Category: DC Monuments

Ben Franklin on my Windshield

Yes, that’s a mini wooden statute of Ben Franklin reading a book, left mysteriously on my car’s windshield recently while my daughter and I were taking a stroll through Congressional Cemetery. Cemetery walking in DC is a THING, it’s normal and at Congressional it’s the best dog meetup in town, as the cemetery offers a membership for dog walkers. To us, it’s dog therapy, as the many fluff balls there on doggy recess will often approach, looking for a little extra love. We come here to gaze at the cherry trees that grace the well-worn rows of graves as well, far away from the hordes that descend on the tidal basin; and of course, for the history — if you really want to know this town, Congressional is one of the must- see, do learn places.

On this day though as we jumped back into “Red” as our Subaru is called, for her cherry-ish coloring, as I was about to put the key in the ignition, I naturally glanced out the front window and well, with me and my language, “What the hell” came out. We both hopped out of the car, and for nearly a minute just gazed at this little statue, resting so peacefully on the glass on this early spring day. Now, Congressional is not located on the best part of Capital Hill — it is a greatly improved area, but its patrons and permanent residents rest in the shadow of the D.C. jail — home to the notorious and temporary law breakers in the city. The neighborhood, glammed up rowhouses aside, does draw the notorious and temporary’s associates to the area, who do have “leave-behinds” that unflatteringly grace the sidewalks on occasion.

My first reaction to the statue: Do we still have any medical gloves in the car from early Pandemic gas getting? No, but we do have an old pair of winter gloves. But where to put Ben? Leave him on the cemetery stoop? Who would leave such a thing? Is it because of all the bookstore stickers on the car? Who is just walking down the road with a Ben to leave on someone’s car? Ben did find a resting place, thanks to a Congressional staffer (cemetery, not Hill) headed inside that offered to place him in the sun, near the office’s entry, but not before she too, asked: Why, who, huh?

This may seem like a long wind-up to sum-up this semester’s adventures in the world of publishing, but while reflection starts with a look-back, it most often leads to more questions. I have no idea who, what, why Ben was left on my car — but it sure is a great story. After a wonderful semester of interning (which still feels really odd at my age, can we think of a new term for this?) with an amazing organization, I can say here in late April, what I have is questions. I’ve written my writer’s contract with many specifics (and notes to add off-ramps and rewards from K.W. – thank you), and several clear directions. But I’ll admit, last night when reading of bell hooks’ work and the volume of volumes she created, I had that oh-so-familiar feeling that I’m spinning my wheels. It was also a long day of grading essays, which often leads to a certain amount of despair, but today I plan to greet the day anew…no more comparing my lack of volumes to anyone. The journey is just the journey, and some days aren’t going to be great when it comes to production, focus, or walking on the treadmill of life (hence off-ramps and rewards, thanks x two, K.W.).

My internship will continue into the summer (yeah), and I will be able to work again with my organization’s team as well as one of my treasured MFA mentors, write in the realm of spirituality, and perhaps board yet another train north to Philadelphia. Ben Franklin. Philadelphia. Ben Franklin. One book on my to-read list is Signs: The Secret Language of the Universe. As a person who thinks every blue bird is my grandmother visiting with a message, I am pretty convinced Ben’s appearance on my window is no coincidence. Philadelphia. Ben Franklin. Philadelphia. Ben Franklin. Books, books, books. Write, write, write — hello thesis year! Shall I dedicate it to Ben? One more question to ask, and answer.

Where are the writers in publishing? Look to the foundations.

Recently on one of my morning walks, I snapped this photo of early cherry blossoms near the WWI Memorial just off the Washington Mall. On the base on this marble memorial, that changes hue as the sun rises and sets, are the names of D.C. residents that lost their lives in the Great War. Often when I’m walking near by in the early morning, photography equipment graces the steps as soon-to-be brides and grooms or recent graduates in their flowing robes gaze dreamily into the distance –maybe thinking of the past, maybe thinking of the future — but I’m guessing not thinking of the names or memories upon which they stand. In this photo, I particularly enjoy how the memorial is graced with these new blossoms, but also partially hidden – but solid, and foundational as well to the blossoms’ new found existence and beauty.

