DC Reflections

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."

Holocaust Memorial Museum: Make -- and keep -- a promise

Whether you live here or often come as a tourist, it's easy to postpone a trip to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. You know it's going to make you depressed so you really don't see the point.

It's time to get beyond that. It's time to realize that there is a reason to go: The Holocaust museum may be the singularly most important Washington destination.

Schedule a visit now. Plan to bring a loved one because you're going to need someone to hold or to hold you. Make no plans for the remainder of the day: You will not be in the mood.

Put some food in your stomach before you arrive because -- to be perfectly candid -- you're going to feel the urge to throw up, and you may actually do so. An empty stomach will only make it worse. Don't plan to eat afterward; you won't be able to.

Turn off your cell phone when you arrive, not even allowing it to vibrate.

View everything you see in the museum. Under no circumstances are you to avoid a film about medical experiments you have to look over barriers to see. Whether you allow children to see it is up to you: People with poor parenting skills should probably keep kids away. The same goes for the news reel films in another room. 

When you enter a train car, don't just pass through it: Stop. Imagine. Feel.

Then there's the film at the end, when you have to really brace yourself. Holocaust survivors tell their stories. Visitors cry, teenage girls right along with full-grown men. Wipe the tears away with your fingers or let yourself sob into the sleeves of your shirt or that of the person you brought with you: You won't be alone.

The film is a long one and you'll repeatedly think you can't take it anymore: Force yourself to endure. You'll be asking yourself the same question that caused you to procrastinate visiting in the first place -- why you're subjecting yourself to the museum. That's when one of the survivors explains what she hopes people will do as a result of visiting.

Even though the screen quickly changes to the next person, replay the woman's words in your head. Record them in your mind. Promise the woman -- and yourself -- that you will honor her request. Think about it in the context of what you see in your own community, and in headlines from across our country, on a daily basis.

Exit the theater and find a quiet place to sit down. You may not have the strength to walk for a bit, and you won't be able to mumble more than a sentence during your entire trip home. When you and your loved one do regain your voices, pledge to each other that you will keep the promises you each silently made to yourselves.

 

Library of Congress: Hanging out with Uncle Ben (Franklin)

A Friday off in D.C.? I knew where I was headed -- straight to the Library of Congress, my very favorite place in all of Washington. If you haven't camped out there yourself, you need to march down to the corner of Independence Avenue and First Street, hit the Madison Building, spend 10 minutes getting a researcher's card, and start racking up mind-blowing experiences.

Name your passion and you can feed it there: the Library of Congress is the ultimate cathedral of knowledge -- absolute nirvana for the intellectually curious. The Jefferson Building is also the most beautiful building in the entire city. The only way to really appreciate the Library's splendor, though, is to roll up your sleeves and use it. (Take a research orientation session to get a great start.)

I took a side excursion today from the potential book project I've been tinkering with for the past two years -- doing a little backfill on my knowledge of the American Revolution thanks to a suggestion from Mr. Evans, one of the many LOC specialists who genuinely enjoys helping library users. Today's treat from the Rare Books room was a work published in 1766 by Allan Ramsay entitled "Thoughts on the origin and nature of government" -- a British perspective on the audacious American backlash against the Stamp Act of 1765.

But that's not the best part.

The book, later owned by Thomas Jefferson, contained heaps of ink from the hand of Benjamin Franklin. I think of him as "Uncle Ben" as he was the most gregarious and eccentric of the Founding Fathers. I realize he was often cold toward his own family, but there's no question I would have been his favorite nephew. And Uncle Ben, like my dear friend John Adams, was known for applying heavy doses of the quill to the books he read. I do the same myself.

Nothing makes history come alive more than when you hold in your own hands the very articles touched by the heroes of the past. It's a rush; there's no other way to describe it. 

I pulled up to a reading table adorned with brass lamps, creaking from an antique wooden chair heightening my anticipation, and went back in time ... sitting right next to Uncle Ben while he personally lambasted what he saw as the wrong-headed thinking of Mr. Ramsay. It was like an 18th Century version of CNN's old "Crossfire". Ramsay's goal: rebuff Colonial opposition to what they see as taxation without representation; Franklin's mission: Digest his arguments, then shoot holes in them.

