DC Reflections

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]. 

 

 

 

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.

 
 

 

 

No apology needed: Veterans Day at Arlington National Cemetery

Moments after laying a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, Vice President Joe Biden stepped to the podium inside the marble white Memorial Amphitheater and told a story about a wounded veteran he met. The man's legs were gone and one of his hands were mangled.

The soldier reached up with his good hand to the triangle above his bed, hoisted himself into a sitting position and apologized: He said it was his intention to greet the vice president by standing and saluting.

Tears shot from my eyes and air flew from my lungs. 

I wasn't the only one gasping -- or crying. Sitting beneath a brilliant blue sky amid a sea of red, white and blue, everyone of us felt the power of Biden's words. Old soldiers got misty-eyed, civilians of every age and hue wiped their eyes. Even children too young to understand what war is seemed to sense they were experiencing a hallowed moment on even more hallowed ground.

Veterans Day at Arlington National Cemetery packs a punch. That's why I went. Experiencing that day at that site had long been on my list of must-have life experiences. Now I think I'll make at an annual tradition.

Spending the day there was my way of paying tribute to my grandfather Wilbur Young, who fought in World War II and whose sailor's hat sits in a place of honor in my home along with the bullet casings from his 21-gun salute funeral. I went to honor my uncle John Young, one of the countless unsung heroes of Vietnam. I went to honor my kid brother, Gregory Lancette, a newly minted Navy man who graduated from boot camp this summer. I also went to thank the millions of men and women I've never met who have placed their lives on the line for this country.

Biden asked the crowd if we knew what was the most frequently asked question he received from wounded soldiers. Several possibilities raced through my mind but I wasn't even close. The vice president said the number one question he gets is this: "Sir, can you help me get back to my unit?"

Tears erupted again and I thought I was about to start sobbing. A little girl broke my concentration when she sprinted away from her young veteran parents in record speed. I threw out my right arm to scoop her up and swing her back to mom and dad. A flag in my shirt pocket fell to the ground but got scooped up so fast I couldn't see which of the nearby men in uniform retrieved it. I blinked twice and wondered if the flag pickup had been a figment of my imagination.

Biden and other speakers including Secretary of Veterans Affairs Eric Shinseki trumpeted some good news -- faster and better benefits and long-overdue increases in all kinds of programs for veterans among other things. He also issued a notice to all who seek to do us harm, saying that we will never shrink from danger and that we will never be defeated.

In between speeches, a member of "The President's Own" U.S. Marine Band belted out songs that took me to a place where no music ever has. His voice reached into my guts and lifted me as high as the flags draped behind the speakers and guests of honor. Soldiers saluted, colors retired, canons fired and the service ended. 

Silence enveloped the amphitheater. I chose to walk back down to the Arlington entrance instead of waiting for the bus, drifting off in thought again. I wished that more employers would close on Veterans Day so that more people could attend ceremonies honoring those making the ultimate
sacrifice. 

I saw a plot of land being prepared for a new section of graves. I thought of America's men and women bravely wearing uniforms that day -- doubting that any of them had the remotest idea that they will soon lay there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Discoveries in a dead man's home

I entered the home of another dead man last Saturday looking for one thing in particular -- additional book cases to add to the library in my house. The thrill of finding just the right piece for it, though, is but one of many elements I love about attending estate sales.

It's not usually just what I buy that makes my occasional weekend sojourns so intriguing.

I was confident last weekend's estate sale trip to a Maryland home near National Harbor would be no exception. I study the ads in the Washington Post before making my itinerary. (Estate sales, unlike garage sales, tend to be high-quality affairs in the homes of recently deceased, well-off or wealthy people.) This notice mentioned that the owner was an avid collector of many things, including books.

I arrived and did a quick pass through the home until I found my quarry. This man, too, had a formal library. I glanced at an antique table with a strikingly old photo album on it and was so drawn to the artistry of it that I perused a few quick pages. The photos were all black and white and appeared to go back a hundred years.

I moved on to look at the dazzling display in the library. Hand-made, floor-to-ceiling book cases with the craftsman's initials branded on to them lined the room. Books going back to 1904 (not quite old enough for me to buy) lined the shelves.

An oriental carpet reeking of cat urine covered the floor. This man may have had cats but he was in his heart a dog man: countless dog figurines lined his oak desk and smaller book shelves. Maybe he was too old by that point in his life to keep dogs. High school year books and other clues in the house suggested he was likely born between the world wars. The photograph of what was likely his high school or college graduation class looked like something out of a film on Turner Classic Movies ... a dozen or so young men all dressed in suits smiling and laughing and looking everywhere but at the camera when the exposure was made.

