DC Reflections

Jury gets it almost right in John Edwards trial

The John Edwards trial jury got it almost right today when it found the former U.S. senator from North Carolina not guilty on one charge and declared themselves deadlocked on the rest -- prompting a federal judge to declare a mistrial. The only more appropriate verdict would have been not guilty findings on all the other charges.

While I am not normally one to jump to the defense of someone who engaged in porcine behavior, even John Edwards deserved a fair trial that keeps him out of prison. Pigs deserve justice, too. 

The trial was an absurdity from the start. If anyone is guilty of anything, it is the bad decision making by the person or people in the federal government who decided to prosecute this case. If elected officials made the call, impeachment is in order. If non-elected federal prosecutors made the decision, they should be relieved of duty immediately. The wastes of time and taxpayer dollars were ridiculous. Note to the Feds: Try worrying more about violent crime and the economy, less about who's sleeping together.

Here's what John Edwards did: By his own admission, he did an awful lot of bad. That's not a crime. 

Edwards obviously cheated on his wife, fostered a child out of wedlock and let rich friends pay hush money to keep the child's mother quiet. The question of whether he knew his friends were footing such a bill is moot. He didn't commit a crime even if he did know. Federal prosecutors brought baseless charges that Edwards violated campaign finance laws.

One gaping hole in that theory that should have stopped the trial before it started?

Even the Federal Election Commission determined Edwards violated no campaign finance laws. It plainly stated that the hush money paid to keep Edwards' mistress quiet did not constitute a campaign contribution. Apparently, the prosecution was baffled by the complex legal construct that if someone doesn't give money to a campaign, it's not a campaign contribution! Change campaign laws if you think that will stop Democratic and Republican big money from getting around contribution limits but there is no law preventing anyone from paying for a mistress to stay quiet about the identity of a child's father. 

If the ever-anal FEC determined Edwards did nothing illegal, it makes no sense that another arm of the federal government thought he did. (Nor did it make sense that U.S. District Judge Catherine Eagles barred the jury from learning about the FEC's findings. Shame on the judge.)

As many including Edwards have said, the once-promising pol committed many acts of appalling behavior -- sins if you will -- but he did not break laws.

That of course didn't stop Republican insiders like David Frum from leaping on CNN to declare that the trial result puts the presidency and elections at all levels in great peril. Imagine, Frum said, that if Edwards had been elected president, he would have been beholden to his rich friends who paid his mistress the hush money.

Please.

Like all modern presidents aren't beholden to the big dollars that put them in office in one way or another. There's no difference between the influence that Edwards' donors Fred Baron and Rachel "Bunny" Mellon would have had on a Democratic president than what oil and gas industry titans have on Republican presidents. Each of the two old political parties -- equally useless in my eyes -- have long lists of big donors and big organizations that put them in office because we the people don't do enough to replace them with better parties and better people.

Before GOP hypocrites like Frum start ruing any days and trying to score political points on the back of a properly humiliated Democrat, they should look at the facts of this case: John Edwards is a pig -- and it is not illegal to be a pig. 

We the people should not have had to foot the bill for federal prosecutors who thought it was.

 

 

 

 

 

A sugar rush for America!

Strolling around Dupont Circle today, a nice young man and nice young woman asked me if I had a moment to talk to them about an issue they were working to support. My mind was rabidly focused on the Krispy Kreme doughnut shop that stood mere feet away so I couldn't remember whether their organization was the one I strongly agreed or disagreed with.

"Forgive me -- it's Sunday," I said. "My mind is a little hazy. Are you on the pro side or the anti side? I know you're organization but am drawing a blank on which side of the fence you're on."

He gently said his group was on the former and again asked if I could spare a moment. I paused, staring at my date with glazed greatness and then back at him and his co-worker. I know exactly how hard that job is: Canvassing for a nonprofit or political cause on the streets of any city, let alone one as intensely partisan as Washington D.C., is tough, tough work. Most respondents just ignore you on a good day. They insult you on a bad one. If you stay positive and forget every rejection, though, you just might be able to enlist some passersby to subscribe to your email list, sign a petition or make a donation.

It is truly a thankless job done by hard core believers generally working for next to nothing or volunteering.

But I was craving a taste of the South this morning and just didn't feel like getting political; I told the couple that I wasn't up for it on a very rare day off from work. I inhaled the sweet scent of heaven a second later but immediately felt my sympathies for the youngsters kick in -- not to mention my actual support of their cause.