So too, are writers in publishing. Writers are everywhere — they are the foundation upon which publishing rests and they are everyone that works within, near, adjacent to, and down the road from publishing. In my view, we often think of the real writers as the stars whose names grace book covers or magazine tables of contents; but writers are involved at every step of the way from the website copy of any journal to tweets to contract drafting. These behind-the-scenes writers that often don’t have bylines or signatures are no less creative that those whose books and articles we readers soak up with glee upon publication; these writers make writing happen — they are the foundation, the marble, often hidden, but right there in lockstep with the cherry blossoms. These writers often have not-so-apparent creative writing lives as well, that they work on in the after-hours, crafting away when our own ideas have gone to press (or web, or the myriad of other forms writing gets out into the world).

In my own publishing internship, writers are all around me as every staff person writes in a variety of capacities nearly each day whether for the organization’s blog, editing work of guest writers, composing reports or marketing materials or grant drafts– words are all around everyone, everyday. For me, I’ve had the chance to complete two byline pieces so far (publication pending in April) and will be beginning my next piece within the next several weeks. Writing is the foundation here, whether in front of the camera so to speak appearing in the magazine, or in all that makes the magazine happen (and there is much).

I’ve spent the last few days with friends, one of whom is a writer for a national architecture firm — he’s written books, more articles than I could count if I tried, served as an editor for an architecture magazine, and he’s done a little freelance work for the local PBS station as well. What ties his work all together is the idea that writing is everywhere — there is always a story to tell, though every story is not glamorous perhaps, it is worthy of telling because there are readers out there that need and want to know things about his firm’s projects, or architects or their clients. These reaffirm my own ideas that have taken shape this semester, combined with my own past experiences: writers are all around, within every corner of publishing, and there are a vast number of ways to be a writer.

Deciduous & Muddy #morningview #cherryblossoms #DCHistory

The history of DC’s cherry trees is fairly well known, but the story of how these trees must be protected and cared for, probably less so. To add to the complexity of preserving these aging trees, their micro-environment here at the Tidal Basin is fraught with peril. The land around the basin is slowly sinking while sea levels rise, and today it’s nearly equilibrium as sidewalks surrounding the basin as well as the soil to which these delicate trees cling, are often flooded. Add in the torrential storms that pass through the region, along with upper Potomac run-off that speeds toward the Atlantic from the Blue Ridge and suddenly using the word “peril” doesn’t seem extreme.

The beauty of the trees draws visitors from around the globe and I’ll be the first to admit, there is something about this natural display of pink cotton balls that has me on blossom watch too — and I too, like so many, feel drawn to be part of the festivities. It’s not only the natural explosion of color, it’s the participatory nature of the blooms — the cooperation, the friendliness, the seeing people from all walks join in conversation — all because of these blossoms. But then, the blossoms wither, and next thing I know, humidity is bursting onto the scene and we are left with the hordes of school groups that descend and no one seems to care much for the less than glorious green leaves of summer, or the deciduous scrawniness of fall. Or more importantly, the floods that leave walkers and runners clinging to the sides of the basin.

This is the real story of the tidal basin: we love it when we love it (much like any natural environment), but when we’re not in it, we cease to give it a second glance. So true is our approach to climate change, rising seas, and all that goes along with this perilous issues — our lack of a backward glance drives these changes. I would never propose to know the path forward, but I do know which paths become impassible without change — today, we’re in the mud, but to preserve beauty, simply moving to higher ground is no longer enough.

