DC Reflections

Crying on Thoreau's cabin

Concord, Mass -- My tears surprised me this morning, probably because they burst from my eyes before I got out of my car. The mere sight of a sign pointing to Walden Pond was all it took for the gusher to start.

The place and the man who made it famous had lived only in my imagination for two and a half decades before I finally made today's pilgrimage. My relationship with Henry David Thoreau began when I was in high school. Today I found myself sitting on the very spot that held his cabin ... the place where he wrote so many of the words that would guide me through my life to find its joys and comfort me in its pains.

I pulled out my own journals today and sat on one of the stones that marks the outline of where his cabin stood.

I see Walden Pond as he saw it from this very door. This place is so much more magnificent than I had imagined. People have always told me that the pond was small and the area too developed. Though I can imagine the tiny beach fills with swimmers and sunbathers on warm days, this is on the other side. The pond is a big one as ponds go and more resembles a small lake.

Here, in the back of the woods where Thoreau lived, it is quiet. I hear only the sounds of acorns falling, the leaves rustling in the wind while turning red and yellow by the moment, birds chirping, and the occasional person passing by. A few fat drops of this morning's rain pelt these pages as they dive from the tree tops. This place seems filled with as much solitude now as it did then.

If you have not had the occasion to get to know Thoreau yourself, you should race to a book store and buy a copy today. It could change your life the way it did mine. Thoreau can help you figure out what's important, give you the courage to do things you didn't know you could do, and make you see the world as if your eye sight suddenly magnified. He'll also give you a giggle or two. (The scholars often forget the man could crack a joke or two.)

I took Thoreau's words to heart at an early age because he spoke to me both about the meaning of life and what it means to be a writer.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately," he wrote, "to front only the essential facts of life, and see if i could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. ... I wanted to live deep and suck out the marrow of life, and to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and to be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion."

He also placed inside me a land conservation ethic before I knew what the term meant. (It's certainly no coincidence that I now work as a communications director for The Wilderness Society.) He affirmed my love of solitude. He taught me the virtue of living simply. He showed me that a man can in the course of his time get as much out of life as he puts back into it.  

Perhaps more important than any of those things, he helped give me the courage to chase every wild dream I conjured up ... to spend my life taking big swings, to overcome failure, and, well, to thump my chest a little when I pulled off something spectacular.

"As I have said, I do not propose to write an ode to dejection, but to brag as lustily as chanticleer in the morning, standing on his roost, if only to wake my neighbors up."

Thoreau's words lingered in my head as I sat there scribbling in my own journal, whose pages are now

approaching 7,000 in number. I wrote that I could sit there all day writing about how much Thoreau means to me but that I could do more of that later.

Now I think it's time to honor him by continuing my own walk in the woods so that I might drink in this experience more deeply. I can spend all day here if I want. "Time," after all, "is but the stream I go a fishing in."

Then I pulled out the dog-eared copy of Walden Pond I've kept with me for the past 17 years -- its pages held together with equal parts hope and tape -- and read a few passages aloud to myself.

I resumed my walk and felt Thoreau's presence so strongly that I kept staring at the mud as if expecting to see his footprints and discern which way he was going today. My mind, as it always does when I get a good hike going, slowed down. Part of the reason I came on this trip was to think more about some of the new dreams I harbor for what I'd like to do with my life in the years ahead ... to set a few compass points that I might check each morning.

I inhaled a quick lunch and drove to the Concord Museum to see Thoreau's desk. I also saw one of the lanterns placed above Boston as old Paul Revere made his famous ride. Both artifacts were thrilling discoveries as I didn't know the museum existed before today.

Nor did I realize Thoreau was buried here and that his grave still exists.

I quickly found his resting place at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and was overcome in a different way, feeling an urge to pull out my journal again and write him a letter. It went like this:

Dear Mr. Thoreau,

I sit now by your grave, Mr. Thoreau. I confess I only moments ago learned I've been mispronouncing your name all these years. A woman at the Concord Museum said you pronounced it like you were a very thorough man, not like I throw a baseball. Everybody else gets it wrong, too, so I hope you can forgive us.

I can't believe how tiny your tombstone is. It's like a baby's. It can't be more than nine inches high and wide. And it just says "Henry." No epitaph. No nothing. Your name and birth and death dates are as you know with the rest of your family's. I see your parents John and Cynthia and your siblings Helen and Sophia.

I guess I expected something grand, something that in death represents how big you were -- though I realize your fame multiplied by an infinite factor as the years went on after you died. Still, it's puzzling. Such a humble little stone for a man who made such a big impact on the world -- not only during your time but in the generations that have followed.