There was only one thing left to do.

I ordered an extra half dozen doughnuts to go and brought the box to the sidewalk pounders I had just brushed off.

"Here's a little something to give the two of you a boost," I said, presenting the green and white box. "Maybe this will hold you over if you get a little hungry. Keep up the good fight. I'm there with you."

The young man and woman were surprised by the simple good will gesture. The man told me no one has ever done anything like that for them while they were working or expressed support in that way. He choked up, actually. His colleague did, too.

I gave him a smack on the shoulder, win one for the Gipper style, and told him I wished him the very best of luck. I turned and walked away, delighted that I had managed to put smiles on the faces of a pair of people working hard on a Sunday morning to make a difference. I hoped it might give them just enough willpower to press on and pull a few yeses out of No Town.

I used to do stuff like that all the time because performing random acts of kindness is actually a lot of fun. I need to get back in the habit. I should use my Krispy Kreme strategy more often, too -- helping to build a better America one glazed doughnut at a time!

Skip the NFL: Pick raspberries instead

I took my NFL diet to another level this Sunday: I skipped opening day completely. 

Turned out to be easier than I thought. More delicious, too.

Probing my hunch that there is life beyond the television on Sundays in the fall, I hopped in my old Mazda Protege and did what I love doing during the rest of the year ... letting the car take me wherever she felt like going. No destination in mind, no ETA on a return. Sometimes the spontaneous day trips last two hours. Others go for up to seventeen. 

It was a beautiful day for a drive and my car headed around the beltway to I-270 North. I know any day I end up on 270 North is going to be a good one. My girlfriend Won-ok and I saw a sign at Exit 16 that read "attractions" and pointed right. The Mazda pulled right and off we went looking for what these unnamed sites in or near Germantown, Maryland might be.

We didn't make it that far.

Our eyes lit up when we passed a hand-made sign pointing to a combination of an estate sale and yard sale. As owners of Orion's Attic -- a growing little side business that sells art, antiques, used furniture and collectibles -- there was no way we could pass that up. We've met the most amazing people at yard sales along the countryside and we have brought home some mighty fine pieces.

"Barbara" had all kinds of things for us to look at. We snagged a couple of pieces of pottery and glass at the first table and then wandered into the basement. I jumped at the chance to buy a kind of lamp I've never seen ... it's like a three-tiered banquet lamp on an extension rod that goes from floor to ceiling. We found some other neat stuff and then had trouble taking our eyes off a pair of turn-of-the-century chairs reupholstered in a deep raspberry-colored fabric. Barbara showed us a picture of her grandparents and told us that they brought the chairs with them from England.

We sat for a spell and contemplated the purchase. The price was right and we knew we would have no trouble making our money back but didn't know what kind of profit might be there -- if we sold them. The chairs were quite comfy so we accepted the offer and figured we'd give them a test-drive at home first.

The purchase prompted an ATM run as it was a cash-only transaction. We stumbled onto a Border's bookstore that was selling every remaining book for 90-percent off. The chain is going out of business, of course, and we quickly filled a bag.

We returned to pay for the chairs and got lucky again. With about one-fourth of an inch to spare, both chairs fit in my car and spared us a return trip.

No question where we were headed next. Though we saw no sign from the main road, we passed a small one pointing to Butler's Orchard en route to the estate sale. Any orchard has to have some scrumptious stuff ready for sale, right?

Oh yes.

We arrived in plenty of time to pick fresh raspberries. The 15-cent cardboard container wouldn't do, either. We had to have the $1.50 souvenir bucket so we had a keepsake long after the fresh fruit was gone. We drove along a winding, gravel-and-dirt path to the raspberries. Their unmistakable sweet scent wafted over us as soon as we got out of the car.

I don't know how much time passed while we were in the field picking a few pounds of the treat right off the vines. Patches of blue sky sat atop some of the rolling hills stretching toward the horizon; a few gentle rain drops came in from behind others. I stood there for a moment breathing in the raspberries, feeling the sun and rain alternatively grace my skin, and munching on an occasional berry before it reached the bucket.

I was shocked to realize I did not miss the NFL one bit. 

