Hardly Poetic Justice

"On and off drizzle," reported the television newscaster. I heard Andy grunt. "Bands of rain will move through the area, and expect 60 m.p.h. wind gusts by afternoon as the front moves out to sea," said the TV voice. "Winds could be higher than people are able to drive around here," she commented.
"Well, that's debatable," said Andy, answering the television.
"So does that mean we are going home?" I asked from the motel dressing area.
"I haven't decided yet, but 90 percent chance," he called back.
The debate had raged for 24 hours.
"Do I sense homesickness?" asked Drew on the phone the night before.
"I don't think so," I told him. "Certainly not on my part."
"NO!" said Andy vehemently. "I just see no reason to pay for a motel so close to home to watch drizzle."
I wiped the shampoo bottle and wriggled it into the cosmetic case, as I had done for 164 other mornings.
"I found a motel in Baltimore," called Andy, "but I didn't make a reservation."
Mentally and almost mechanically, I followed the routine: zip duffel bags, pack computer, cross check drawers, then check once more to be sure we had not left any small object on the closet shelf, behind the door in the bathroom or in a bureau drawer.
"Traffic back up on Route #66," said Andy, as I placed bags by the door so he could pack Little Red. "It's dreary outside. Really damp."
I couldn't believe we were going home.
We climbed in Little Red, maybe for the last morning. A light mist fogged the windows, but my seat was not wet.
"Kentucky got four to six inches of rain last night from this. It's a huge storm, and we are getting the fringes," said Andy. "But the effects of this weather-maker last several days, according to forecasters." Rain dribbled as we traveled north to Interstate #495 and connected with Interstate #95 to Baltimore.
At the first Rest Area, some piles of dirty snow packed the corners. They looked like someone had dumped coal dust on ice piles.

"It's not very nice outside," said Andy.
We picked up maps and a couple travel fliers.
"Broken clouds ahead," said Andy. "If it's not raining, we'll go to Fort McHenry."
Alternately turning off wipers and flipping them to low, we squinted through drops and splatters. "There's a bit more snow here," said Andy. Stray piles dotted corners and lined roads. Grey clouds hung low over Fort McHenry and the harbor. Construction left mud everywhere, but it wasn't raining... much.
"Come back next week for our grand reopening," invited a ranger, when we checked in.
"How in the world are they going to have this ready for next week?" I asked Andy. "It's a muddy mess, and the Canada geese haven't helped much."
We walked the bricked paths of the star fort and read the interpretive signs. Of course, we knew Francis Scott Key wrote, The Star Spangled Banner here, but there was so much more. Key watched the battle between British and Americans from the truce ship behind the British fleet in Patapaco Bay on September 14, 1814.
The wool flag at the fort in 1813, stitched by Mary Pickersgill, a Baltimore seamstress, measured 30 x 42 feet with 15 stripes and 15 stars. It was our country's flag from 1795 to 1818.
The ranger explained that the fort currently flies a nylon replica flag, weather permitting. It's so big it takes three to five people to raise and lower it, and it can only be flown when winds are between 5 and 12 m.p.h. Sustained wind over 12 m.p.h. puts dangerous stress on the flagpole.

I read another interesting tidbit. Fort McHenry flew the very first 50-star flag anywhere in the U.S. on July 4, 1960, after Hawaii became a state.
"Now that's poetic justice," I said to Andy.

As we walked outside, the clouds broke and the wind picked up. The fort had withstood heavy firing during the War of 1812, but the ramparts remained in good condition. Records indicate 1,500 bombs and 700 rockets hit, but damage to the earthen structure was limited. The British kept a wary distance, fearing the red hot cannon balls that set wooden sailing vessels on fire, and the 32-pound guns in the fort had a mile and a half range.
The British called the attack on Baltimore payback for supposed American raids from Baltimore Harbor on more than 500 British merchant ships. They burned Washington, D.C. and attacked Baltimore in reprisal.

Inside the fort, Andy and I looked at soldier quarters, where enlisted men slept four to a bunk bed. An interpretive sign said that Fort McHenry served as a jail, as well. Sometimes called "the American Bastille," the fort housed Southern sympathizers after a Baltimore uprising on April 19, 1861, and Maryland legislators were locked up here so they could not vote for secession, considering Maryland was a slave-holding state.

Ironically, even Francis Scott Key's grandson Frank Key Howard, a Southern sympathizer, was jailed at Fort McHenry.
Beautiful blue skies greeted us outside, as a ranger and volunteer waited for military guests who were coming to town. We circled the fort on the outer perimeter, heads down to forge against the increasing wind.

A statue of Orpheus, the Greek mythological poet, musician and singer, unveiled on June 14, 1922, reminded tourists of Key's musical contribution. The statue, Orpheus with the Awkward Foot, originally at the entrance to the fort, was dedicated by President Warren G. Harding in the first coast-to-coast radio broadcast by a U.S. President.

"It's classical, but I can't believe they chose that from 30 or 40 submitted designs," said Andy. "It doesn't seem to fit here." At the entrance to a fort, the nearly nude Orpheus with a fig leaf covering looked out of place.

"I'll never sing the words 'Oh, say can you see,' the same way again," I joked.