DC Reflections

Making feathered friends with Friends of Sligo Creek

I normally experience my beloved Sligo Creek Trail from Silver Spring, Maryland to Lake Artemesia in College Park on my bike: I cruise along at 12 to 15 miles per hour, my eyes focused on the pavement ahead and my ears filled with the constant whoosh of wind breaking across my face. The Friends of Sligo Creek introduced me to a whole new way of encountering the tail on May 6, 2017, when it organized a walk through the tree canopy.

That's what it felt like anyway.

The trip along Sligo Creek was actually a guided tour -- the first time that either myself or my girlfriend Won-ok Kim had ever formally gone "birding". We've admired a lot of birds in our day but never really taken the time to get to know much about them. We certainly didn't know much about the feathered friends in our own back yard trail, nor had we spent that much time looking up -- or listening. The sounds were what I found the most fascinating. It was like they had all been hidden from my ears until ornithologist David Blockstein and local birder Mary Singer pulled back some kind of magic curtain. The 25 of us who went traipsing through the woods spent as much time straining our ears as we did craning our necks. Had all of these sounds been up there the whole time, Won-ok and I wondered? We were dumbstruck. 

Blockstein, an FOSC member who works as a senior scientist and director of education at the National Council for Science and the Environment, must see that kind of looks on newbies' faces all the time. He asked us why birds sing the way they do. I had never considered that, either. He told us that birds sing to mark their territory and that the males do so to attract the ladies. He said that female birds judge potential mates by the quality of their song. I whispered to Won-ok that I'd be a 48-year-old virgin if women judged me by my singing ability.

Blockstein and fellow volunteer Mary Singer would call out what bird had just landed overhead long before any of us could see it because they knew their songs so well. "Scarlet Tanager," Singer would say -- tilting her binoculars up to the tree tops and helping us all find it. "Yellow-rumped Warbler," Blockstein would usher, pulling out his dog-eared copy of "Finding Birds in the National Capital Area" by Claudia Wilds and teaching us more about the bird in question. 

Won-ok captured brilliant bird photos as we walked, enabling our fellow birders to see birds they missed by looking at the screen on her trusty Canon camera. I shot photos of the people watching the birds and jotted a few notes in my trusty reporter's notebook, a habit from a career long ago. (View more FOSC birding photos.) I focused most of my time, though, just getting lost in the joy of the ambient sound. I couldn't believe how many different sounds there were. It had all been one big blur to me before that day. Much like the process of learning a foreign language, though, I eventually began to be able to distinguish one song from another. Perhaps with more time I'll be able to learn which songs come from which birds.

Blockstein and Singer pulled back the curtains ever-wider, sharing their passion with the group and teaching us more at every step. Blockstein pointed to one bird dart across the air in a peculiar manner. It seemed as if the bird was a plane whose engine kept stalling, causing the bird to drop down before the engine re-started and boosted it back up. He said that the flight pattern was no accident, that some birds fly that way to conserve energy -- flapping their wings, stopping and starting again. I had no idea.

The tour guides taught us about more birds than I can remember, including some that we were not lucky enough to see that day such as the Black-crowned Night Heron. Out on a morning bike ride today, I found myself looking up into the trees as I did down at the ground. I recognized that this was not a good idea for a guy who just spent a year recovering from a violent bike crash caused by mud I didn't spot in time but the Friends of Sligo Creek had inspired me to spend more time with my head in the trees above. I caught a black and white blur going across the top of my line of sight and pulled off the trail. I saw some polar-bear-white-bellied bird perched on a branch it looked too heavy to call home but I couldn't get a good look at it. A white-bearded man with a half dozen cameras dangling from his neck approached. I knew he would know what I was looking at. "It's a Black-crowned Night Heron," he said. 

Beautiful.

I didn't get a good look at him but luck improved dramatically on the way back. There he was again, sitting right in the middle of an Anacostia River tributary. It was lunch time and he was hungry. I crawled down the bank to get the best shot I could using just my phone and wished that Won-ok and her professional camera had been with me. I was able to shoot some neat videos of the big bird as he stared intently into the water but good still photos weren't happening. I gave up on the quest and simply sat on the rocks enjoying the view for as long as he let me. I probably sat there a good 10 minutes watching him hunt. I loved every second of it but had to pedal away to eat my own lunch. I gave thanks to the Friends of Sligo Creek the whole way home for the new gift it has given me to treasure.

Writer Christopher Lancette and photographer Won-ok Kim look forward to getting more involved with Friends of Sligo Creek. Contact them here. 

 

Broken treaties with American Indian Nations, and a new Thanksgiving tradition?