My litany of reasons for reducing my pro football intake is indeed a long one. Atop the list? All-talk, no-action commissioner Roger Goodell never really punishes any player no matter how heinous or stupid his crime. You can get drunk and kill a man while driving, bring a loaded gun into a New York club, do as you wish with an under-age college girl and torture dogs for years on end and barely miss a game once you're out of jail. It's tough to stomach a league that allows the likes of Donte Stallworth, Plaxico Burress, Ben Roethlisberger and Michael Vick to star in its ranks.

Then these very same athletes and their colleagues have the audacity to complain they are "under-paid" and induce a lockout in which the owners collapse like a house of cards? (The owners should have thrown away the lockout key for a year. Let the players work a regular job and see how they like that.)

This is clearly a league that deserves less of my time and money. I cut my consumption back about 60 percent last season. Standing there in the sweet air nibbling on raspberries, I knew I was capable of cutting back further.

Half the bucket filled, we headed to the Butler's Orchard market to see what else wanted a ride back to Silver Spring. It didn't take long to fill a small cart. I already had ribs marinating back home so buying Butler's Smoky Rib Sauce was a no-brainer. We also loaded up on the orchard's jams, preserves, candy, pears and vegetables. 

Getting back on the interstate to head home, I didn't even turn the radio to a sports station to find out whether my favorite teams won or lost. I simply tuned in a country radio station that two Redskins fans told us about at a stoplight on the way to the ATM. 

I know I won't be able to go cold turkey on the NFL season but the antique and culinary delights give me hope for a more serious football diet. I just finished the lip-smacking BBQ ribs, chasing them with a bowl of raspberries for dessert.

There is an autumn world beyond the NFL out there. I'll see what part of it I can find next Sunday, too. 

 

 

 

 

No one should die from a foul ball

A 39-year-old firefighter named Shannon Stone in Arlington, Texas, takes his 6-year-old son to see a Rangers game and to try to catch a foul ball -- a dream shared by fathers and sons that's as old as the game itself. Texas outfielder Josh Hamilton picks up such a ball and, like every other outfielder in minor and major league baseball, gently tosses it up into the stands.

Dad reaches out for the ball, loses his balance, falls over the rail and dies.

His last words before he lost consciousness? Somebody has to get his son, who's up in the stands all by himself.

The boy lost his father because his dad was simply reaching for a baseball. 

I can't begin to imagine the eternal nightmare the tragedy will be for the child. His dad was just trying to put a smile on his face. That's all. Shannon Stone wasn't drunk, wasn't doing anything stupid, wasn't trying to make SportsCenter with some play of the day. He was just trying to catch a gently tossed ball for his son -- a memory they could treasure for a lifetime.

Yet a man who has exited burning buildings carrying human beings in his hands dies catching a baseball.

How does this child ever learn to live with this pain? How will he not be reminded of it almost every minute of the day, especially in Texas, where there's baseball around all the time. You've got Ranger games, televised games on satellite and cable every night, and Little League through high school games in every town. America's past time killed a boy's father.

How sick of an irony is that?

How will Hamilton not be scarred for life? How will he not break out in a cold sweat every time he picks up a foul ball? It wasn't his fault. It was just a one in a billion freak accident.

And the fans who watched the firefighter-father fall to the concrete -- how will they ever get over that? 

If the father had a heart attack or got struck by lightning -- or died trying to rescue someone -- that I might at least be able to comprehend. Those horrors are within the realm of imagination. But this -- it's simply preposterous. There are a lot of ways to get killed in a baseball stadium. A Potomac Nationals player was lucky to survive a blow to the head.  It's a blessing that screaming line drives over the dugouts don't hurt more fans than they do. But a tossed ball? 

I'm still sick.

I can't stop thinking about it. My love for baseball runs deep. The game has given me great joy in my life -- from going to games with my dad when I was a kid to coaching kids once I grew up. My girlfriend and I spend as much time as we can traveling to minor league games now.

I remember a famous game I went to with my dad. You've heard of this one. It was Aug. 1, 1978 in Atlanta. I was 9-years-old and a huge fan of our loveable loser Braves. A then beloved guy named Pete Rose was chasing Joe DiMaggio's record of 56 consecutive games with a hit. Rose was at 44. I loved him and the Big Red Machine, too. We wanted to see him reach 45 and continue his quest.