Tune into the highlights below. Forgive the fact I couldn't make out a few of Franklin's words -- his ink, after all, dried some 241 years ago. And don't forget people of the 1700s wrote and punctuated a little differently than we do today.

Ramsay: Whatever may have given encouragement to such an attack, I am heartily sorry for it: but the attack being now made, it becomes the duty of every man who wishes well to this flourishing empire, the prosperity, the very existence of which depend upon the union of all of its parts under one head, to repel the attack by all the means which law, justice and good sense authorize.

Franklin: If such a union be necessary to Great Britain let her endeavor to obtain it by fair means. It cannot be forced.

Ramsay: (Notes that the underlying principal of the debate is) that all men in their natural state are free and independent: but if we are to judge of the nature of man, as we do of the nature of other existences, by experience, there can be no foundation more unsound. No history of the past, no observation of the present time, can be brought to countenance such a natural state; nor were men ever known to exist in it, except for a few minutes, like fishes out of the water, in great agonies, terror and convulsions.

This principle of equal right to liberty, which can hardly be separated from that of an equal right to property, has never been actually acknowledged by any but the very lowest class of men; who have been easily persuaded to embrace so flattering a doctrine from the mouth of a WAT TYLER or JACK CADE, and in consequence of it, for it leads to nothing else, have cut the throats and seized the goods of their masters.

Franklin: This writer is ignorant that all of the Indians of North America not under the dominion of the Spaniards, are in that natural state, being restricted by no laws, having no courts or ministries of justice, no (unintelligible), no prisons, no governors vested with any legal authority. The persuasion of men distinguish by reputation of wisdom is the only means by which others are governed or (unintelligible). And the state of these Indians was probably the first state of all nations.

Ramsay: The position, however, being established, this farther has been added to it, that all of the rights of government are derived from a voluntary contract, by which each man gives up, as it were into a common flock, a small portion of this natural liberty, in order to form a sovereign power for the protection of the whole, and of every individual. But unfortunately, no such state of independence was ever known to exist, no voluntary contract was ever known to be entered into; so that if the legality of government depend upon it, it follows, that there never existed a legal government in any part of the globe.

Franklin: This is an assertion contrary to fact, as I have shown above, and therefore all the inferences from it are unfounded.

Ramsay: (States that weak people by nature seek the superior to take care of them.)

Franklin: May not equals unite with equals for common purposes?

Ramsay: (States that is the superior who best know how to run governments.)

Franklin: (Using a little sarcasm) That is, he that is strongest may do what he pleases with those that are weaker. A most equitable law of nature indeed.

Franklin: (On a roll as he refutes several of the next Ramsay assertions) Does he expect ever to see rulers incapable of mistakes, even the smallest? ... No wonder these comments were not attended to, as perhaps they never were before heard of. ... All mere quibbling.

Ramsay: (Declares that the consent of the people in England is not required for taxation by their representatives.) ... I have taken a great deal of pains to show that the notion of people consenting to their own taxation is contrary to the nature of government, and unsupported by any fact. I have been at pains to show that the notion of legislative power acting by virtue of representation, is no principle in the British Constitution; and I have finished by showing that the words virtual representation, either mean nothing at all, or mean a great deal more than those who use them would be willing to admit; and yet, after all my pains, my American antagonists are as much out of my reach as before.

Franklin: A most imprudent assertion! How comes it then, that the Commons only, who are chosen by the people, grant money and lay taxes? ... They would once have us Americans satisfied with this notion of virtual representation: But having made them ashamed of it, they now tell us there is no such thing in the British Constitution as representation at all!

Ramsay: One moment they (Colonists) desire no more than what belongs to every British subject; the next they refuse to be taxed like other British subjects, and each colony requires a parliament of its own.

Franklin: A falsity! They were always taxed like British subjects by their own representatives, and are willing to continue to be taxed. ... When an American says he has a right to all the privileges of a British subject, he does not call himself a British subject; he is an American subject of the king. The charters say they shall be entitled to all the privileges of Englishmen as if they had been born within the Realm. But they were and are without the Realm, therefore not British subjects.