I turned a corner at the National Museum of the American Indian last week and found myself staring at the cherubic cheeks of Henry Knox -- George Washington's Secretary of War and one of my all-time favorite Revolutionary leaders. I've got a love a man who starts his career as a Boston bookseller and propels himself to extraordinary heights in Washington's army and then his cabinet. I've also got to love a man known for standing for his convictions.

Before my eyes even pulled back to see the context of the larger exhibit I had stumbled upon, I saw my man Knox going on record yet again to make his humanity clear. He spoke about the territorial dispute between the Muscogee Indians of my old home state of Georgia and the fledgling United States:

"The Indians being the prior occupants, possess the right of the soil," he said. "It cannot be taken from them unless by their free consent."

I stepped back to take in the bigger picture of the exhibit -- "Nation to Nation: Treaties Between the United States and American Indian Nations." (The exhibit opened in late September of this year and will run until 2018.)

The word "humanity" quickly escaped my mind as it is rarely ever associated with how colonists-turned-Americans treated Native people ... the people our forefathers slaughtered, uprooted and nearly reduced to extinction. I'm still not sure why we don't more often use the term "genocide" to describe what we did to American Indians. What other word is there when one group of people systematically tries to wipe another group of people off the face of the earth?

"We want nothing from you but justice," Muscogee Alexander McGillivray said in 1785. "We want our hunting grounds preserved from encroachments. They have been ours from the beginning of time."

Knox and the Washington administration at least initially tried to do the right thing so solve the land disputes with the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. And by dispute I mean that Americans wanted all the land and thought that Indians should have none. We thus went to our go-to move: We signed an elaborate peace treaty between Georgia and the United States and the Muscogee Indians, celebrating the event with an elaborate signing ceremony, gifts from the President of the United States to local chiefs, great fanfare including front page stories in newspapers and maybe even handshakes all-around.

I love Article 6 and Article 7 of the 1790 Treaty With The Creeks, one of the first this country signed with American Indians: "The United States solemnly guarantee to the Creek Nation, all their lands within the limits of the United States to the westward and southward of the boundary described in the preceding article. If any citizen of the United States, or other person not being an Indian, shall attempt to settle on any of the Creek lands, such person shall forfeit the protection of the United States and the Creeks may punish him or not, as they please."

Put another way: "We'll take more of your land and stay here, you take that and stay there," the treaty essentially said, "until we want more land. Then we will just run you over again. If you don't like it, you can completely abandon your language and culture and assimilate to our ways, or we will either kill you or march you across the country until many of you drop dead."

That's essentially what happened in Georgia. The Muscogee upheld their end of the bargain while we found every way possible to dishonor the agreement. We then committed the Muscogee Nation Removal from 1827-1838, when we made some 23,000 men, women and children march 750 miles to Oklahoma. Think Congress and the President are despicable in 2014? Try 1830, when they passed The Indian Removal Act and sent American Indians along "The Trail of Tears."

I spent that day at the museum with a visiting friend of mine and his new bride Austin, both from Georgia. We ate lunch together in the museum cafeteria, which by the way is one of the very best places in all of Washington to eat lunch. The museum serves a wide variety of freshly cooked, mostly healthy and authentic cuisine representing Native American cuisine from across the country. Austin told me that her mother reached a point some years ago in which it became too morally difficult for her to prepare a traditional Thanksgiving meal. She believed that doing so flew in the face of the larger historical truth -- not the quaint little slice of it we all like to picture on that day about colonists sitting down with Indians -- of United States/Indian relations.

Austin's mom cooked up a new way to honor what the holiday means today and also pay homage to the Native People we persecuted. Gone are the turkey and trimmings, replaced by the most accurate kinds of various Indian foods she can make. Austin's family still gathers to enjoy each other's company and to give thanks for the blessings in their lives but they do so in a way that acknowledges the spirit of the people we wronged to get here. (That's just one group of people we treated shamefully, of course. There's a long list but we're talking about Thanksgiving and Native people here.)

I love Austin's mom's idea and plan to incorporate it into my own Thanksgiving this year. I won't quibble over what percentage of the meal is genuinely Native American my first time out of the box. This will take some practice and experience to master. It's the thought and effort that count.

"When you act and speak you must think of all of your relatives -- known and unknown," said modern-day Muscogee Indian Hiyvtke in 2001. "You must also remember the plants, the animals, the living things, and the ancient ones -- those who have gone before you."

I may even set an honorary place for my cherubic-cheeked friend. Henry Knox died in 1806, nearly a quarter-century before the U.S. passed The Indian Removal Act. He was a good man and I would like to honor his memory, too. 

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How Adam Jones almost caused me to crash my bike on my birthday

[Oct. 21, 2014] I hit the road on two wheels this morning, getting a late start at 10:30 but happy to be out for a ride. The weather guessers on TV had said a big storm would hit in the afternoon so I didn’t venture to the Mount Vernon trail as I had hoped.  