Rose hits a foul ball to the right side between first base and the outfield. (If anyone has that game on TV, I want to see it.) The ball is coming directly toward me and my dad. We both stand up, extend our arms. My heart is thumping. I'm envisioning my greatest souvenir -- a foul ball hit by Charlie Hustle during "the streak". The ball continues directly toward us as if sent on purpose. It's mine ... until the ball hits a low-hanging electrical wire and bounces to someone else.

I was crushed. We had that sucker.

Rose went on to strike out in his last at-bat and the streak ended. I've still got the ticket stub to this day.

I've also still got my dad.

 

 

The next Ron Howard film? Story about local pet sanctuary could be a blockbuster

A few of DC Reflections' loyal readers know that Won-ok Kim and I have started a little side business selling antiques, art, home decor, collectibles and other things -- but you may not be aware of our real mission ... helping great causes we care about. The first charity we're supporting is House With A Heart Senior Pet Sanctuary in Gaithersburg, Maryland.

Far from being a dreary place, we found it to be something akin to the Ron Howard film "Cocoon" except with dogs instead of people getting younger.

We would be honored if you checked out a blog post I wrote about it on our new Orion's Attic blog. House With A Heart does some amazing work and deserves all the support it can get. Give it a read and help us pass it far and wide if you'd be so kind. We would be further honored if you're inspired to lend your personal support to House With A Heart.

 

Horrified by Catoctin Wildlife Preserve and Zoo

I have come to see many zoos I've visited as necessary evils. The Catoctin Wildlife Preserve and Zoo in Thurmont, Maryland, however, isn't necessary at all. Federal or state authorities should shut it down. If government can't, the people of Maryland should: Let's boycott the place and enable capitalism to provide the punishment it deserves -- taking some animals out of their misery in the process.

The zoo's marketing is detached from reality. Catoctin claims that it is "one of the finest zoos in Maryland." Brother, if that's true, we need to launch an immediate investigation into not just Catoctin but into every zoo in the state.

Spend a day there, as I did on May 28 with three friends, and you will see a nightmare in broad daylight. We all came away convinced that the Catoctin Wildlife Preserve and Zoo is more of a prison than a preserve. 

We spent our time in the zoo and I focus my comments on it. We did not take the safari ride to see what we hope is a more open preserve side of the establishment because we were too depressed to linger any longer. Endangered Sun Bears from Southeast Asia that are supposed to live in tropical rainforest habitat paced back and forth in a dry, dusty prison cell on dirt. A tiger sat in solitary confinement. A mountain lion limped across its outdoor cell. Deer, llamas and goats all begged for the food visitors brought them. It was amusing at first, pathetic upon further reflection.

"The zoo does not respect the animals here," Tomoko MataHari Miura told me as we toured the place last Saturday. "Many are poorly treated. It's an unhealthy environment for the animals and the space is definitely too small for them."  She knows a little something about wildlife -- serving as a manager for the Japan Bear and Forest Society.   

No part of the zoo wreaked of more desperation than the home for animals labeled as "wolves" -- my favorite animal in all the kingdom and one whose beautiful howl I've heard bellow out across the Alaskan outback. The four wolves sentenced to live out there lives here were skeletons beneath tufts of fur. The pack animals whose destiny is to roam wide open spaces could only race in frantic circles inside their cage. They looked like they were losing their minds.

I don't claim to be an animal whisperer and none of the animals at Catoctin sent me a text message but I know that if I were them, I'd want somebody to take me out of my misery. My own father has long told me if he ends up in that sorry of a state, I have to promise to take him deep sea fishing and come back alone.

Catoctin is managed by the Global Wildlife Trust, a charity that now runs the facility. The trust takes in a little more than $1 million a year on average from ticket sales, memberships and other sources, according its 2009 tax return Form 990. (If the link doesn't work, visit Guidestar, register for a free account, and then put Global Wildlife Trust in the search box.) The husband-and-wife tandem of Richard and Mary Anne Hahn serve as president and secretary/treasurer, respectively, and they certainly don't appear to operate the site to get rich. Their trust paid them less than $60,00 combined. Daughter Laurie Hahn serves on the board of directors but receives no compensation. Neither does board president Carole Brown. 

What then is the motive for operating such a heart-breaking operation?

Catoctin claims the trust's mission "is dedicated to broadening human understanding of the animal world." 