I came here today to thank you for everything you've done for me. I'm not really sure how to properly thank a dead man but I at least wanted to visit you to pay my respects. I've known you for more than half of my life, which puts you in the company of but a select few of my friends.

How do I thank you? You saw that I spent the morning at your cabin by Walden Pond. I could feel your presence there as I do here. You must still entertain a lot of company these days. I see a note on your grave and that some people have built tiny little cabins with twigs. I see someone left coins in a language I don't recognize. Russian maybe. I see someone else left a tiny piece of metal with perhaps Chinese characters on one side and the English word "balance" on the other. A group of German students just came. I see that note is from a pair of people from Galicia, Spain, and they left their names for you. I'm not sure if you read Spanish but Irisarri and Maria left you the note. It says "All of us who love nature are in debt to you, father of conservation and grandfather of ecology."

Even 147 years after your death, you continue to touch the minds and hearts of people around the world. You have clearly achieved what every writer, and would-be writers like myself who pale in comparison, dreams of -- eternal life. One of my darkest fears, apart from never publishing more than I have now, is that all of my words -- my magazine articles, news reports, newspaper columns, blogs and these journal pages will also disappear with me when I move on from this world.

This moment of self pity aside, I do want to thank you again for what you've done for me. I'm wearing your face on my shirt right now and everybody is asking me where I got it and what my connection is to you, H.D. (I hope you don't mind I have long called you that.) I told a woman who is on the board of The Thoreau Society I met this morning that you have guided me through much of my life. I guess you heard that but I wanted to tell you again. Your words expanded my mind at a tender age and made me think the world offered me much greater potential for living greatly than I might have otherwise believed. You at different times helped build my internal compass and at others helped me stay true to it.

One of my worst fears in college -- one that I rebelled against -- was that I would graduate and go work a normal job to the day I die without ever having truly embraced life. Thanks in part to you, I ventured to Alaska and to Spain and had all kinds of adventures -- not only in travel but in the personal and professional facets of my life. For the most part, I have made mighty good use of the time I've had on this planet. I've certainly sucked a lot of marrow out of it. I've always made consistent efforts to give back to the world, too, again following distantly in your footsteps.

I credit your hand as among the most influential, the most responsible, for so many of the best decisions I've made in my life. I am truly grateful beyond what I have the words to express.

You will live in my heart forever, and I hope that you continue to bless me with your guidance.

Sincerely,

Christopher D. Lancette

Standing in awe -- and uncertainty -- in revolutionary Boston

BOSTON -- Studying the history of the American Revolution sometimes feels more like mud wrestling than an intellectual pursuit. Even after all the years, libraries, documents and road trips, I just can't quite get my arms around it and pin it down. I don't know why I'm surprised that my life-long dream of coming to Bean town is proving to be yet another couple of rounds in the pit.

My day started with awe.

I hit The Freedom Trail this morning, notebook and cameras in hand -- my mind spinning in anticipation of seeing sights I have known only as words and photographs for so long. "Captain John Hodgkins" led me along a guided tour that left me hanging on his every word. Every time he pointed and drew a deep breath, I bounded in that direction. Dressed in colonial attire of a gentleman, he told us about the history of the founding of this city and then bellowed out some of the highlights of the revolution that began here.

I bowed my head at the Granary Burying Ground and paid respects to James Otis, one of the not-as-well-remembered heroes of what became the freedom movement. He was the lawyer who argued against the writs of assistance for four hours, imploring that the British Crown not be allowed to enter anyone's house with a flimsy document and confiscate anything they find. His effort fell on deaf ears, but John Adams said he thought the Revolution started on that day. I gave just as much reverence to the likes of Paul Revere and to what modern history still records as victims of the Boston Massacre.

That's where it gets muddy.

The truth is that the Americans antagonized the British troops that fateful day. In the freezing cold winter, they hurled oyster shells and everything else they could find at the soldiers. Tension was still running high over the shooting of a boy by a lobster back a week earlier. We didn't have time to get into this kind of detail on the tour but I've read enough accounts of the events of that event to understand how the soldiers could have lost their composure. That didn't make firing on the colonists right but I have to at least acknowledge their mobbish behavior.

I'm still not sure what to make of everything that unfolded that day (March 5, 1770), but I am adamant that the site of those deaths should be better heralded than it is now. The spot where five people died and that ignited revolutionary fervor is now marked but by street bricks on a tiny traffic island outside the Old State House. People step all over it crossing the street and many clueless passersby probably don't even know what the spot is. I didn't even see a sign. I suspect that the everyday tourist in the group would've passed right over it without knowing what it was were it not for our captain.

