Thursday, 3 July 2008

George Washington was, from the beginning of the American republic, the embodiment of America herself. He led the Continental Army for eight years (1775–1783), mostly through defeat, to one glorious victory at Yorktown and independence. He shepherded a contentious Constitutional Convention, as the presiding officer, in developing the document that birthed the American republic. He served as the first President of the United States, and the only president elected unanimously—twice (1789 and 1793).

Desiring to retire to his “vine and fig tree” at Mount Vernon—a reference to 1 Kings 4:25 that speaks of safety, prosperity, and contentment—Washington left Philadelphia and the presidency on March 4, 1797. Returning to Mount Vernon, Washington, sadly, could only attend to his farm and trees for two years before his death.

On Thursday, December 12, 1799, at mid-morning, Washington, as was his custom, rode out to oversee the farm. While riding, the weather turned foul. Returning to the house later in the day, his coat and hair covered with snow and his boots splattered with mud, he ate his dinner. Friday morning, a heavy snow fall kept Washington in. When the weather calmed down in the afternoon, and despite a sore throat, Washington walked out between the house and the Potomac River to mark trees for removal. Later that evening, his personal secretary, Tobias Lear, encourage Washington to take something for his cold. Washington disregarded the advice with, “Let it go as it came.”

In the early morning of Saturday, December 14, Washington woke Mrs. Washington and told her he was ill and had a ragging fever. Preventing Mrs. Washington to call anyone until sunrise, she summoned Lear as soon as the sun broke the horizon. Lear sent dispatches for doctors to come immediately. But before the doctors arrived, Washington instructed Lear to bring in Mr. Rawlins, an overseer, to bleed him. Rawlins faltered. Washington reassured him, “Don’t be afraid.” Dr. Craik arrived around 8 or 9 o’clock and bleed Washington again and applied a blister. When Drs Dick and Brown arrived at 3:00 the president was bled again. Sometime after 4 o’clock Washington asked Mrs. Washington to retrieve his two wills. Giving one back, he told her to burn it. Turning to Lear, Washington said: “I find I am going, my breath cannot last long; I believed from the first that the disorder would prove fatal. Do arrange & record all my late military letters & papers[;] arrange my accounts and settle my books, as you know more about them than anyone else.” Washington’s prophecy was correct. Lingering throughout the afternoon and evening, Washington at one point told his doctors: “I feel myself going, I thank you for your attentions; but I pray you take no more trouble about me, let me go off quietly; I cannot last long.” Between 10:00 and 11:00 Washington told Lear, “I am just going! Have me decently buried; and do not let my body to be put into the vault less than three days after I am dead … ’tis well!”

With Mrs. Washington sitting at the foot of his bed, Washington placed his hand on his wrist, felt his pulse, and then quietly died shortly before midnight.

George Washington died like a gentleman—with dignity and nobility. On Wednesday, December 18, Washington was laid to rest under his “vine and fig” at his beloved Mount Vernon. The following day, Washington’s old friend, Supreme Court Chief Justice John Marshall, mourned him dead: “Our Washington is no more. The Hero, the Sage, and the Patriot of America—the man on whom in times of danger every eye was turned, and all hopes were placed—lives now only in his own great actions and in the hearts of an affectionate and afflicted people.”

To see Mount Vernon today is to see it as Washington left it. The mansion still sits majestically on the banks of the Potomac River, its striking red roof and cupola inviting visitors to sit on the piazza and look across the river to the wooded hills of Maryland. Its barns and out buildings remind the visitor of a bustling plantation. The mansion’s rooms speak of the Washington’s hospitality and gentility. And the master bedroom harkens back to that mournful night of December 14, 1799.

Down the hill from the mansion is the tomb. When you visit, be sure to pass in review and pay your respects to President and Mrs. Washington. In the quietness of that place, you’ll understand why he was so anxious to get back to his “vine and fig.”

Monday–Wednesday, 30 June–2 July 2008

Dr. Seuss is one of my favorite authors. (This gives you a glimpse into my mental ability—or lack thereof.). One of my favorite books is Oh, the Places You’ll Go. So, in the spirit of Dr. Seuss and his book I offer this little Seussian poem of our days in Washington D.C.

Oh, the Things We Saw in Washington’s Town

Oh, the things we saw in Washington’s town.

