Uncommon Valor

An inch of wet snow and a coating of ice covered Little Red when we checked out of the motel this morning. The white blanket was the first we had seen in weeks of winter, even if northern states lay buried. "It will last until the sun comes out," said Andy, "but that might be tomorrow." We drove north toward Washington, D.C.
Undergoing renovation, the Custis/Lee House had been totally stripped of all its furnishings. The evidence of President Barack Obama's Economic Recovery efforts was everywhere.
Irony. Icon of the South, Robert E. Lee married Mary Custis in tidewater Virginia, and years before that George Washington's marriage to Martha Custis earned him aristocratic status in tidewater Virginia society.
Irony. Sherman punished South Carolina because that state was first to secede, but South Carolina, home of the "Fire Eaters," was already a hotbed of radicals. It was also the only state that voted unanimously for secession.

Irony. For all his life Robert E. Lee believed in the Union. President Abraham Lincoln offered him a commission in the Union army based on Lee's allegiance, on all his letters that supported Union, and on all his comments that indicated secession was unacceptable. Then he remained faithful to Virginia.

We found our way to Arlington National Cemetery by 9:15 a.m. Snow covered the walks in a peaceful blanket. Workers, not so peaceful, busily scraped and blew ice from the walkways and steps. None of them wore ear protectors, Andy noticed. "That isn't smart," he said. We walked the grounds for two hours and watched the Changing of the Guard ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I had forgotten about the statue in honor of Confederate soldiers who died during the Civil War. It was good to see; they were Americans too. Polarization today only pulls us more and more apart.

In silence we passed by the graves of Robert Kennedy, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, John F. Kennedy and their two children deceased at birth. The eternal flame flared with each gust of wind. Walking gingerly on the slippery marble, we read the quotes around the Kennedy Memorial. "Everyone needs to come here once in his life," said Andy, "to learn from our history, to understand what we have and to feel proud of this country, no matter what the political leanings."

Most snow had melted at the Iwo Jima Marine Memorial, and blue sky opened overhead. "Let's walk," I suggested, "but I'll switch to my warm coat first."

Andy pulled on a jacket over his sweatshirt. In spite of the bright sun, the temperatures in the mid-30's chilled us both.

The statue read, "Uncommon valor was a common virtue," certainly an apt description of the six men who planted a small American flag at the top of 550-foot Mount Suribachi, an extinct volcano on the Pacific island of Iwo Jima on January 23, 1945, and the six who followed with a larger flag after resistance was quelled. Stepping carefully to avoid puddles, we crossed the park to the Netherlands Carillon. The first tiny silver bell to President Harry Truman from Queen Julia of the Netherlands in 1952 symbolized friendship and represented a thank you from the Dutch people for liberation at the end of World War II (1945). President Bill Clinton accepted the 50th bell in 1995 to complete the Carillon, now a place where musicians perform chime concerts in the summer.

Figuring out the way around town without a detailed city map, Andy turned at Theodore Roosevelt Island. "The GPS is only going to take me on the toll roads," he said. We crossed the foot bridge over the Potomac and read the inscriptions on the four granite blocks on either side of the Roosevelt statue. "We've never been here in warm weather," said Andy. "This must be lovely when the fountains are operating. And they are doing lots of work. Did you see all the wood stashed in the fountain base by the bridge?"

I looked again.

"That's good wood," he added, "but it's warping, because it got wet. They must be going to shore up the sides of the reflecting pools."

A conservationist, Theodore Roosevelt would have appreciated the unpaved trails. We, however, turned back. The walk oozed with mud and mushy snow.
We headed north along the river, with Andy driving and me watching the map and road signs. "I want Great Falls," he insisted. "Just get me to Great Falls!"

"Sure," I thought, but I had more sense than to argue, especially after he missed a turn. Without too much difficulty we located Great Falls Park on the Potomac. At Mather Gorge the river drops 76 feet in a spectacular series of rapids. "We've never been here on the Virginia side of the river," said Andy, "and it was many years ago when we drove through the park on the Maryland side." A coating of soft snow covered the ground and left paths muddy. "Trails crisscross everywhere in this park," said Andy. He chose three short trails to the lookouts. Signs warned of unpredictable currents in the river and dangerous rock embankments.
"It says people die here every year," I told Andy, "especially when the water is low."

"That's probably because parents don't watch kids closely enough," he suggested.

"The sign says a fall means death," I read.

We picked our way over huge rocks and in between muddy crevices to the overlooks. Frighteningly beautiful, water surging over rapids mesmerized us. Originating in West Virginia, the Potomac gathered force for 358 miles. Constricted at Mather Gorge, it gushed over the jagged rocks in a deafening roar. A few small patches of blue sky set off the white clouds and white froth of the river. "This park boasts 30 different plant communities," said Andy. "That's got to be a botanist's dream. And three of the communities are found nowhere else in the world. Incredible!"
Quite by accident driving back toward the motel in Arlington, we passed the Lyndon Baines Johnson Memorial Grove. "That's what I was looking for when we ended up on the road to Great Falls," said Andy. We turned in, parked and walked across the inlet bridge. Eight sea gulls perched warily on both sides until we got too close for their comfort. Then they swooped down to the water. A plane roared overhead. "They have to follow the river when they take off here," said Andy. "It reduces noise over living areas." The LBJ Memorial, a single piece of red granite from Texas, stood in the center of a stone plaza, elegantly simple. But numerous plantings of white pine added to the natural beauty. The pebbled trail led around the island, past large hardwoods and patches of daffodils poking up between dried oak leaves. A sign attributed the flowers to Lady Bird Johnson and her beautification attempts while First Lady.
After checking in the motel, we headed back out, anxious to use every moment of the short week we have left. High up on a ridge over Arlington National Cemetery, the Air Force Memorial caught the cold wind driving in from the west. "It's really getting chilly," said Andy. The outdoor sculpture soared in three huge stainless steel arcs, like rockets shooting toward the sky. At each end slabs of polished black granite touted the ideals of the Air Force: integrity, service, excellence, valor, courage, sacrifice. And in the distance stretched the thousands of white marble grave markers of Arlington.

"See those helicopters?" said Andy, pointing toward the Washington Monument. "That could be the President heading to the White House." We watched. Soon one helicopter dropped down out of sight, not far to one side of the famous obelisk. The other two decoys kept going, separating and heading in different directions. "The third one landed at the White House," said Andy.

"That's interesting," I told him. "We were only miles from the President."

Finally we headed to the Pentagon Memorial, a tricky parking challenge late in the afternoon as people left work. What a touching tribute to the 184 people who died at the Pentagon on September 11, 2001, both in the building and on the hijacked American Airlines Flight 77. Surrounded by glasses, the plaza included 184 memorial units, small pools arched by identical sculptured free-standing illuminated benches. They were organized by year of birth, the youngest only three years old and the oldest, 71. Even relationships were evident with the names and birth years of family members etched in each pool. The pain and sorrow of September 11 swept over me as we walked in silence around the memorial. Andy just shook his head. I knew we shared the same thoughts.