New BFFs: Names TBD #morningview #nationalmall #nationalmalltrust

Recently completed, the new stables on The Mall for the Park Police horses is part of one of our regular morning routes. In the last couple of weeks, we’ve been able to view the horses hanging their heads outside their stable enclosures but on this day, the horses were outside in their paddock. While we don’t know their actual names (we need to get inside when the education center is open to find out these details), we’ve named them ourselves after the hosts of our most recent favorite show on PBS, People of the North: Arne, Frida and Stig — as stoic Norwegians with a glint in their eyes of humor that often only they (or other Nordics) understand, these names seem fitting for our new horse friends as their demeanor is just that, stoic, on these early morning meetups or they may slowly bat their eyelashes at us in recognition of our presence. But their presence, fully themselves, is that of quiet ponderance that they bear the heavy burden of protecting, but that their glee is hidden deep behind their voluminous chocolatey eyes.

I grew up with the Black Stallion and other horse fiction, but never became a horse girl — it was so far away from any possibility that I never dreamed of riding, visiting or owning such an animal ever in my life. I’ve known friends with horses, and I have a friend now that raises ponies in Maine far from the reaches of our city lights here in DC. Now that we are regularly visiting our new friends though I wonder — could I become a horse person at midlife? Is that possible? Their demeanor has an instant calming effect most certainly — they can hold a stare like no other animal I’ve met, and they seem to listen to my questions — though much like dogs, I don’t think they have any intention of answering me, or doing as I ask. But they listen, and stand, and look — sometimes casting their gaze away to swish away an annoyance, but then they look back and acknowledge that I’m still standing there waiting for their acknowledgement. Perhaps we can be stoic together.

Rails, Planes, Bridges #morningview #longbridge #neverforget

Since 1808 the area known as Long Bridge has connected the Virginia side of the Potomac to the D.C. side of the Potomac; historically, this area was part of the capital city but was ceded back to Virginia pre-Civil War. A quick Google will turn up facts such as the history of the foot bridge here where rates were different for foot-only, or person plus horse traffic, and sheep or pigs. Today, freight and commuter trains roll by while planes take off nearly every minute from National Airport (as a long-timer here I do not call this airport by its current name). This week on one of the first not excruciating days of September, the skies are blue and clear — no humidity haze hangs on our heads as we walk and watch the human and nature made transportation soar and roar past us.

This particular week of September always feels compressed: the weather is finally changing, the sky is clearing but there are memories and sadness that lead to the compressed feeling compared to the expansiveness that next week will bring with the seasonal changes. Twenty-two years ago, September mornings started much the same as this one – clear blue skies, beautiful temperatures to meet the sunrise – a fall day full of hope. And smoke. And jet fuel. And destruction. And words that still do not full express the trauma of living near, and with terror. Here on this path, in the shadow of the Pentagon and its breach, I always feel that we live in one of the safest places in the world — we know the sounds of various types of helicopters, to look for the signs — a silent sky is not a friendly sky. It’s hard to think of the losses that are ever-present in hearts and minds. On this day, there is peace on these banks. The seabirds fly, the squirrels frantically dart and the day goes on as any other early fall day might, except for the memories.

The Quiet Memorial #morningview

Memorial to Washington, DC residents that served in WWI

February 8

Just off to the side of the well-traversed pathways leading to and from the Lincoln Memorial, rests a memorial to those DC residents that lost their lives in World War I. Press cameras don’t set-up here, crowds don’t protest here but we’ve seen several weddings and numerous engagement photo shoots here over the last few months (including one with the wedding party dressed as super heroes).

Perhaps it’s the quiet of this spot, wedged in between protest alley and the windy speeds on Independence Avenue from Hill workers roaring by, that draws the newly in-love and those ready to commit. Perhaps it’s the aura of honor and dedication that radiates from the patinaed dome to the glow that emanates from within as the sun bounces off the well-worn marble. Perhaps it’s just logistics — it is resounding beauty in a beloved city, with easy parking across the street at the MLK, where one can celebrate for a few moments without a crush of other humans from places near and far.