I just don't quite get how a place that should be much more hallowed ground became something that people simply stomp all over. I realize that in 2009 it would be nearly impossible to fix the problem -- there's no room to re-route the roads.

Still. Couldn't something have been done earlier?

I returned to awe on my next few stops.

At Faneuil Hall, I sat there quietly imagining all the debates and community meetings that took place more than two centuries ago. Then I hopped on the T and took the train out to Quincy to visit the homes of my very favorite Founding Father, Mr. Adams. He is to me the most accessible of the bunch. The most human. The most open and expressive with his emotions and his thoughts. I can relate to his joy's and wallow in his pains. I can feel his ego bruisings. I can identify with his shortcomings: He hid them not.

I toured his birth home, walked next door to the home he later occupied with Abigail, the great love of his life. Every man and woman should be so lucky as to have a bond like what they shared.

I moved on to the home, "Peace field" where John and Abigail spent the rest of their lives. Its' where they listened in horror as surgeons cut into their daughter's breasts with a saw trying to remove a tumor. It's where John wrote and read so much of famous correspondence with Thomas Jefferson, a man with whom his relationship rode a roller coaster over their decades of friendship and service to this nation. Some of the words they exchanged in their final years are the most touching to me and I've now stood in each of the very rooms where they read and wrote the other -- and, of course, where both died within hours of each other on the 50th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

I did not realize John Adams died in his study. The National Park Service tour guide explained that once his wife died, the old president could bear no more nights in their bedroom.

I thought I was going to end Monday's history exploration in the high note of the good company of John and Abigail. Both of them are heroes of mine, by the way, and I have spent an extraordinary amount of time in their graces. I've held original letters he wrote from France and I've even touched an alleged lock of her hair. (History groupies find access to these kinds of experiences.)

A ride back to Boston led me to a mudslide.

I entered the Boston Public Library at Copley Square and camped out in the beautiful reading room with a stack of books on the Revolution after marveling at the architecture of the building. The most compelling read was "Black Courage 1775-1783: Documentation of Black Participation in the Revolutionary War," by Robert Ewell Greene in 1984.

At the risk of sounding like the kind of politically correct blowhard I disdain, it is absolutely a self-evident truth that the contribution of African-Americans to the American Revolution have been largely overlooked by popular history. I've intended to do more with this idea but I have so many different Revolutionary research projects going I can't seem to finish one of them. The questions the author poses and begins to answer, though, are worth discussing.

Greene stated that the two essential questions that face Americans of color are what the Revolution has to do with them, and why black people would fight for a nation that held them in slavery. He wrote that the answers can only be obtained by first gaining a better understanding of the full facts surrounding black participation in the war.

As the sun set and the sky outside the giant windows in the library went dark, I delighted in Greene's clear, direct writing. No high-brow academic stuff here.

In short, he wrote that black men suffered just like their white counterparts in the war. Robert Green took a musket ball in the face. Thomas Lively lost his right eye in a battle and lost his leg in another. Caesar Skelton got stabbed in the back. An estimated 5,000 black men and women gave themselves to the cause of liberty -- their nation's and their own in hopes a victorious country would make good on its promise of freedom to those who served in Washington's army.

Why is this important to us today? I see it, as I believe Greene does, as a matter of simple fairness. A matter of telling a complete and unvarnished story about the full participation in the war that gave us this country. I've thought all day about what metaphor I might use to make this point. My first thought was naturally to compare telling an incomplete story to the idea of describing a beautiful woman but leaving out key details like the color of her eyes or the shape of her cheekbones. That doesn't do it justice, though.

As I sat here getting some directions from google for tomorrow's itinerary, I realized that failing to include the participation of African-Americans in the Revolutionary War would be like leaving out countless key turns when you're giving someone directions to an important destination. The poor sucker might not ever get there, or know how exactly he made it if he did manage to blindly stumble across it.

Time for me to go wash the mud off my hands. My wake up call is but hours away and there's much to explore tomorrow. 

Naked at the Subway sandwich shop

A homeless man sitting on a milk crate un-nerved me when looked right inside my soul as I pulled up to an M Street lunch break during my Saturday bike sojourn the other week.

He stared through my blue eyes and made me feel exposed. Naked.

Like he could read every thought in my mind, including the ugly ones ... thoughts about how I generally ignore homeless people on the streets because there are too many of them; it's not my problem that they put themselves in that situation; they should get help at a charity; if I give them money, they'll just spend it on liquor anyway.