That's typically where I begrudgingly add the word "necessary" before "evil" when I refer to a zoo. My idealism wants to believe that zoos -- especially well-managed facilities -- give children a chance to see animals they could otherwise only experience by computer screen or television. I hope they are infused with wonder and develop a sense of connection to all things wild that leads to forming a conservation ethic -- which in turns propels them to fight for wildlife protection. Great zoos can pull that off while simultaneously providing a respectful, humane habitat for the wildlife they house.

Catoctin Wildlife Preserve pays but lip service to that idea on zoo front, falsely boasting that it achieves its mission through "immersion in naturalistic habitat recreations and educational programs using live animals and instructional tools both on-site ... and through presentations to the greater community."

There is not much natural in this zoo.

I have no reason to doubt the intention of the Hahn family. I've not met them but I can only imagine that they are good, hard-working people who likely should be applauded for their intent -- but not for their execution. I've worked for nonprofits for the past 11 years and know that a kind heart doesn't always equate to professional competence. 

Someone attempting to justify the zoo's operations might point to the zoo's "credentials" page on its Web site. There you'll find a long string of organizations and acronyms that appear at first glance to give Catoctin all the paperwork it needs. The zoo proudly states it's an accredited member of the Zoological Association of America and that it is licensed by a wide variety of governmental authorities including the U.S. Department of Agriculture's Animal and Plant Inspection Services; U.S. Department of Interior's Animal, Fish and Wildlife Division; U.S. Department of Natural Resources of Maryland.

If the Catoctin zoo gets a passing grade from those authorities, this fact should serve as an indictment against the entire zoological industry and the federal agencies responsible for overseeing it. Let's reform this system post haste. 

I have no idea if the preserve side is any better than what I saw and I can't bare another visit to find out. The zoo, though, should be closed immediately. No animal should be forced to suffer like that. No government agency should condone it, no Maryland tourism entity should promote and no citizen should pay to see it.

[Photos courtesy of Won-ok Kim]. 

 

 

 

No chance to say goodbye to D.C.'s baby ducks

I couldn't believe it when I got the news last Monday: He was gone.

I'm not referring to bin Laden. Enough has been said about him already. I'm talking about "Barry". That's the name I gave to the baby mallard who was rapidly outgrowing his baby duck siblings at National Geographic on M Street. I called the giant one Barry because it looked like he had been making like Barry Bonds while his brothers and sisters bulked up the old fashioned way -- pumping worms.

I fell in love with the ducks before they were even born. Momma Duck nested in some flowers just outside my office at The Wilderness Society, cranking out 11 eggs. Everyone at TWS and in our building took care of the pending brood. I checked on Momma Duck several times a day and laughed like a little boy getting my first puppy when I got to fill her water bowl. She was so beautiful ... so precious, as my mom would say. So wild.

I was surprised that she chose downtown Washington D.C. as her sanctuary. I was worried what might happen when the kids were born.

"M Street is no place to raise a family," I told her. "I hope y'all make it out of here."

I nearly paid a visit to the cigar store when I returned to work after a weekend and saw 10 black and yellow baby ducks wobbling around. They somehow made it across the street and took up residence at National Geographic, which promptly tried to hog the credit for their care. A Washington Post story even put words in Momma Duck's beak, suggesting our The Wilderness Society's building wasn't to her liking. Our president William H. Meadows promptly rebuffed that egregious accusation in a letter to the editor.

The ducks became huge news in the District and across the nation. They even got face time on The Today Show on NBC. I dashed across the street every morning, every lunch break and every day after work to make sure they were adjusting well to their new home.

My favorite moment came during lunch when they learned how to leap down into a little pool in front of National Geographic -- a distance several times their body height. Mom sat there waiting for them to jump while all 10 lined up on the edge of the pool. Barry flung himself into the water without hesitation. The rest huddled together and debated the issue before ducks two and three took the plunge.

The rest hesitated, continuing to look from side to side and saying that it was another's time to jump. All but two threw themselves down, the faintest "bloop" resonating with each landing.

Ducks Nine and Ten wanted no part of the exercise. I'm not sure if mallards have knees but their legs were definitely trembling.

"I'm not going, you go!," Nine commanded.

"No!," Ten countered. "If you're so brave, you go -- you big chicken."

Nine took the insult to heart and split in mid-sentence. Bloop!

Ten stood there all by himself, the rest of the family staring up at him. Momma Duck sweetly called on him to join the fun. His siblings teased him.

He remained there for quite some time.

"I can do this," Ten told himself. "I know I can. I know I can. Here I gooooooo!" 