The question remained, though: Could I maintain my birthday tradition of “riding my age”? I hadn’t done a ride that long since I started Orion’s Attic. I decided that I’d be happy to get in my usual 20 to 30 miles.

My legs felt strong early on, giving me the confidence that 30 miles was within reach. I warmed my way into the ride on a sun-kissed autumn day and then took a defensive posture as I approached the terrorist squirrel bridge on the Northwest Branch trail. I had to be on the lookout for more suicide bomber squirrels and any other attacks they might launch. I saw that the bridge was devoid of all bushy-tailed rodents, increasing my suspicions. Had they planted some acorn-obscured Improvised Explosive Devices?

I exited the bridge safely but still not trusting the little traitors. I looked up and, holy smokes, is that Adam Jones?

I slowed to a crawl as I studied the man. He looked exactly like Jones in the face. He had sweats pulled up over his calves in the manner that the Baltimore Orioles’ center fielder wears his uniform pants. The man was warming up, stretching in a specific way, just like I’ve seen Jones do so many times. The motions were identical. That couldn’t be Jones. What would he be doing out here in the middle of nowhere a week after the season ended? The man’s face so spot-on mirrored Jones, though, that it almost brought me to a stop as I sneaked up behind him. 

Nah, it just can’t be, I thought. It makes no sense. Then again, Jones may be the most social guy in baseball. Maybe he has friends down here. He’s the epitome of “fan friendly” so maybe he’s doing some other gig with the fans. I chickened out and accelerated at the last second.

I pushed on but couldn’t stop thinking about him and whether I should turn back. I wouldn’t have asked for his autograph but there were all kinds of things I wanted to say to him. I would thank him for his work ethic and hustle, how hard he runs out every ball in every game. I’d thank him for giving so much of himself to his team and his town. I’d thank him for the way he interacts with the fans. I don’t mind dropping the dollars my girlfriend Won-ok and I do on the O’s, I’d tell him, because he and the rest of our guys don’t play like millionaire gold bricks. They work on the baseball field. 

I also wanted to thank him and the whole Orioles team for giving Won-ok and I so many memories and turning in such a great season. I wanted to compliment him and the boys for not throwing in the towel when Matt Wieters and Manny Machado went down or when Chris Davis shot all of Birdland in the foot by getting himself suspended for the playoffs. 

I approached another bridge, one of the highest-over-the-ground on the trail. Maybe I should go back for another look, I thought. I could be back there in a few minutes. No, wait, I don’t want to be the millionth idiot that asks him, “Are you Adam Jones?” Like what’s he going to say? “No, I’m J.J. Hardy?” 

My wheels hit I don’t even know what and time stopped as it always does for me in those moments in which I'm about to crash. I was skidding and sliding and all my crashing options looked grim.

I toppled left. I yanked myself right and went too far, toppling that way. Option one – crash into the railing of the bridge and possibly get ejected over it or through the gap at the start of it and fall 20 feet on to the rocks below. “No, Moron! That’s the worst option!” my inner voice screamed at me. Option 2 – eat the chain link fence on the left. Option 3 – crash into the center post with the family jewels. “No, Moron, that’s no good, either!” 

I came to a complete stop, still somehow perched atop my bike, without even consciously realizing what I had done to save myself. I looked down and saw that I had pulled an old mountain biking trick – pushing myself back toward the tail of the bike while hanging onto the brakes with the very tips of my fingers. 

Whew! Another split second of delay and what was behind curtain Numbers 1, 2 or 3 would have spilled some blood – or worse.

I caught my breath and felt my body trembling in some post-almost-wreck shakes. “Damn, Adam Jones,” I thought. “Why do you want to do me like that?” 

I realized at that moment that the guy sttretching by the side of the trail could not have been Jones. The pro athlete whose shirt I so often wear when I'm not sporting my Buck Showalter stands a good 6'3' and weighs something like 225 pounds. The guy I saw could not have been more than 5'10'' and 180 pounds. I laughed and pedaled away, a grin crossing my face that was equal parts happy-to-be-unscathed and joy in the knowledge that I knew what my next blog post was going to be: “How Adam Jones almost caused me to crash my bike on my birthday.” My birthday nearly brought a trip to the emergency room but hey, at least I was going to get a good story out of it!

Perhaps the save was my first birthday gift of the day. My second came just ahead. My egret friend was waiting for me in his usual spot in the Anacostia River tributary. He was so entranced by his hunting efforts that he didn’t pay me much attention – until he stayed true-to-form by taking flight the moment I got my iPhone out to take his picture. I don’t know why the heron clan is so camera shy. 

I made my way to Lake Artemesia at about the 13-mile mark. To even reach 30 miles without any side trips, I was going to have to put in four miles there. If I seriously wanted to do 46 miles, I was going to have to find some alternate riding options, or do 20 miles around the lake – about 15 laps. 