The old man was probably a psychologist, his library containing a ton of books on the subject dating from the 1940s to the 1960s. While most people only attend estate sales to shop for interesting items, I often become a biographical detective who tries to discern what lessons the homeowners' lives have to teach me, what stories they have to tell.

This home clearly belonged to an old man who died alone: He never married or lost a wife long ago and chose not to wed again: There was not a trace of the feminine touch in the home. The art work featured scenes of ships and the sea. Two rooms had busts of learned men's faces I did not recognize. Only men's clothes hung in the closets. The sheets and covers on the master bed contained only heavy, dark colors. The sun room on the back contained several chairs but only one with seat cushions that looked worn. An enormous collection of tools filled a basement workshop that also housed a China collection that clearly had not served guests in many decades.

My concentration was broken by a woman on her cell phone debating with her husband whether she should buy the big book shelves. After hanging up, the woman mentioned to me that she and her husband wanted to get rid of their IKEA book shelves for something better. She asked me if I thought these big cases were a good deal. I masked my horror at the thought of any book being placed on an IKEA shelf (an insult to the printed word) and told her these shelves were priced to move. Shockingly cheap, actually. Just $65 each.

I told her I'd grab them if I had the space but that the next person to walk through the door certainly would snag them. When she expressed further doubt, I pointed to the sturdiness, the quality of the wood, and the branded initials -- always a good sign. She noticed the scratches that had come with age and said her husband could paint the shelves to make them look new.

I choked.

"Ma'am," I said, sweet as pie, "I couldn't tell you how old these book cases are, but they've clearly got some great years under them. They're supposed to look this way. That's what gives them their charm. All you'd want to do is dust them with a cotton cloth. You'd destroy them by taking a brush or chemical to them."

She thanked me for my time, whipped out her phone, and told her husband that she had decided to buy them right away. She scampered to pay for the shelves and returned to the library. The next man who came in saw the bounty and announced he was buying them. He was crushed to learn he was too late. (If you want the best items, arrive in the first hour of an estate sale. If you want to try for a bargain, return on the second and final day when the companies running the event usually mark everything down by 50 percent for the final three hours of the sale.)

I purchased two equally beautiful but smaller shelves that were exactly the pieces I needed for my library -- only $45 each and they were just as well made. I bought a couple of tiny globes the man had on his desk, figured I'd take a chance I could clean the feline-stained carpet, and bought a really nifty wooden item I envisioned holding one of my antique glass bottles. A husband and wife walked by me and told me they were heading back to take that very item in my hands and that I had indeed picked a fine "fern stand". (Hey, I'm a single straight guy; I didn't know what a duvet cover was until a girlfriend from my 30s started identifying such objects for me.)

The library raided, I made more laps through the rest of the home. I had a lot in common with this old man. An appreciation for living alone. A great love for books and old, wood furniture. I could have spent a paycheck there if I hadn't been careful. (Make a budget for yourself if you decide to attend an estate sale. Find the right home and money goes flying out of your pocket.)

There was one item in particular, though, that kept nagging me, inducing a thought that had not quite come to the surface yet. As happy as I was with my library score, I couldn't shake the sight of the table with that old photo album. The album was the major focal point of the man's library, something he regarded with great tenderness. I flipped the pages again and saw what I presumed to be many long-lost family members, yet the old man apparently died with no one in his life who meant as much to him as did the loved ones in the photos. He left no survivors who wanted the album.

I often take great pride in having lived my 40 years to the fullest, following Thoreau's mantra to suck the marrow out of life. I regret little. Still, I am conscious of the fact that I have pushed away every woman I've ever let get close to me because I so enjoy the fun and freedom that comes with being single. I'm big on solitude and I like to do whatever I want to do whenever I want to do it. I also very much enjoy my own company, hanging out in my library with my dog Alexis, and riding my bike all day.

Looking around the old man's house one final time, I stared at the sun room seats with only one worn cushion, the bachelor bedding, the dog figurines, and the photo album. I reflected on the choices I have made in my life, the subterranean thought at last emerging: I guess this is how my house will look when I die, too.

 

Blood on the sidewalk

I stumbled into the Smithsonian's S. Dillon Ripley Center today, realizing the tiny kiosk of an entrance wasn't just housing for a brochure wrack or water fountain. My accidental discovery of a portal that sits invisibly in the shadow of the great castle beside it lead me down a winding staircase to an underground world of riveting exhibits -- including one that should be seen by everyone who thinks Barack Obama's election means it's time to stop talking about how we can improve racial relations ... if they can stomach the sight of a black man's blood spilling across the sidewalk.

