"Lincoln in Time, Washington, D.C." © 2008 Stu Jenks
Mom and I may have just seen the name of a distant cousin of mine, on the walls of the Vietnam War Memorial. She's not really sure. She says she'll check. I choked anyway, for a relative I never knew, taking a picture of James J. Jenks Jr.'s etched name in the reflective black marble. Mom seemed somewhat unimpressed with The Wall. You have to understand. She grew up with the Jefferson, Washington and Lincoln Memorials with all their size and grandeur. (Literally, she grew up with them, having been born and raised just across the Potomac in Alexandria, Virginia.) A black gash in the earth she doesn't quite get, being Old School as she is. But I'm a baby boomer, a man who publicly protested the Vietnam War when I was a kid and who pretty much hates all stupid wars, Vietnam being on top of the list with The Civil War being a close second and The War on Terror, a not too distant third. I get The Wall. But no judgment toward Mom. She is who she is, born of a generation that loves the large visual stroke, not so much the subtle symbolic gesture.
We leave The Wall and walk the short distance to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
"I'm going to go up and take a few pictures of Abe. You be alright here for a few minutes?" I ask.
"I'm fine. Go ahead," says Mary.
"You don't want to come, do you?" thinking Mom's having a hard time just navigating the curbs much less the tall steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
"No. No. I'm fine."
The sun's an hour from going down. It's clear and crisp this Christmas week in D.C., but not too cold. Canada geese fly overhead. I climb the stairs to where the large sculpture of the Seated Lincoln resides. People are everywhere, and they seem to be folk from many lands. I hear French, German, Japanese, Australian English and what sounds like a Middle Eastern language. Everyone and their mother's son are taking pictures of their families at the feet of Lincoln. It is a cluster fuck, but a pleasant one, a happy frenzy. I then walk to the southern part of the monument where the Gettysburg Address is carved large in the walls. Hardly anyone is here. Just one or two of us. I find the shot and take it. I then take it twice and three times. I want this shot, more that I wanted The Wall shot. The word 'Devotion' has struck me this time, etched in a very large, very beautiful font. I back away from the wall and take a few minutes to just be with the words. All the words.
I quietly thank Abe for all he did, as I leave, and head down the marble steps to Mom. She's just where I left her.
"Ready, Mom?"
"Yes, I am."
"Having fun while I was gone?"
"I was starting to get cold. That bench is icy cold."
I smile. "Well, let's head back to the truck."
"OK."
Mom doesn't move too fast these days and it helps her to take my arm as we walk. It feels nice to have Mary on my arm. Being the good son and all. As we slowly stroll, Mom tells me a story from her childhood.
"When I was a teenager, we used to take the bus over from Alexandria on Saturdays. You know we didn't like Lincoln too much. So my friends and I would climb up into Abe's lap and shake our fingers at him, saying 'Shame on you, Abe. Shame.' We were the only ones here. Just my friends and I." She pauses. "No, son, this isn't my favorite Memorial."
"Which one is your favorite?"
"I'm quite fond of the Jefferson Memorial myself," she says with a little smile on her face.
As
we walk I think of when my mother was a kid. It was the 1930's.
Washington, D.C. was a small town then. Truly. It wasn't until World
War Two that D.C. became a city. And my mother isn't exaggerating. She
and her girlfriends were here by themselves. Just some Southern girls
who didn't like the man who started the War of Northern Aggression. Mom clutches my arm as we slowly walk to the truck. I smile as we walk.
Mary Elton Saum is a Daughter of Virginia. Always has been. Always will be. And will continue to be, after she's dead and buried. It's a good thing.
Comments