I wasn’t in the mood for creating 20 new miles. I didn’t want to have to think about it. I just wanted to churn my legs, take in the natural and human scenery and enjoy turning 46. 

I ate a very light lunch with a gaggle of geese, hunk of ham, a Coke and a smile -- then knocked out 20 miles around the lake.

I didn’t do a whole lot of reflecting on the ride, the way I usually do on my birthday. I have done so much big thinking about my life lately that I was all thought out. I just existed as one with my bike and the beauty all around me.

I neared the 46-mile mark as I crossed Piney Branch Road on the Sligo Creek Parkway trail. My eyes focused mostly on my odometer. I hit 46 and started singing Happy Birthday to myself in my head. I was celebrating my birthday and successfully riding my age. I looked up the moment I began singing and spotted and old, black and white Siberian husky leading his people along the trail. I pulled even with him. He looked up and into my blue eyes with his bluer eyes.  

I burst into tears, a quick downpour that was so hard I nearly had to stop the bike because I couldn’t see: I knew that was my long departed friend Orion’s way of joining me to celebrate my birthday. A thousand things had to happen today for me to pass that dog at the exact moment my odometer hit 46.0. 

I pulled myself together and rolled on to the house, noticing I was at something like 46.9 miles. No way I was stopping there. I heaved myself around the neighborhood until my odometer reached 50 miles. That birthday is now just a scant four years away. I need to be ready! 

Sligo Creek squirrels: harmless hooligans or terrorists in training?

Hey squirrels who have been working along the Sligo Creek Trail on out to the Northwest Branch Trail and beyond: I'm on to you.

You think that you're so fuzzy and cute with your bushy tails and happy-go-lucky leaps from tree to tree that no one would ever question you, that no one would ever think you might be up to no good. You're up to something and I know it, even if I can't yet fully prove it.

I have to say this possibility hurts me personally because of everything I've done for your kind for almost 20 years. Perhaps your parents have told you about "The Legend of The Young Man With Siberian Huskies." That's right, I'm the guy who stopped Orion and Alexis from turning your forefathers into hors d'oeuvres from Stone Mountain, Georgia to Washington D.C. and Silver Spring, Maryland. Your family tree would have far fewer branches if it weren't for me.

I'm so fond of you that I have photos of you on display in a room in my house dedicated to wildlife decor. I've got a lamp with a carving or mold of a squirrel on it. 

On my last few bike rides along the Sligo Creek Trail all the way out to Lake Artemesia in College Park, though, I've seen mischief in your eyes. You're up to something on many bridges, especially one that crosses one of the Anacostia River tributaries. I see all of you toiling away on that bridge, so bold that you not only refuse to leap out of the way when I roll across but run alongside me at eye level while others of you remain posted at the entrance and exit of that bridge. You're timing me to see how long it takes me cross. 

You try to create the illusion that you're just harmless hooligan rodents. I'm just not buying it. I' now suspect that you are planning some sort of surprise attack against humans by blowing up the bridge. I wonder if one of you lists "The Bridge on the River Kwai" as your favorite movie on your Facebook profile. It can't be a coincidence that you've done the same thing to me on the same bridge for two weeks now. I'm going to go ahead and say it ... to put you on notice: I suspect you are an al-Qaeda squirrel unit.

The bridge work, though, isn't the only thing that gives you away. It's also the countless suicide bomber training missions you've been practicing against me on the trail. You've never let my bike come within a few feet of you during the seven years I've been riding there. Now all of a sudden you're constantly standing on the side of the trail and then darting across it. You're forcing me to jam on the brakes to avoid flattening you and to prevent me from a wipeout. You now know to the tenth of a second when you need to launch your attacks. And don't think that I believe you're just carrying empty walnuts, either. You're packing miniature IEDs.

I see all the physical fitness drills you're conducting on the trees, too. Doing pushups while clinging vertically to tree trunks is impressive. You're just one YouTube video release away from announcing your intentions. 

I found it even more suspicious today that you ran from the camera every time I tried to catch you in action. You used to pose like beauty pageant contestants whenever I asked you to say "cheese". I was lucky to get one shot.

Why did you feel the need to hide today when four fireman practiced shooting a water hose just across the very bridge in question? You didn't want to see your photos on Post Office walls, that's why. Your laughter was sinister, too. I didn't see the firemen until it was too late. The cold shower hit like a hail storm. I hope they get you next time.

Despite all your manual labor and test runs, though, you need to know something, Sligo Creek squirrels: You can make all the Machiavellian plans you want. You may ultimately be able to knock me off my bike or even bring down a bridge -- but I'm not going to live my life in fear. Americans don't do that, especially when we're bound and determined to enjoy beautiful bike rides on our favorite local trails! 

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.