The "Road To Freedom" drew me in because its focus -- photographs of the Civil Rights movement from 1956-1968 -- hit close to home. A Georgia boy who's a product of the New South, I knew I'd recognize many of the subjects. They're heroes to people like me and I've had the fortune to meet several of them. The exhibit itself is presented by Atlanta's High Museum of Art and some of the photos are being displayed for the first time.

Enter the exhibit and you are confronted by a nearly life-sized photograph of Martin Luther King Jr., and his wife Coretta marching toward you. All sound disappears as you get lost in the inspiring, and sometimes gruesome, display of black and white photos. Initially, I got lulled into happiness: There's a photo of a baby-faced Julian Bond, another of King standing in front of a portrait of Gandhi. There's a shot of King deep in concentration with his friends John Lewis, who would become an Atlanta congressman, and Andrew Young, who would become my hometown's mayor.

The levity didn't last.

I saw the National Guard snatch a photographer for the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee out of the hands of protesters. I absorbed shots of Rosa Parks getting arrested, a white man hitting a black reporter on the head while the valiant Little Rock 9 put their lives on the line.

I watched another white man pour cleaning agents into a swimming pool in Florida while black swimmers tread for equality. Police dogs tore into the flesh of another young African-American man, smoke poured out of a Freedom Rider bus, and James Meredith took a sniper's bullet. Police stung protesters with water cannons. White men attacked a group of black people who had the audacity to try to spend money in stores.

Ought of nowhere, I caught a glimpse of King sitting on the floor of his home relaxing with his family: Coretta and his daughter sat on the couch while King kept his son from wandering away with a hula hoop. I don't think I have ever seen an image of King smiling. It's almost hard to imagine a martyr experiencing moments like regular people but it felt good to think there was some joy in his life.

Several shots of a skinny Jesse Jackson threw me off, too, including one of him leading a poor people's march in front of the Washington Monument. He has been a headline-chasing demagogue for so long that I had forgotten he was once a more real person capable of independent thought. Though I was honored to meet him in my college days, I had tuned him out for ages -- but I had been thinking about him a lot since television caught him crying during Obama's inauguration. He became more human to me again.

I have also been thinking a lot about the Dr. Joseph Lowery, the reverend who gave the benediction at Obama's inauguration. I had the honor of working with Rev. Lowery on a particular crusade for justice earlier in this decade and found him to be one of the finest human beings I have ever met. On January 20th, I couldn't stop wondering what must have been going through his mind as he thought about America on the National Mall  when King shared his dream and America on the National Mall as Obama took the oath of office.

A friend of mine watching the ceremonies on TV with her nine-year-old son and some of his friends seemed to have it figured out. "Obama made King's dream come true," one of them said. "No," countered another, "the American people did."

I'm not sure which side Lowery would take, but he, Jackson, and Lewis did all answer the repeatedly asked question from reporters about whether they thought 40 years ago that a black man (or even a bi-racial one) would ever be elected president of the United States. They all said yes but they just didn't know when. It's hard for me to imagine they really thought that back then -- believed yes, but thought, no. How could it not have seemed preposterous at the time?

My train of thought came to a halt when I looked up and saw a shot of an unknown black man face down on a New Jersey sidewalk, blood pouring out of his skull, across the cement and onto the street.

America has certainly come a long way since then, as President Obama and Dr. Lowery can attest. Just because one dream has been achieved, though, doesn't mean we should stop talking about the sacrifices people made to get us here. We should remember the non-violent marchers and the boy-cotters, the students and the swimmers ... all the folks who took a beating or surrendered their lives to help America cross a literal and a figurative bridge to become a nation where more people who don't look alike can get along, and where everybody has an equal right to pursue all the happiness and freedom our country offers.

One of the best things we can do to honor their memory is continue to confront our own prejudices and encourage our friends and families to the same. One dream may be realized but we still have the chance to make it more concrete. More permanent. We can make it come true for increasing numbers of people, too.

We can also visit exhibits like the "Road To Freedom", even if like racism they're sometimes hidden in plain sight on the very Mall where America's greatest dream was born.

 

 

Choir knocks out Scrooge at Mount Vernon Estates

The Mount Vernon High School Choir lifted me up and took me to a higher place on Saturday with a Christmas performance to remember. I'm not big on most holidays and Christmas music drives me up a wall, but there was a little magic in the air at George Washington's estate yesterday.