The Capitol Building, where a pocket knife makes every guard frown,

The International Spy Museum, where the kids snuck around,

The Washington Monument, where at the top D.C. is in the round,

The WW II, Vietnam, and Korean War Memorials, where you bow your head down,

The Lincoln Monument, where his presence and words makes your heart pound,

The FDR Monument, where the best thing to see is the President’s hound,

The Thomas Jefferson Monument, where words of God should always sound,

The Holocaust Museum, where you remember souls crushed and ground,

The White House, where tours inside could not be found,

The National Archives, where words of Independence and Union are our crown,

The Natural History Museum, where dinosaurs and critters abound,

The Air and Space Museum, where planes and rockets break earth’s bound.

These are the things we saw in Washington’s town.

Sunday, 29 June 2008

John Wayne’s 1960 epic The Alamo is a dreadful piece of history. But as a patriotic primer it has few rivals. In an overtly patriotic speech, Wayne’s character, Davy Crockett is speaking with William B. Travis in a Cantina. Travis had come to implore Crockett to join the Texas rebels in their war to gain independence from Mexico. Crockett anticipates that Travis wants to talk about building a Texas republic. He says,

Republic. I like the sound of the word. It means people can live free, talk free, go or come, buy or sell, be drunk or sober, however they choose. Some words give you a feeling. Republic is one of those words that makes me tight in the throat—the same tightness a man gets when his baby takes his first step or his first baby shaves and makes his first sound as a man. Some words can give you a feeling that makes your heart warm. Republic is one of those words. [1]

Republic is just another way to say liberty. It may be sappy and old fashioned—as John Wayne was in 1960—but he was right.

Liberty. I like the sound of the word.

Boston may be the cradle of liberty, but Philadelphia is certainly its incubator. It was in that city—the largest in the thirteen colonies—that the First Continental Congress meet in Carpenter’s Hall. It was in that city—in Carpenter’s Hall—that Patrick Henry put to voice what many may have only thought when he no longer identified himself locally, but as a part of the whole: “I am no longer a Virginian. I am an American.” Two years after the First Continental Congress, the Second Congress—in that same city—declared independence from Great Britain. In a brick building that has come to be known as Independence Hall, fifty-two men debated and later ratified the document we American’s cherish to this very day—232 years later. It was in that same building, in 1787, where a new form of government was born—a constitutional republic. And it all happened in that city by the Delaware River, the city of Brotherly Love.

Philadelphia was also the seat of national government from 1790–1800, housed in the aptly named building next door to Independence Hall: Congress Hall.

All of this history within the walls of a few buildings, within a few city blocks. And this is to say nothing of the room where Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence or of Benjamin Franklin’s famous kite experiment and inventions or of the Liberty Bell and its famous crack.

Philadelphia is a place every patriot should see. And when you go, talk less and listen carefully. Its walls echo the distant voices of patriots past—

Liberty. I like the sound of the word. It means people can live free, talk free, go or come, buy or sell, be drunk or sober, however they choose. Some words give you a feeling. Liberty is one of those words that makes me tight in the throat. Some words can give you a feeling that makes your heart warm. Liberty is one of those words.

[1] Quoted from http://www.imdb.com/character/ch0030523/quotes.

Saturday, 28 June 2008

Children were a joy to Theodore Roosevelt. The father of six, stories abound of his many letters to and romps with his children. I like one in particular. When he was President, Roosevelt was engaged in an important meeting that went longer than expected. A couple of his boys had interrupted the meeting reminding the President that he promised to take them on an adventure. After the second or third interruption—to the visible annoyance of the “important” men in the room—President Roosevelt stood, told the stuffy gentlemen that he really must leave; he had promised his boys an escapade and waiting was a painful thing for boys. With that, Roosevelt walked out of the room.

Driving up the tree-lined road of Sagamore Hill, with the beautiful Victorian mansion perched on the top of the hill, I knew right away this was a house teeming with adventurous potential. The first floor of the house is dark—mahogany stained wood covers the walls and floors. It is filled with rustic and eclectic artifacts—bronze statues of cowboys, Indians, and wild animals, flags hang from the ceiling beams and in frames, a sword and hat is balanced in the horns of a moose, and huge elephant trunks greet you in the great room. The floors are covered with animal skins and the walls with deer, elk, and buffalo heads. Three stories, accessed by two stairways, with hallways that twist and turn just invite a game of hide-n-go-seek. Or better yet, a game of sardines.