I averted my eyes and entered the Subway shop to pig out at the 50-mile mark of a 100-mile ride. I sat down with my back toward the old man so that I might stop his knowing gaze from clanging around inside my chest: Once glance from him had thrown a monkey wrench into my rib cage.

I tried to eat my foot-long ham and cheese and rest in air conditioned peace. It was by District standards a hot day and I knew I needed a little break from the sun during an eight-hour ride.

About four inches into my meal, I felt compelled to get up and give the man five bucks. He thanked me. Five clams were all I had on me and I thought it was the least I could do for a man who wasn't begging for money and hadn't asked me for a thing. There were no stories about running out of gas or needing Metro money or his wife needing to go to the doctor. I simply told the man that I hoped that $5 could help him get something he needed. I barely looked at his face because it was too painful for me. There were too many bad story lines chiseled into it and more pain in his eyes than I wanted to know about.

I returned to my sandwich but made it only two inches further. It was hot out there. I was sweating like a dog and I'm a conditioned weekend warrior athlete. I told the folks behind the counter not to throw my stuff away, that I'd be right back. I walked across the street to the CVS pharmacy on the corner of Connecticut and bought the man the largest bottle of Gatorade it had.

"It's hot out here," I said, handing the drink to the man. He nodded his head, said thanks, and I went back inside.

Eight inches into my sandwich I could eat no more.

I looked at the old man again and then looked down at myself. An unexpected feeling of grief began to drown me in a flood as I sat there observing that I was wearing a $100 shirt that pulls the sweat away from my body, $80 shorts that provide some relief from the pressure of riding, and $100 shoes designed to help me go faster. I use them all to perch myself on top of a $1,300 bike so I can explore the city. Outside was a fellow human being in a raggedy t-shirt and dirty jeans who sat on a 50-cent milk crate just trying to survive another day in the city. 

Racial differences aside, we're all related to each other in both a genetic and a moral sense, I thought. I can't let him just sit there and suffer today. I was not raised to ignore a moment like this. God has given me too many blessings to shut my eyes tighter in a moment like this. I've got to do at least a little something more.

I stepped outside and asked the old man if I could buy him lunch. It took a minute for my question to register and it was a little hard for me to follow some of his responses. He said that since he hurt his ribs, he has to watch his cholesterol. He can't eat mayonnaise. I told him I'd like to get him a sandwich that didn't have mayonnaise on it and that he could have anything he wanted. He said a turkey sandwich would be good. I walked him through the vegetables and condiments and he told me he wanted lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and ketchup.

I went back inside and placed the order. A woman behind the counter got a little teary eyed and told me I was making a very nice gesture. "It's not much," I said, humbly. "But at least it's something, right? I mean, it's hot out there."

I gave the man his foot long, chips and drink and told him that I hoped he liked it. He nodded his head and thanked me again. "No need," I told him, cheerfully. "It's out here today and I want you to take it easy."

I returned to my own sandwich and was able to get it down. I exited the Subway shop a minute later just as the man was finishing his meal and we crossed eyes again. This time he looked vulnerable, like he was feeling that I was looking inside his shell. I tapped my heart a few times with my right hand and smiled at him as if to say that I had his back today.

I hopped back on my Trek and pulled away. I knew I hadn't solved a District-wide issue. I knew I hadn't done anything to solve the old man's underlying problems. At best, I just helped lift one man's hunger for a few hours and let him know that someone cared about him. At least for one afternoon anyway.

I tried not to think about what would happen to him tomorrow or how I'd react on my ride the next day, when the homeless would likely just go back to being a faceless blur that I zip past in my fancy shirt and speedy little shoes.

Discoveries in a dead man's home

I entered the home of another dead man last Saturday looking for one thing in particular -- additional book cases to add to the library in my house. The thrill of finding just the right piece for it, though, is but one of many elements I love about attending estate sales.

It's not usually just what I buy that makes my occasional weekend sojourns so intriguing.

I was confident last weekend's estate sale trip to a Maryland home near National Harbor would be no exception. I study the ads in the Washington Post before making my itinerary. (Estate sales, unlike garage sales, tend to be high-quality affairs in the homes of recently deceased, well-off or wealthy people.) This notice mentioned that the owner was an avid collector of many things, including books.

I arrived and did a quick pass through the home until I found my quarry. This man, too, had a formal library. I glanced at an antique table with a strikingly old photo album on it and was so drawn to the artistry of it that I perused a few quick pages. The photos were all black and white and appeared to go back a hundred years.

I moved on to look at the dazzling display in the library. Hand-made, floor-to-ceiling book cases with the craftsman's initials branded on to them lined the room. Books going back to 1904 (not quite old enough for me to buy) lined the shelves.