If ducks don't have bellies, Ten had just invented the waterfowl flop.

I was enthralled with every moment I shared with the ducks. I even stood there and watched them in the rain. The water came down and the ducks all raced for a seat underneath mom. She kept them nice and dry.

She could not keep them all safe.

On a morning check-in not long after that, I spotted only Momma Duck, Barry and three siblings. I thought the other six had perhaps gone for a swim somewhere else. I quickly learned from Nat Geo staff that the other six had been eaten. Word was that a combination of raccoons and hawks got them.

My knees buckled. Tears welled up in my eyes.

Intellectually, I understood that there are laws of the jungle but what's the point of living the nation's capitol if you can't help repeal unjust laws? I barely spoke a word to anyone for the next two days. Crazy as it may sound, I was grieving for a half-dozen ducks. The little ones seemed to be in shock, too. 

Trepidation filled my steps every day thereafter. I didn't know if I could handle counting fewer than five.

I did reach the magic number each time, delighting in the joy of those who remained yet still wishing there were more. I wondered how long it would be before they were big enough to fly away or before authorities helped them move into a more suitable neighborhood. I figured it would be a while yet.

Then I returned from work on Monday and saw no paparazzi on the scene. The yellow tape marking safe viewing distance was clumped on the ground. 

"No, this can't be," I thought. "It's not time yet."

I ambled across the street and spotted nary a bird. They were gone.

"I think they left on Sunday or this morning," another Nat Geo staffer told me. "I look for them every morning when I get here, too."

"Did they leave on their own or did -- (I couldn't bring myself to finish the thought)?"

"I heard they flew away," she said. "They left on their own will."

Whew.

I felt sadness wash over me despite the relief that came with knowing they were safe.

Five days have passed and I still look across the street every time I enter and exit the Sumner Square building. There's an illogical part of me that hopes they'll return -- the same part that causes me to keep my old Siberian husky's dog house even though he passed away four years ago.

I imagine I'll strain my eyes every time I'm riding my bike along the Potomac or passing through Rock Creek Park for the next 10 years -- hoping to find that the mallards have taken up residence there and that we'll somehow be able to recognize each other.

I just wish I had been able to say goodbye ... especially to Barry, who I pray will be able to keep his mom and siblings out of harm's way. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

D.C. War Memorial gets funding but deserves something more: people

Not that I have anything against the Washington Monument or the Lincoln Memorial but the D.C. area's lonely tributes are the ones I love the most. My heart goes out to them because they stand for so much yet receive so little. 

I couldn't help but feel pangs of sadness every time I walked or rode my bike past the D.C. War Memorial that honors District residents who gave their lives during World War I. While the World War II Memorial basks in perfectly appropriate adulation within but a few minutes walk, the D.C. War Memorial sits there wondering if anyone will pay it a visit. Will people remember the fallen or what they died for? 

I knew I had to write about the site the moment I read that Uncle Sam was stepping in to give the D.C. War Memorial some badly needed restoration. My piece on the D.C. War Memorial in American Legion magazine is online now and the print version is on the way. I imagine that the spirits of the people honored there would appreciate you giving the piece a read and heading out to say hello when the work is done. The World War I Memorial Foundation would, too.

Another under-appreciated site every American should visit is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier of the American Revolution in Alexandria. 

On a day in D.C. like today when the snow is pouring down and the cold is sending us all inside to our comfortable, heated homes, let's take a moment to remember all the soldiers who trekked barefoot through snow and ice during the Revolution on through those who fought in the trenches during World War I. Then let's go pay a visit to the lonely memorials honoring what they did.

Photo courtesy David DeJonge of World War I Memorial Foundation.

 

Depression at the Renwick Gallery: Japanese internment camp art

I went to the Smithsonian American Art Museum and the Renwick Gallery across the street from the White House to a learn a little bit more about art. My girlfriend and I have started a little side business buying and re-selling art, antiques, home decor and furniture and I thought some additional education would serve our wallets well.

I did not expect to be hit by an emotional curve ball.

"The Art of Gaman: Arts and Crafts from the Japanese Internment Camps, 1942-1946" grabbed my attention. (The exhibit ends on Jan. 30 and you should make plans to attend immediately.) I saw all kinds of things -- ornate wood carvings, knives, alters, statues, paintings, model ships, weaved baskets, and a baseball jersey made from a mattress cover that was used by a pitcher in an internment camp league.