Ramsay: (Makes historical reference England hitting Scotland in 1725 with a malt tax, a new tax similar to the Stamp Tax in the Colonies. He writes that Britain sent troops in to stop protests then, too, because force was more effective "than all the eloquence of Cicero or Mansfield.")

Franklin: Would you charge the riots to the acts of all of Scotland, as you do those in Boston to all the Americans? ... Troops have been sent to Boston; but with what effect? They have made the matter worse.

Ramsay: (Attacks the Colonists who pulled down houses, dragged people to the tree of liberty and obliged them to take God to witness to sentiments not their own for fear of being put to death.) These are outrages which none but the most ignorant and distempered imaginations could ever dread from any established government, and yet are committed by those, who, in the very height of their riots, complain of cruel and arbitrary exertions of power in the mild government of Great Britain, under the most just and humane of kings.

Franklin: What is all this to the purpose? Have not the Americans condemned these actions and made good all damages to the sufferers? How wicked it is, then, thus to misrepresent a country, in order to irritate government against it!

Ramsay: I shall therefore conclude with saying that the separation of Great Britain from her American appertinencies would be destructive of the prosperity and liberty of both. If so, it seems to follow that till such time as New England is strong enough to protect Old England, --

Franklin: This protection is mutual and equal in proportion to numbers and wealth, at present.

Ramsay: -- and the (?) of the British empire is transferred from London to Boston, there is an absolute necessity that the right of giving law to America, should continue to be vested in Great Britain. That it is the interest of Great Britain to protect and cherish her American provinces instead of oppressing them, is an undeniable truth; and it is, perhaps, no less true, that some farther attention, and some farther means of communication, are still wanting to that desirable end: but let every true friend to Britain and to all her connections stand forth in defense of her great legislative and uncontrollable power, without which non union, and of course no safety, can be expected. (End of the book.)

Franklin: (Takes the liberty of the last word by writing beneath Ramsay's final paragraph.) This writer is concise, lively, and elegant in his language, but his reasonings are too refined and paradoxical to make impression on the understanding or convince the minds of his readers. And his main fact on which they are founded is a mistake.

Thumbs up to Maryland motor vehicles admin.; thumbs down to Voter Registration

I had been dreading my trip to the Maryland Motor Vehicle Administration because of the nightmarish stories I had heard about registering a car in this state. I was told most people fail the state safety inspection you have to pass before you can register, that the mechanics always tell you that you need repairs and, when you get done, you're in for a rough day at the MVA.

I shouldn't have listened. The staff at the Maryland MVA could not have been nicer, more professional or helpful. It was clear from the moment I entered the site on Industrial Parkway in Silver Spring that the MVA was organized and efficient. I went ahead and paid an extra fee to contribute to a conservation fund and obtain the attractive Chesapeake Bay plate.

The employees' jobs are not easy. Not everyone comes prepared, and I watched them patiently manage not to scream while would-be driver's license and car tag registration applicants blamed them for everything under the sun. (One was screaming at a staffer who refused to process a license application because he didn't bring any kind of funds to pay the fee.) The paperwork and Web site the MVA provides, however, makes it pretty clear what you need to bring. It's not their fault people don't read or think the rules don't apply to them.

I would have been out in two hours, maybe less, with my license AND my tag in my hands, had I paid closer attention to the information before I arrived. Even so, the time I spent there didn't seem to take that long. Clean and well-lit, I passed the time talking to a friend and reading the electronic news boards that can easily be seen from throughout the building.

Still, it was the warm, friendly, we-don't-hate-you attitude that threw me off. Going into the Georgia Department of Motor Vehicles is like going into battle -- an experience almost as bad as dealing with the IRS. (Few things in life are that bad; I've been through colonoscopies that were more pleasant than my interactions with the IRS.) I commend everyone at the MVA for making what I thought would be an irritating experience something that was quite painless.

There must be something strange in the water up here. I keep finding other Maryland state and Montgomery County government employees working in a way that's a credit to their employers and the taxpayers who fund them. Oddly, I've even found most federal government employees here to be friendly and helpful.

While I was astonished by the friendly service at the MVA, the voter registration process made me mad; I'm still stewing. The state forced me to choose a political party when I registered at the MVA (if I wanted to vote in a primary). I learned that you are also limited to voting in the primary of the party you designate.

That's outrageous.

