A Walker in the Suburbs

On this Independence Day I imagine the sweep of this wide nation: its mountains and prairies, its red rock canyons and natural bridges, its cities and towns, filled this day with crisp flags flying.

I think of the cool stone walls along Pisgah Pike outside Lexington and the lilacs that hung heavy along Martins Pond Road in Groton. There were orchards there, too, and I would wander through them with Suzanne in a baby carrier on my back. She was just coming alive to the world.

I think of stepping out of Pennsylvania Station onto Seventh Avenue in Manhattan or standing on the brow of Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas or snacking on wild blueberries outside Bar Harbor, Maine. And as I imagine all of this, I hear the cicadas singing and the crows cawing in my own backyard.

What holds these images in my mind, what makes them dear, are the people I love who have been with me on this journey. But beyond them is the beauty of a land loved and cared for — and the more than 327 million people who live in it.

It is a nation founded on liberty, a nation we celebrate today.

Happy Fourth!

History becomes personal when the people we know and love are part of it. I’ve written before of Dad as a tail gunner in a B-17 bomber, flying raids deep into German territory and flying air support on D-Day. But I’ve written little if anything about my grandfather, a World War 1 veteran.

Mom’s father, Martin J. Concannon, above and top, served in the calvary in France during World War I. Details are hazy about the length and nature of his service so many generations later, but I think we can all agree that he looked dashing in his uniform.

Not to be outdone in dash, here’s a picture of Dad leaning against a B-17.

Heartfelt thanks to them and all the men and women who risked their lives for our freedom. May we always be mindful of the gift they have given us — and may we always use that gift wisely.

I work in a neighborhood of Arlington called Crystal City, a strip of office buildings and restaurants 15 minutes walk from the Pentagon. My bus ride every morning takes me past the building where 17 years ago today a jetliner crashed killing 125 people on the ground and 64 on the plane.

I remember that day as if it was yesterday. Who my age does not? It was also a Tuesday, but the weather was perfect, one of those crystalline early fall mornings that we used to have around here before being enclosed in a big wet sock.

It was Mom who alerted me. She knew I didn’t often listen to the morning news. And then the other calls started. They came in all day. Rumors abounded, chief among them that the State Department was also under attack.

An editorial I read today made the argument that many of the problems that beset us now — high deficits, wars that kill our soldiers and drain our morale and coffers, loss of stature abroad, even the current administration — can be traced to the 9/11 attacks.

“The world will never be the same,” I remember telling the children, who had returned home early from school that day. But they will never understand that. The world they know is the world wrought by 9/11.

(The Pentagon, moments after the crash. Photo: Wikipedia.) 

I knew I should have voted yesterday morning, but I went for a walk instead. And when there was a meet-and-greet at the end of the day, an important one featuring our board members, I went to that, too, knowing I couldn’t stay long, but also knowing I have a way of letting time slip by.

Which is what happened. When I looked at my watch, it was 5:20’ish (I love my watch, but it’s a small oblong tank-style timepiece that’s never been easy to read), so I said a hasty good-bye, grabbed my things and dashed off into the cold rain. If I ran to the bus stop I could make the 5:30. I did, but I didn’t. A long 10 minutes later the ART 43 pulled up. By then it was 5:40. The polls in Virginia close at 7 p.m. It would be close.

The Metro gods were with me, and I reached Vienna before Marketplace was over at 6:30. I didn’t want to know the exact time because it would make me more nervous. So I turned down the radio and drove off into the night, which is when things went south. I caught every red light. On the winding, two-lane section of my route (which is much of it), I drove behind a car going 20 m.p.h. in a 35-m.p.h. zone. I was practicing all the deep-breathing, perspective-giving tricks I knew, but I was still in panic mode.

I knew that putting Democrat Ralph Northam over the top was not only my job, that other Virginians were taking this seriously, too. But embedded in my mind were the close votes of the past: Keane and Florio in New Jersey in the 1981. The 2000 presidential election. I’m a big believer in every vote making a difference — because every vote does — and mine was stuck behind a driver who must have cast his ballot in the morning.

When I pulled up to the polling place I still had no idea what time it was, but I knew there were only minutes, if not seconds. Someone yelled “you still have time” as I sprinted toward the school, but I still expected the door to be locked.

But ahhhh, it wasn’t. And ahhhh, the nice people at the registration desk were still there, calmly asking my name, which I calmly gave. And then I took my precious paper ballot over to the table, carefully filled in the five circles, and slid the paper into the machine.

“Have a good evening,” said the man at the door, as he handed me an “I voted” sticker. Only then could I glance at my phone for the exact time. It was 7:00 p.m. on the dot.