An oriental carpet reeking of cat urine covered the floor. This man may have had cats but he was in his heart a dog man: countless dog figurines lined his oak desk and smaller book shelves. Maybe he was too old by that point in his life to keep dogs. High school year books and other clues in the house suggested he was likely born between the world wars. The photograph of what was likely his high school or college graduation class looked like something out of a film on Turner Classic Movies ... a dozen or so young men all dressed in suits smiling and laughing and looking everywhere but at the camera when the exposure was made.

The old man was probably a psychologist, his library containing a ton of books on the subject dating from the 1940s to the 1960s. While most people only attend estate sales to shop for interesting items, I often become a biographical detective who tries to discern what lessons the homeowners' lives have to teach me, what stories they have to tell.

This home clearly belonged to an old man who died alone: He never married or lost a wife long ago and chose not to wed again: There was not a trace of the feminine touch in the home. The art work featured scenes of ships and the sea. Two rooms had busts of learned men's faces I did not recognize. Only men's clothes hung in the closets. The sheets and covers on the master bed contained only heavy, dark colors. The sun room on the back contained several chairs but only one with seat cushions that looked worn. An enormous collection of tools filled a basement workshop that also housed a China collection that clearly had not served guests in many decades.

My concentration was broken by a woman on her cell phone debating with her husband whether she should buy the big book shelves. After hanging up, the woman mentioned to me that she and her husband wanted to get rid of their IKEA book shelves for something better. She asked me if I thought these big cases were a good deal. I masked my horror at the thought of any book being placed on an IKEA shelf (an insult to the printed word) and told her these shelves were priced to move. Shockingly cheap, actually. Just $65 each.

I told her I'd grab them if I had the space but that the next person to walk through the door certainly would snag them. When she expressed further doubt, I pointed to the sturdiness, the quality of the wood, and the branded initials -- always a good sign. She noticed the scratches that had come with age and said her husband could paint the shelves to make them look new.

I choked.

"Ma'am," I said, sweet as pie, "I couldn't tell you how old these book cases are, but they've clearly got some great years under them. They're supposed to look this way. That's what gives them their charm. All you'd want to do is dust them with a cotton cloth. You'd destroy them by taking a brush or chemical to them."

She thanked me for my time, whipped out her phone, and told her husband that she had decided to buy them right away. She scampered to pay for the shelves and returned to the library. The next man who came in saw the bounty and announced he was buying them. He was crushed to learn he was too late. (If you want the best items, arrive in the first hour of an estate sale. If you want to try for a bargain, return on the second and final day when the companies running the event usually mark everything down by 50 percent for the final three hours of the sale.)

I purchased two equally beautiful but smaller shelves that were exactly the pieces I needed for my library -- only $45 each and they were just as well made. I bought a couple of tiny globes the man had on his desk, figured I'd take a chance I could clean the feline-stained carpet, and bought a really nifty wooden item I envisioned holding one of my antique glass bottles. A husband and wife walked by me and told me they were heading back to take that very item in my hands and that I had indeed picked a fine "fern stand". (Hey, I'm a single straight guy; I didn't know what a duvet cover was until a girlfriend from my 30s started identifying such objects for me.)

The library raided, I made more laps through the rest of the home. I had a lot in common with this old man. An appreciation for living alone. A great love for books and old, wood furniture. I could have spent a paycheck there if I hadn't been careful. (Make a budget for yourself if you decide to attend an estate sale. Find the right home and money goes flying out of your pocket.)

There was one item in particular, though, that kept nagging me, inducing a thought that had not quite come to the surface yet. As happy as I was with my library score, I couldn't shake the sight of the table with that old photo album. The album was the major focal point of the man's library, something he regarded with great tenderness. I flipped the pages again and saw what I presumed to be many long-lost family members, yet the old man apparently died with no one in his life who meant as much to him as did the loved ones in the photos. He left no survivors who wanted the album.

I often take great pride in having lived my 40 years to the fullest, following Thoreau's mantra to suck the marrow out of life. I regret little. Still, I am conscious of the fact that I have pushed away every woman I've ever let get close to me because I so enjoy the fun and freedom that comes with being single. I'm big on solitude and I like to do whatever I want to do whenever I want to do it. I also very much enjoy my own company, hanging out in my library with my dog Alexis, and riding my bike all day.

Looking around the old man's house one final time, I stared at the sun room seats with only one worn cushion, the bachelor bedding, the dog figurines, and the photo album. I reflected on the choices I have made in my life, the subterranean thought at last emerging: I guess this is how my house will look when I die, too.

 

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