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Testing, Testing

Testing, Testing

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It’s July 5, and last night’s revels seem far away. It’s a day of sodden flags, old watermelon rinds, the burnt casings of a bottle rocket. The smoke has cleared but we’ve lost our brilliant reds and greens.

Last night at the block party in Suzanne’s Arlington neighborhood where we watched the fireworks, a man in a tricornered hat read aloud the Declaration of Independence. The mic he was using kept fading in and out, so that he was forced to pepper his recitation with the words “testing, testing.”

It was an interesting interjection as we “test, test” our resolve to become a more perfect union and we’re “tested, tested” by a divisiveness unknown in my lifetime.

Now that I think of it, “testing, testing” isn’t a bad motto to have as we strive to make ourselves heard, to make ourselves whole. Our nation is a work in progress, always “testing, testing.” Seeing it that way is a good way to celebrate July 5.

More Unum

More Unum

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The trip from Lexington to my house can seem long, especially when mired in West Virginia, but it is in fact less than one-tenth of the way across the country. And it’s the width of the country that’s on my mind this morning: the roundabouts and the rodeos, the skyscrapers and the silos, the breadth and depth.

I like to think that our strength lies in our breadth, in our differences and how we’ve been able to assimilate them. E pluribus unum — from the many, one. Not just from many states one nation, but from many states of mind one body politic.

We used to have a knack for it. But lately, our differences threaten to overcome us. Lately, we have too much e pluribus and not enough unum. So that is what I wish for our country on its 241st birthday: more unum.

Tender-Hearted

Tender-Hearted

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On Wednesday, lured by the record-breaking warmth outside (it was 80 on March 1!),  I walked to Gravelly Point at lunchtime.

Gravelly Point is where you go to see the jets swoop low before landing at National Airport, and by the time I got there wind gusts were so strong that I realized this was probably a dumb place to be.

Was it just my imagination, or did the planes seem to tremble as they banked into their final turns? Could a sudden gust throw them off course?

I kept my eye on each craft, and was surprised by how those big birds made me feel. Watching them land, the brave tilt of their wings, their plucky landing gear, gave me the same tender-hearted feeling I had on 9-11. It’s a rare and anomalous emotion, one I’ve been trying to understand since that day.

It is pity, in part, but also also pride and patriotism and compassion. It’s a sudden awareness of fragility — both human and technological — and of how hard we work to stay aloft.

Pentagon Mornings

Pentagon Mornings

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Some wear fatigues, others dress uniforms, and I could say good morning to many of them by name, since they wear their names on their sleeves — or close to them.

If I keep at my new walking route long enough I’ll know some of these Pentagon workers by heart.  The hordes who pour out of my standing-room-only bus, the others who stroll in from satellite parking lots and from the apartments off Army-Navy Drive.

Almost all of them are walking to the Pentagon — while I’m walking away from it.

The reason, of course, is simple. I work a mile or more away from the place. I just jump off the bus early to stretch my legs.

But I have to confess that it gives me a thrill to walk against this particular traffic.

My mornings at the Pentagon … are brief.

Half Mast

Half Mast

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On my walk this morning I noticed, as I often do, the flagpole on the corner. There are several flagpoles on our street, but this is the most prominent, the most well lit.

What I noticed today is not just that the flag is once again at half mast. It’s been half mast most of the summer. But it’s that the sunflowers planted around the pole are now almost as tall as the flag.

I’m not sure what this says about patriotism, the world’s madness and the healing power of nature. But I am sure that the flowers will grow taller, perhaps overtaking the flag. And I’m sure that they will turn their faces toward the sun, will seek the light.

And those aren’t such bad lessons for the rest of us.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Polling Place

Polling Place

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The polling place in morning light, shadowy figures with pamphlets and lost causes. The parking lot is almost empty.

I’ve made the pilgrimage to this place in all times and weathers, alone and with children in tow. Several times I’ve stood in line. Usually not. One off-year I voted in a trailer.

Yesterday I went with someone new to this country, someone who jokes that where he’s from, the politicians pay the voters — rather than the other way around.

He helps me see us as the beacon that we are — helps me hope that we remain that way as long as we can.

Rituals of Democracy

Rituals of Democracy

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I made it to the polls last night with 30 minutes to spare. It was dark and you could barely see the volunteers handing out sample ballots.

Three members of my family* had already voted. It gave me a warm feeling to know that others had been there before me. Also a warm feeling to know that this was my last errand of the day, that after this I could go home and collapse.

And this morning, poring over the paper for results and analysis, checking online for the races the Washington Post didn’t cover. (Jim Gray, my father’s good friend, handily re-elected mayor of Lexington, Kentucky!)

The rituals of democracy, which seems flawed these days, but which, after all, is the best hope we have.

(This does not include Copper, though he purloined my “I Voted” sticker.)

Oh Say, Can You Sing?

Oh Say, Can You Sing?

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In honor of the two hundredth anniversary of the national anthem, choristers are converging on the National Mall to stage the largest sing-along ever of “The Star Spangled Banner.” The National Museum of American History, which is sponsoring the event, is encouraging would-be warblers to join Anthem for America parties across the country. If there isn’t a party near you, just tune in and sing along with the huge chorus at 4 o’clock today.

What an anthem we have! One of the most difficult to sing of any, with a wide-ranging melody and a high note at the end. A strange sort of anthem for a democracy, when you think about it. “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” is easier, though undeniably British. Or even “America the Beautiful,” though it has its share of high notes, too.

Also interesting, I ponder today on Flag Day, is the fact that our anthem asks questions rather than makes statements. And it’s written in second person. “Oh say, can you see?” These features make it more conversational than most. It’s a song that wonders more than it pronounces, that marvels more than it prescribes. And in those ways, it is endearing.

(Manuscript of Francis Scott Key’s lyrics to the National Anthem courtesy National Museum of American History.)

Lonely Soldiers

Lonely Soldiers

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Last night we saw my brother off to a faraway post, where his (civilian) job is taking him for a few months. The international terminal was quiet; soldiers dressed in camouflage gear sat alone at the bar, flipped through magazines at the newsstand, called home one last time before boarding their flights.

We sat with Drew, chatted, had a beer. Before long it was time for him to pass through security and check into his flight. I waved until I couldn’t see him anymore; I watched as as he squared his shoulders and moved his tall frame toward the future.

I was struck by how alone Drew and all of the camo-clad seemed. Where they are going only they can go. What they are doing only they can do.

It’s a scene that plays out here every day of the week without fanfare, a scene I never think about but on which our easy lives are based. The timeless march of soldiers heading off to war.

Band of Brothers

Band of Brothers

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I don’t know exactly what I was doing when “Band of Brothers” first aired in 2001. Raising children, I guess. But I’ve been watching it now, courtesy of Netflix, for several weeks, and the day after I view each episode I can’t get the music or the images out of my mind. The score is elegaic but forward-moving, perfectly suited to its subject, and it breaks my heart, as does the show.

I have seen war movies, plenty of them. But there’s an unrelenting power to these episodes that brings home over and over again what we owe to these men. What they did for us and for our country. The scenes are gray, colorless: the cold, the mud, the fear, the constant presence of death. And the soldiers, they are so very, very young.

I watched the final episode last night, and it was a comfort to learn the outcome of those E Company survivors, to know that they returned home to be mail carriers and earth movers. To live ordinary lives.