Let's set aside for another day my argument that both of the old parties are equally un-principled, that they sold out long ago. In Georgia, I had the right to cast a ballot in whatever primary I wished. If there were more horrifying candidates running under the GOP banner for president, senate and down the line, I'd make like an elephant and vote against the most socially conservative Republican. If I found the Democrats to give me the greater horror, I'd make a jackass out of myself and try to lop off the most fiscally liberal Democratic contenders.

The state of Maryland, however, forced me to make that decision upon registration -- even though I was a long way from deciding whose candidacies most deserve to be stopped. That offensive mandate should be repealed now. Every American should have the right to vote in whichever primary he or she chooses: The parties don't stand for much anyway, and no voter should be forced to pretend otherwise.

Rejuvenation: Close encounters in Pohick Bay

Minutes into paddling a rented red kayak through the Potomac waters of northern Virginia's Pohick Bay Regional Park, I hear a distinctive, unmistakable sound coming from the shorline. It's an almost prehistoric sqawk ... a throaty, primal blast that I know belongs to only one creature.

I look to my left and see a Great Blue Heron standing there, barely 50 feet away. Maybe less. I drift nearer, my breath taken by the thrill of floating toward him. These elusive birds have never let me get this close in all the places I've sought them out. This guy today is different. He lets me deeper into his world than I have ever been -- giving me several more precious seconds, moments I wish I could freeze in time.

Then the inevitable: He heaves himself above the tall green grasses he had been fishing beside, flapping his massive his massive wings so hard they pop like a flag in a brisk wind.

He's gone.

My windpipes return a moment later and I take it all in. Though I'm only 30 minutes outside of D.C., I am in a completely different world. It's a Sunday afternoon and I am for the first time in my life overcoming my fear of water. The fear left with the heron, I realize. I am comfortable now. Like I had been kayaking all my life.

Like I belong in the water, in the wild, with this bird.

And his friends.

A couple hundred strokes after saying farewell to the heron, I look up and see two bald eagles racing each other across the sky. They're flying straight at me and the friend who's giving me the tour, lowering their altitude and glancing down at us to make sure we're admiring them properly. They swoop so close that for a second I think they must see a snack next to our boats ... but they raise their flaps and head back toward the horizon. Rebecca and I giggle.

We head further out, feeling the perfect, 82-degree sunlight drenching our faces and the cool bay waters trickling onto our hands with each stroke. I am full of confidence and delight now; I want more of this.

I also decide to start a new hobby for the day -- retrieving the occasional Gatorade, Coke and beer bottles that have been swept into Pohick Bay. Some are wedged deep into pockets of seaweed but I'm determined. I fight through it, retrieve the trash, and lumber out.

Failing to hit the breaks on one pickup, though, I slide into the leafy green stalks of one of the marshes we're paddling around. A family of red-winged blackbirds is hanging out, looking me straight in the eyes from seven feet away. They are not the least bit concerned that I've crashed my kayak right into their living room.

Awesome.

I apologize, back up, and mosey toward the farthest bank of the bay. Rebecca teaches me more about ecology as we paddle. I learn about the negative impact various farming practices have on the bay. She points out the differences between egrets and ospreys sitting in distant tree branches and calls my attention to kingfishers as they dart past us. We see a tiny yellow bird that could fit in the palm of our hands but can't make out what it is.

We row past logs providing refuge to sunbathing turtles. A dragon fly bums a ride with me for a while. More eagles come and go. A baby green heron watches us ease by at beak level, not quite sure what to make of us.

I spot what looks like a weathered old volleyball drifting by.

"Wilson!," I scream.

I scoop up the weary traveler and decide he will be my new officemate; he is relieved.

Different schools of fish pass beneath my craft. Some do gymnastic leaps toward the water surface. The performances capture the attention of a pair of egrets who battle for a bite. The loser storms away mad when the victor chooses not to share.

After being out on the water for several hours, I'm hungry, too. Rebecca and I paddle to the takeout point in silence. I replay the day's highlight reel in my head. My adrenalin is still racing, my batteries recharged.

I can't believe I got all this for $7 an hour.

[Learn more: Visit the Pohick Bay Web site at http://www.nvrpa.org/parks/pohickbay/index.php.]