photo alone. I certainly would have wanted to meet her. Belong to Me ... well, don't mind if I do.

Yes, I could have done all those things and more if I had only planned to attack the event the way I normally do. Instead, the guy who spends much of his free time camped out in the caverns of the Library of Congress tasted but a bite of what could have been one of the best meals I've had all year.

I know one" purpose of the past" is to provide guidance on not repeating mistakes, and I do know one thing for a fact: This doofus will be ready for the 2009 National Book Festival long before the tents go up next fall.

Legg Mason: Even the qualifiers are tennis classics

I headed over to the William HG Fitzgerald Tennis Center off 16th and Kennedy today to catch some early round action at the Legg Mason Tennis Classic. Knowing the best stuff at pro tennis tournaments in the first few rounds is more often found on the side courts than the stadium court, I camped out and watched South African Rick De Voest challenge Uruguay's Pablo Cuevas in a qualifying match.

For those not familiar with the sport, tournaments allow a number of unheralded players to fight their way into the tournament by advancing through, in effect, a pre-tournament. The qualifiers are like boxing matches minus the senseless violence: opponents attack each other with all the strength, stamina and wits they have, hoping to just make into the main draw and have a chance to earn a paycheck ... and get squashed by top players. (Andy Roddick, Marat Safin, Mardy Fish and Tommy Haas, among others, begin play in the next two days.) Want to see athletes pour their guts out? Watch qualifiers.

The 132-ranked Cuevas looked at first glance like he was going to be too much for De Voest, currently sitting at No. 151 in the world. He quickly put De Voest on the defensive with a display of flashy shots and a set of wheels that made it appear there was no ball he could not reach. Yet De Voest, who has scrapped his way into a total of eight regular tournament matches (with a 3-5 record once he gets there), refused to go away. He may have looked more like a neighbor you run into at your your local hardware store than a professional athlete, but he maintained his calm in a match whose sponsor should have been Pepto-Bismol.

The match was perfectly even in the first set tie-breaker, when fans leaned forward waiting to see what microscopic difference was going to separate the two players.

Unfortunately, a terrible call by the chair umpire (the head guy in charge of a match) turned the tide -- the chair over-ruling a line judge's call that a De Voest serve was out -- giving the South African an ace and a key point. Chair umpires are generally like Democratic presidential candidates -- people extremely reluctant to get involved and take a stand. (I at least give the Republicans credit: They may almost always be wrong, but they pick sides.)

To be clear, the serve was out. Way out. So far out that Cuevas didn't bother playing the ball. Yet the ump made the over-rule, Cuevas fell incredulous and became rattled. Umpires make mistakes, too, but it's rare to see an umpire inject himself without being asked, and even more rare to do the injecting when his decision is so off base you wonder what he was looking at. The mark of a good player, though, is one who can overcome obstacles in a match. Good players or teams make plays, I used to say in my coaching days, while losers make excuses.

The bad call in a tie-breaker, however, was a virtual death knell for the first set. There simply is no margin for error in a tie-breaker, and to suffer such a horrible call in that situation is indeed a monumental obstacle to overcome.

Cuevas couldn't recover in the tie-break but came out fighting the second. Calmly, steadily, though, De Voest etched out the tiniest of leads. But Cuevas still managed to earn a few chances to draw even. Four of them, in fact ... four break points on his opponent's serve. When you get to walk up to the teller at the break serve bank four times in one game, you've got to come away with cash on one of them. Cuevas, however, buried one potential winner in the net, over hit another wide, and got out-played on the other two. Opportunity vanquished, the match ended with De Voest walking away with a 7-6, 6-4 victory.

For De Voest, the win by a whisker means he lives on and has a chance to land a temp job for perhaps a day or two -- or as all qualifying players dream -- another week. Cuevas, on the other hand, will slink back to his hotel likely cursing the umpire who he'll perceive as his excuse for losing the match. If any of his friends filmed the contest, though, he'll see he had his chances to make plays. His chance to be the one who earns a living this week.