Perhaps it was the combination of the music and the setting, and the fact that the young singers were dressed in 18th Century garb --and that they were giving it everything they had. 

I spend a lot of time at Mount Vernon and I've observed its beauty on all kinds of different days and seasons, but I don't know that I've ever seen it as beautiful as it was decked out for the arrival of Santa Claus.

If you haven't paid your respects to our first president lately, you should visit soon. The Christmas spirit is there waiting for you.

Lake Artemesia: I'll take the double-cheese combo and a sunset, please

Berwyn Heights, MD -- The great half-husky Alexis and I hop in my car Saturday as we're both craving one of our favorite outside-the-District routines ... the double-cheeseburger and beautiful sunset combo. The former is courtesy of Wendy's, the latter a lesser-known destination called Lake Artemesia in Prince George's County near the University of Maryland.

I inhale the burger and fries while Alexis takes a catnap in the Mazda. We turn back on to University Boulevard for a second, make a right turn and travel through a little industrial area that looks like it can't possibly lead to something natural or attractive. 

Dogface perks up as she knows the neighborhood and what's ahead. Our six legs hit the ground a moment later and the modern world fades away in a flash. No car horns, jackhammers or police sirens -- not even the incessant yap of a cellphone addict. We enter the paved walking trails as the sun swoops toward the 38-acre lake.

We pass a middle-aged Chicago woman trying to shed some pounds while she listens to her iPod. She's singing way off key with not a care in the world. A rabbit grins as the woman goes by: He could do better but he knows Lake Artemesia is all about getting into your own personal space and enjoying the area's charms.

Around the bend, we watch an exceptionally limber Asian woman work her way through yoga exercises in a lake-side gazebo. We spot an old Asian man a couple of hundred yards later. He's sitting on a bench in a full suit reading out loud to himself. We cruise by a variety of hikers, bikers and bird watchers -- taking note that a guided birding tour is set for the morning of June 7 at the lake.

Alexis likes to keep her eyes on the lake and the aquatic garden. She's tempted to try to walk across what looks to her like a path with round green steps, but she thinks better of it. Five minutes later, a young black family sets up shop on a pier and drops their lines into the water. Dogface and I pause to read one of the signs along the path. She is a speed reader but it takes me a minute to soak in the photos and descriptions of what Lake Artemesia holds ... rainbow trout, bass, walleye, to name a few.

The family has a good time but doesn't get any nibbles for a while. A 20-something Latino man, however, is having better luck. He's down on his knee whispering sweet nothings to his blushing girlfriend sitting on a bench. The light beaming from his face suggests he is deeply in love and that it is only a matter of time before he drops to his knee for another occasion.

Alexis and I keep on walking. "How y'all doin'," I call out to a white couple walking their dog. Unlike everyone else I greet at such places, they recoil in panic, avert their eyes, and dart by.

"Yankees!," Alexis huffs.

We move on. 

More signs teach us about other creatures that call the lake home. We hope to spot a beaver or two but they must be away for the Memorial Day weekend. We do catch glimpses of all kinds of birds scurrying through the forest alongside the lake. Their songs compliment the cacophony of children's laughter coming from another pier.

The last few rays bounce off the lake, punctuated by the gentle whoosh of a Metro green line train that rolls by every 10 minutes or so. I've burned off the burger and Dogface and I are completely relaxed. The two of us hop back in the car but recognize there's a third party with us ... a part of Lake Artemesia that always hitches a ride home.

Softball on the Mall -- another check on my DC life list

A batter crushed a fly ball deep to my left field turf and I turned and sprinted back intending to make one of my beloved, show-off over-the-shoulder catches. The ball dropped into my line of sight and all I had to do was keep running and watch it nest in my glove.

Then it happened -- the thing I even told a friend on the way to practice was going to get me.

The tiny white ball crossed a mammoth white obelisk upon its descent. "Dude," I said to myself in a vernacular used mostly on sports fields, "that's the Washington Monument!"

The surreal joy of playing softball on the National Mall got me and the ball skipped right off my leather. I chunked the ball to the shortstop and stared back at the monument. This is just too cool, I thought. I live here now; I play softball on the Mall. Playing ball on the Mall was on my life list of experiences to treasure in this town, a list that extends seven typed pages and counting.

