The Pope, George Washington, and a Risky Idea
This note is dredged from the archival estuary…mud, weeds, barnacles and all.
Washington, DC
September 26, 2015
Alexander and I enjoyed a delightful three days here in the belly of the beast, facilitated and enlivened by the hospitality of Hugh III, and embellished by the company of Kelly and Hugh IV. Too many years had passed since we last saw them, tho’ bottles of Chianti at dinner Thursday, and of Bordeaux at Chez Trout the other two nights, helped redeem lost time and solve a few of the world’s problems.
We then proceeded to sow the seeds of a new one. One of us suggested another family reunion at some yet undetermined place and time in 2016. Under influence of the wine, we all agreed the idea had merit, but obviously wanted to canvas the broader group for thoughts.
We were not the only dignitaries to adorn this city the last few days. Timing his visit to align with ours and provoking, among the self-important court and its self-appointed jesters in this imperial capital, outpourings of false (and selective) humility and sincere (yet universal) righteous indignation, was Pope Francis.
His Holiness’s confused economics and trendy environmental agenda, none of which bear the imprimatur of official Church doctrine, are sacramental to our anointed elites, while moral pronouncements that reflect infallible Papal authority fall on “progressive” ears with all the force of dew upon the earth. If acknowledged at all, these doctrine are conveniently ignored or condescendingly lamented as “policies” this amiable Pope has simply not yet managed to revise. Everything, even the Eternal, is apparently a mere “position” to be altered at the whim of whoever occupies the Papal “office”.
Fortunately, while the Vicar of Christ was addressing the heirs of Caesar, locals heeded warnings of crowded streets and delayed rails by avoiding the central part of the city, thereby leaving much of it easily accessible to us.
We opted for the anachronistic experience of viewing the original Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights, each appropriately locked under glass, where they can inflict minimal damage to elected, judicial, or bureaucratic conscience. Alexander displayed genuine and admirable awe before these fading documents, wondering with benefit of doubt only youth can summon whether perhaps their diminished legibility accounts for their practical irrelevance.
Our chests swelling with patriotic pride at the liberal documents we’d just seen, our first sight upon leaving the Archives was of militarized police (in camouflage no less) occupying each intersection along the Mall, barking orders at touristic provincials…wielding menacing arsenals of fanny packs, Diet Cokes, and baby strollers…to not commit such atrocities as crossing empty intersections against red lights. Like an encounter with the TSA, I suppose such nannyish bullying is meant to evoke feelings of gratitude and “security” (or submission?), but instead instilled feelings reflected in the face of the weeping Indian in that early 1970s environmental commercial.
Storm troopers aside, this place is not bereft of pleasures, among them charming neighborhoods such as that in which Hugh lives, many wonderful restaurants, and the ease with which the Metro moves us from one place to another. By this mode we arrived Wednesday evening at Nationals Park to enjoy under miraculous weather the rivalry between the Nationals and the Baltimore Orioles. Like so many of the ballparks erected the last couple decades, this one affords adequate perspective from most any location, and is a very comfortable place to watch a game.
I did notice, however, a disturbing propensity among the ushers, much like many stewardesses on domestic airlines, to act more as enforcers of busy-body regulations than as servants to paying customers. The one nearest us, on sentry four levels above home plate amid a swarm of empty seats, ensured no patron sat even one seat from the one to which his ticket entitled him. Even those who remained in their assigned slots were not necessarily spared, as one sixty-ish gentleman was scolded for having the temerity to stretch his legs over a seat in the (completely empty) row ahead of him. I suppose this town instills in many of its residents an irresistible urge to boss others around, even (or particularly) when they engage in activity certain to harm absolutely no one else. Nonetheless, after watching the Nationals succumb, we sardined ourselves into the Metro, returned to Hugh’s house, and sacrificed a delicious bottle of Bordeaux on the altar of scintillating conversation.
Notwithstanding any faults this city bears in the present, it offers ample opportunity to escape into the past. The next two days we did just that, starting Thursday with Alexander’s first visit to Arlington Cemetery, on property Lincoln stole from Lee, and into which invaders were subsequently sprinkled like salt into an open wound. We proceeded to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and thence to those of whom we were better acquainted, my Breen grandparents. Prior to visiting their gravesite, however, we provided Alexander his first opportunity to see that of JFK with its attendant eternal flame (the only one he apparently ever had), before continuing to the very pleasant evening with Hugh, Hugh, and Kelly that produced the Chianti and reunion idea I noted above.
Neither Alexander nor I had ever visited Mt Vernon, a deficiency a relaxing 90-minute boat ride the next morning, down the Potomac from the DC waterfront to George Washington’s backyard, ably rectified. We arrived as workers removed scaffolding that had covered the house the previous three months, revealing its splendidly refurbished exterior and highlighting our exquisite timing.
As remarkable as I found that structure (which I was unaware contained the key to the Bastille), the captivating vista across the Potomac from the back of the house hit me without expectation, yet exceeded any I could have conjured. The location is superb, and certainly justified the persistent longing its owner had for retirement to that place. We, however, had to content ourselves with only a few hours. But to have been with Alexander before the desk where Washington wrote, the bed in which he died, and the grave in which he rests, are memories I would gladly take from any day. We capped this one with a stroll the length of King Street in Old Town Alexandria, admiring its rich heritage and resisting the appeal of its modern establishments to our wallet.
Alexander absolutely loves this city. Unfortunately for him, we return to Atlanta today. Nonetheless, seeing Hugh, Hugh, and Kelly reminds that we all see each other far too infrequently. I know we don’t have the “zero-birthday” excuse next year (aside, as she was quick to note, from Kelly), but those zeroes from our last gathering will next year be “fives”.
That, assuming we need one, may be as good a reason as any.
JD