The kids would have loved to explore the nooks and crannies of the house. I’d have been right there with them—just as I’m sure Roosevelt would have too. But, obviously, we couldn’t do that. Instead, the kids ran and horsed in the yard. TR would have approved.

I suppose that is one reason why Theodore Roosevelt is my hero—he was a kid trapped in an adult body. Something, as I get older I try to emulate. Sadly, too often I fail, but Roosevelt is always there, with his toothy grin to invite me to live light heartedly. He knew how to have fun. He also lived in the present—completely engaged with and in whomever, whatever, or wherever he happened to find himself. In an age as schizophrenic as ours, his example of normality—engrossing yourself, with your whole being, into another person or a place or an activity . . . even running on the grounds of Sagamore Hill or rocking on the front porch of this great man’s house—is completely abnormal today.

I’d rather live in the normal. That’s why, for me, the visit to Sagamore Hill was the capstone of the trip. I wished we could have stayed longer . . . rocking on the front porch reading a good book; or going on an adventure with the kids. Either one would have met with the hearty approval of TR.

Yet, stay we couldn’t. We were bound for Philadelphia and the history of our independence and constitutional government. So, we left Sagamore Hill as Roosevelt would have wanted us to, with a smile. As our guide said, Roosevelt always welcomed his guest: “You must smile when you are at Sagamore Hill or I shall have to throw you out.” I was almost thrown out, not because of a frown . . . my grin was has broad has his, but because I was so reluctant to leave my rocking chair on the front porch.

Friday, 27 June 2008

September 11, 2001, changed almost everything. Not everything . . . but enough.

The most obvious change is to the skyline itself: the twin towers are absent. From the Staten Island Ferry you can now see what once was obscured—the Empire State Building. A more subtle change, probably unnoticed by many, is the challenge to visit the Statue of Liberty. A few months before 9/11 I traveled to New York and walked up to a kiosk in Battery Park and purchased tickets for the ferry to Liberty Island. Once on the island, I climbed inside the statue and looked out of Liberty’s crown on the front door of America. Today, tickets must be bought online—at least weeks, if not months—in advance. And if you make it to Liberty Island, you can’t climb to the crown. You can only tour the pedestal. Regrettably, we didn’t get tickets to the Statue of Liberty—the one thing I wanted the kids to see while in New York—but we sailed close by on the Staten Island Ferry.

What hasn’t changed is the utter strangeness, busyness, and noisiness of the place. Dodging bodies on the sidewalks and cars in the crosswalks, we had a great time looking at towering buildings and an eclectic array of people, including the Naked Cowboy in Times Square.

The kids spent the day wide-eyed—people, taxies, horns honking, flashing neon lights, bands in the subway, trains speeding by, buildings, more people, more cars, more lights, more people. . . .

The highlight for me—aside from seeing my kids’ heads spinning in an attempt to take it all in—was having lunch with my cousin, Jete. He lives in Manhattan and through some fancy cell phone work we met up with him on the corner of 42^nd and 8^th.

After a cacophony of sight and sound in New York City, it was soul refreshing to sit quietly in a rocking chair on the porch and view the green and rolling tree-covered hills of Sagamore Hill—Theodore Roosevelt’s home on Long Island.

Check out some of the photos here.

Wednesday & Thursday, 25–26 June 2008

From James Otis in 1761 to Commodore Edward Preble and Captain William Bainbridge during the War of 1812—from the Common to the Constitution—Boston is rightly deemed the cradle of liberty. It was here, in the Old State House that Otis delivered his speech against British tyranny—fifteen years before the first shots were fired at Lexington and Concord—that won him the praise of giving “birth to the child Independence.” [1] It is here, at the Charlestown Navy Yard that the USS Constitution—“Old Ironsides”—continues to remind visitors of the cost of liberty. Built in 1797, she still sails today as a symbol of American freedom.