My DC diamond life got even better several days later when my new co-ed team from work ventured out for our first game against an opponent that had stacked its lineup with NFL-sized players, all but two of them men. (Our team honored the "co" in co-ed with five women on the field.) The ringers jumped out to an early lead by blasting home runs so far they qualified for an exhibit at the Air and Space Museum.

Our scrappy little band of environmentalists didn't quit.

The women on our team started to drive the ringers nuts by stroking single after single after single -- moving runners around station-to-station. The ringers nearly went into epileptic seizures when our thirdbasewoman traded her Monolo Blahniks and just-in-from-Paris purse for cleats and a glove -- stopping a bullet and nailing a runner at first base. I will forever treasure the sly grin that stretched across her face as the batter sulked back to his bench.

Down by seven runs in the last inning, we kept on fighting. Next thing I knew, we were down by two runs with two outs when I stepped toward the plate.

I paused for a second to try to put the game situation out of my head and just focus on placing the ball on the same line I always aim for. I glanced at the Lincoln Memorial down the third base line in left field and reminisced for a nanosecond about the time I spent there with my dad the first time I visited this city in fifth grade. That was the year I fell in love with this town and knew that I'd end up here some day.

I was in a happy little zen place ... until our HR director announced, "Shoot, Chris is going to going ahead and drive these in."

Thanks, man.

I stepped out of the box, hit speed dial to get Zen back, and drove the next pitch through the gap  between short and third. It should have been a double that tied the game but the ringers weren't paying attention as they tried to stop the tying run. I saw the ball bouncing around behind the plate, got waved home by Honest Abe himself, and snuck in for the go-ahead run before the catcher knew I was there.

The smile on my face made me feel like I was 20 again. The old man still has some game.

The mighty enviros took the field in the bottom of the seventh and recorded three up and three down -- the third out and game-saving play made by another of our fearless women. One ringer lost his grip and said there was no way her throw beat the runner at first even though his own first base coach started walking off the field the moment the catch was made.

Our crew headed to a nearby watering hole for dinner and drinks and I made a toast to our new team and to our soon to be legendary come-back victory.

Glasses clinked all around and I scanned the table soaking in the moment ... sitting there with my friends from my dream job in my dream city celebrating another golden moment in the sun.

My inner voice offered a second toast.

"Here's to your new life, Chris."

Cheers indeed.

Library of Congress: America's past, my future

Turning a page of the writings of George Washington at the Library of Congress this Saturday morning, I caught my reflection in the glass covering the brown reading desks. My face was enveloped by the image of the Jefferson reading room dome also bouncing off the glass. I noticed the sunlight pouring in through one of the stained glass windows.

Though I'm not one to long pause in front of a mirror, something about my auto-view held my attention. Perhaps it was the tranquility of the moment ... knowing that I was yet again hanging out in my favorite place in the District, a town where I have for the past eight months been living the life of my dreams. I am doing work in the nonprofit sector that means something to me, making new friends, collecting new experiences, and challenging my mind -- many new assertions unsettling what I thought I once knew.

I looked into the Library of Congress desk and wondered if I would be measuring my age by that very view in the years to come. I can not imagine ever leaving this city; I am perhaps more so than I have ever been, home.

Then I turned my eyes back to George Washington and the stark thoughts that were on his mind in 1776.

From a letter written on May 1 to Major General Charles Lee:

"... I thank you for your good wishes in our future operations, and hope that every diabolical attempt to deprive mankind of their inherent rights and privileges, whether made in the East, West, North or South, will be attended with disappointment and disgrace, and that the authors in the end will be brought to such punishment, as an injured people have a right to inflict."

Orders given to his troops in New York on July 2, while Congress was giving its initial approval to the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia, moved me even more:

"... The time is now near at hand which must probably determine, whether Americans are to be, Freemen, or Slaves; whether they are to have any property they can call their own; whether their Houses, and Farms, are to be pillaged and destroyed, and they consigned to a State of Wretchedness from which no human efforts will probably deliver them.

"The fate of unborn Millions will now depend, under God, on the Courage and Conduct of this army -- Our cruel and unrelenting Enemy leaves us no choice but a brave resistance, or the most abject submission; this is all we can expect -- We have therefore to resolve to conquer or die: Our own Country's Honor, all call upon us for a vigorous and manly exertion, and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous to the whole world.

"Let us therefore rely upon the goodness of the Cause, and the aid of the supreme Being, and whose hands Victory is, and we shall have their blessings and praises, if happily we encourage each other, and shew the whole world, that a Freeman contending for LIBERTY on his own ground is superior to any slavish mercenary on earth."