A drawing on a piece of notebook-sized paper stopped me in my tracks: I saw a man falling to the ground with bullet wounds as he tried to reach through a barbed wire fence to rescue a stray dog. The man, I read in the accompanying text, was deaf. He did not hear the American military police office ordering him to put his arms back inside the fence.

I stood there, speechless, staring at the drawing for about 10 minutes. I forced myself on to the rest of the exhibit but I kept going back to that drawing. I wrote a note in the guest book expressing my appreciation for the chance to learn about a part of American history I knew very little about.

I didn't realize how many internment camps my government built, how many innocent people it imprisoned in a knee-jerk reaction to Japanese aggression during World War II, how long it kept people in those camps and how horribly we treated them while they were there. I could almost feel the deaf man's blood oozing around my tennis shoes.

The impact that exhibit made remains with me. I suspect it will be etched permanently on my conscience -- as clearly visible as the lines in the Depression glass I bought recently for my business enterprise.

I hadn't really taken the time to research the glass but the trip to the Renwick put me in the studying mood. I learned a little more about what the term meant ... that companies during the Depression distributed pieces of glass to entice consumers to buy their products. Buy a box of oatmeal and you might get a very beautiful cereal bowl. Go to a movie, get a candy dish. A number of companies made the glass in various patterns and all kinds of colors. It didn't take long for me to identify ours thanks to the Internet. We own, at least for now, the "pineapple and floral" pattern, also known as "Number 618", made by the Indiana Glass Company from 1932-1937.

I only knew from books and stories told to me by my grandparents what the Depression was like. I can not imagine how hard it was to survive that era. I sorted through the glass, holding each piece gingerly as I examined it. I made note of the number of each piece in the two boxes and dutifully recorded them on my inventory list. I counted a total of 60-plus pieces -- plates, relish platters, cups and saucers, candy dishes and more. The total estimated retail value for my $6 auction steal came out to close to $400. I decided we should keep a few pieces for ourselves.

By that point, I didn't care as much about the money as I did the tactile education on American history. I wondered about the people who made the glass and the people who obtained it. I wondered what it would look like if I could go back in time to a dinner with that family. What were they like? How were they surviving? How did they manage to put food in those dishes? Did my own grandparents eat off glass just like that?

Maybe tonight I should grab a pineapple and floral glass and offer a toast to everyone who endured the Depression and to all the Japanese Americans who as the name of their internment camp infers "bore the seemingly unbearable with dignity and patience."

 

 

The bearded man's pain

I walk into Quinn's Auction Galleries in Falls Church, Va., get pulled as if by magnetic force to a painting for sale in the weekly Wednesday evening auction. The bearded man's eyes reach out to me, imploring me to listen to what he has to say. 

I stare at him. The bearded man is in anguish, his light brown eyes nearly bursting with pain. His strong, wrinkled face is consumed by it. Even his bushy white eyebrows bring no levity to his gaze. Tufts of white hair dangle from his head. A long, flowing mustache and beard fall from his face.

He holds some type of turquoise orb in his hands. He clutches it like it's a globe -- a symbol to him of the earth and all mankind. His arms are hidden beneath what looks like a brown tunic. He is a learned man ... a monk or a scholar from the Middle Ages perhaps. He is also a man who is trying desperately to say something.

I strain to listen. 

The bearded man wants to hand the responsibility of caring for the world to anyone who will accept it, anyone who can remain sturdy despite an all-too-clear understanding of what's happening to our civilization. He sees me as his last hope. He wants to hand me the globe and to tell me the world is in peril. He conveys that he has done all that he can do and that his time is nearing an end. 

"Please," he urges. "Take this burden from me. Save this world and all those who call it home. At least try, as I fear it can not be done."

The bearded man comes up for bidding.

Others are interested in him but perhaps only for the frame. They are not listening to him. I make no pretense of offering subtle waves to stay in the bidding: I hold up my number while the auctioneer rattles off numbers and I make it clear my arm can stay up all night long. 

My competitors recognize my intent and stop at just $70. The bearded man comes home with me for $75 -- an unbelievable bargain but one that's not uncommon on Wednesday nights at Quinn's. 

Then again, he comes with great responsibility. I will place him in my study and greet him each morning before I head out into the world -- determined to do all I can to avoid letting the bearded man down.