These were just a few of the people, events, and historic artifacts we saw while in Boston. We started at the beginning—Beacon Hill and Boston Common, where the beautiful gold-domed Capitol Building sits. Following the red bricks of the Freedom Trail, we made our way to the Granary cemetery where patriots such as James Otis, John Hancock, Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, the victims of the “Boston Massacre,” and even Mother Goose, are buried.

Then, on we went to the Old South Meeting House, where patriots met just before the “Indians” stormed a British merchant vessel and invited a mob to a public tea party. The Old State House—decorated with an ornate gilded eagle and globe, a lion, and a unicorn—was next. Just in front of the Old State House, now commemorated with a simple brick star laid in a street median, five were killed on March 5, 1770—the infamous Boston Massacre. A bank sits on the corner where the British barracks once resided, and from whence the shots were fired.

Crossing over what was the “big dig”—now a pleasant mid-city park with water fountains—we entered the north end. We toured Paul Revere’s house—the oldest building in Boston—the Old North Church (“One if by land, two if by sea” fame), and Copp’s Hill cemetery where Cotton Mather, the famous Puritan preacher, is buried.

Wednesday night, we ate at the Union Oyster House, the oldest continuous restaurant in America. Senator Daniel Webster was a common patron, as well as John F. Kennedy. This is the place to come for lobster when in Boston.

Whew! The first day in Boston finally ended, we fell into bed. The next day, we drove to Quincy and toured the birthplaces of John Adams and his son, John Quincy Adams. Two saltbox houses, on what used to be the Adams’s farm is currently a busy intersection. Peacefield, or the Old House, was the retirement home of John Adams. Filled with original pieces from the Adams family beginning with John and Abigail, the house is contains a trove of American history from the late 1780’s through the 1940’s. Just at the back of the house is a two-story stone library, housing almost 14,000 volumes. This is considered the first presidential library, and the only one containing the books of two presidents—John Adams and J. Q. Adams. This is my favorite part of visiting Quincy!

From Quincy, we drove to Charlestown and toured the USS Constitution and the kids climbed the 294-step Bunker Hill Monument. After a quick history lesson at Lexington Green and the Concord Bridge (the North Bridge)—“the shot heard around the world”—we drove to New York City.

[1] Quoted in Charles Bahne, The Complete Guide of Boston’s Freedom Trail (Cambridge, Mass.: Newtowne Publishing, 2005), 11.

Tuesday, 24 June 2008

In the summer of 1960 a seven year old boy was swept over the 180-foot drop of the Horseshoe Falls at Niagara. Wearing only a bathing suit and a small life vest, the churning waters at the bottom of the falls spat him out of the midst into the relative calm of the river below. Seen by one of the Maid of the Mists tour boats, the boy was pulled from the 200-foot deep river alive.

Before leaving on our trip to the Northeast, my friend, John Adair, told me about his trip to Niagara Falls when he was a boy: he saw a man throw himself over the rail and plummet to his death below the falls. I didn’t ask John, but I assume the man jumped on the American side where the two falls, American Falls and Bridal Veil Falls, are rock-strewn at their base.

Our visit to Niagara Falls wasn’t nearly as eventful or exciting. But it was exhilarating nonetheless for my family. The Maid of the Mists tour was thrilling and awe-inspiring, especially sitting at the bottom of Horseshoe Falls. Watching and listening to thousands of tons of green-blue water pouring over the edge of the cliff and pounding the river below was . . . how do I say it . . . the most powerful thing I’ve ever witnessed. Looking into the midst of the mist brought to mind the unfathomable power of God. As great as the water tumbling over Niagara Falls may be, it is merely a drop in the hands of God, who can divert the river in any direction He chooses or cause the water to freeze into one massive icefall.

The highlight of our day, certainly for the kids, was the Cave of the Winds tour—which is really an oxymoron, since you don’t actually tour a cave. There once was a cave, but part of it collapsed in 1920 and the tour was suspended. In 1969, when repairs were being made to Luna Island—a small island that divides American Falls from Bridal Veil Falls—the remainder of the cave was destroyed. In place of the cave tour, a series of wooden platforms were built at the base of Bridal Veil Falls, where visitors can experience a little bit of the power of the falls by standing on the Hurricane Deck. Winds of hurricane force blow, and if not for the flimsy poncho, you’d be soaked in a matter of seconds.

Now it’s on to Boston and some history of America’s revolutionary beginnings.