Hemingway said you should never travel with a person unless you love them. I took his advice, and Kristin and I flew to DC.
Hemingway is right about love and travel. Kristin sees the world in a different way than I do. Occasionally, she offers me a glimpse of how different we are and the only thing I can do is smile or sometimes smile and shake my head. It could be different, and I suspect it is for some people. I do not envy them. I love that she packs nail polish, that she drinks a lot of tea before we board the plane and then has to go to the bathroom minutes later. I love that she always worries about being too hot so she never brings a sweater anywhere and then winds up being cold. I bring a sweater everywhere. I love that on our first trip to DC she packed three baseball hats (to match different outfits) and multiple purses (same reason). I genuinely do love this.
Kristin walked on to the plane that would take us from Austin to Chicago and said, "it smells like a grandmother's house...like old moth balls...you know?" I nodded; I know what old moth balls smell like, though never once have I associated them with Granny. You see what I mean?
About an hour in to our first flight, I looked over and saw this:
Here's what's happening:
1) my sweater has become a full-body blanket, or a tent
2) Kristin is curled up on a seat that fat people can barely fit in to, hiding beneath my sweater
3) I am standing in the aisle taking a photo.
A stewardess came by and noticed me taking a photo and then saw Kristin. Actually, she couldn't see Kristin and that's why she stopped to talk to me. In a southern accent, the stewardess said she'd never seen anyone "do something quite like that." She said that as if there were four a's in it: thaaat. We looked at Kristin the whole time we spoke, then agreed it was best we didn't try to do what Kristin was doing because we might injure ourselves.
Time went by too quickly once we arrived. The dinners were fantastic. I love being home; I tried to stay in the house, to just sit and talk and be around as much as possible. But I loved the dinner and lunch at J. Pauls, the walk along Rock Creek, the beers at The Heights, walking through Target with Lilly. It was a wonderful week. I discovered that I like whisky better when Dad's having a glass with me; just as I've discovered (quite a few times) that beer is nicer when I'm having one with Joe. I discovered that Lilly asks why? about everything and I usually only have the patience for three or four why's? and then I'd smile and go into the kitchen or to the basement and tell myself that a three year old was not going to get the better of me. I'd come back up, ready with an answer, but she'd moved on and was asking Joef to help her build a snowman.
Mom would sing to Jack and then talk to Lilly about why the plants didn't need any more water, and then Mom would be in the kitchen and say to me that I hadn't had enough to eat yet and could she make me something? So little of Gigi's day is spent thinking about Gigi, so much of it is spent radiating love.
Amelia was sober for most of the time, which was nice. She has a way with Lilly that is so wonderful, and of course with Jack too. Watching Amelia has forever changed the word mother and its meaning; for the first time I'm seeing what it takes to raise children. It is amazing what she does, and I am thankful for the bits I have gotten to watch. I
Ellie has a way with Lilly, too. There is a part of Lilly that Ellie understands better than anyone except Amelia and Jim, and it shows in the games Ellie and Lilly play together, the songs they sing, the look that will every so often come on one of their faces. When Ellie wasn't asking Lilly if she was a girl or a Muppet, Ellie went for long runs in preparation for a half-marathon. That race is today. I'm excited to hear the post-race report; she'll be the first person I know to run 13.1 on three different continents.
I wish Joe could have heard the conversations about him when he wasn't around. Most of them were positive.
I'm kidding, of course. He does so much good for the right reasons. The Pakistan offer, the baseball road trip -- Dad calls it justice and we all agreed.
And Dad was Dad. He continues to be the best man I know.
Kristin and I flew out on Tuesday, so on Monday we decided to go with Mom to see the American History Smithsonian Museum; our tourist activity for the week.
We arrived, parked in a surprisingly close spot, and after having our bags inspected and walking through a metal detector, we were allowed in. It was free, which surprised me; places still charge for wireless internet.
We wandered about the museum and found our way to the First Ladies section on the third floor.
There are some amazing dresses, but it is hard to notice anything except how hideously ugly some of these women were. I know times are different, but there simply had to better options. Nancy Reagan and Jackie Kennedy were both pretty. The rest were forgettable. A select few were absolute beasts.
Martha Washington set a precedent that it was ok for the First Lady to be ugly. George Washington was a military hero, a political genius, a Founding Father -- he could have done better. Dad suggested that when the candles were out it wouldn't have been so bad for George and I think there's some truth in that. But either the artist who drew this disliked Martha (and so did the museum director who chose this for her picture), or the artist was being kind and somehow made her less hideous. It's hard to imagine the latter.
Why is the focus of this drawing on her face?
Abigail is a step up from Martha, but that's not saying much. She looks like she would spend a good part of her day nagging in a shrill, terrible voice. John! JOHN! JOOOOHHHNNN! Come look at what a mess John Quincy has made!
Sarah Polk's face is as forgettable as her husband's Presidency. Her hair looks greasy, too.
Mary Todd Lincoln was a beast. This picture of her isn't bad compared to the others, and that's saying something. One of her dresses was on display and she looked to be a short, wide woman. No wonder Abe spent so much time reading.
*There seems to be a theme here -- two of the greatest presidents had dogs for wives. Now, as Sarah Polk proves, having a dog for a wife doesn't guarantee a president will be great, or even memorable. My theory is that knowing an ugly woman is waiting for you in bed inspires you to work longer and love your work in a way you can't love your wife. These long hours and love of work then allow you as a President to develop an attachment to the job that a healthy sex life would have otherwise killed.
Kristin's take on Ida McKinley: "she actually looks like a man." I agree. Ida's hair is regrettable and her face is masculine. If you drew a mustache on Ida, photo-shopped in a dress shirt and tie, she'd pass for a little-known congressman at the turn of the century.
Woodrow Wilson upgraded during his term. Granted, Edith isn't much of an upgrade, but she's younger than Ellen and smiling. I wonder why more presidents haven't done this (my guess is plenty of presidents have done this, but Woodrow had the stones to make it official).
And then there's Florence Harding. She must have had a great personality.
Helen Taft looks like the photographer just made a fat joke about her husband. You can see Ellen in this photo, and together they look miserable.
Jackie Kennedy's photo follows Mamie Eisenhower's, which makes Mamie seem even uglier. I'm surprised the photographer didn't ask Mamie to sit a bit farther away -- minimize the emphasis of that schnoz and her ears.
There were other exhibits.
In one exhibit where they displayed a bit of everything -- from Dorothy's shoes in The Wizard of Oz to Ben Franklin's walking stick to a Roberto Clemente jersey -- they had this interactive station:
You could write a response in pencil and pin it up on the wall. The responses told you more about America than any exhibit in the museum.
Right out of the gate, a Hitler reference. It's a bit too vague to be of much help -- his body? his uniform? a signed copy of Mein Kampf?
And beneath that is Freddy Sanchez, which I'm guessing is a reference to the San Francisco Giants' injured second basemen. Odd place for him to pop up (baseball pun intended).
My favorite response. There is a museum with plenty of "Native American stuff" -- it's called the National Museum of the American Indian.
A nice jab at the Cubs, which I always appreciate. And a drawing of a penis above it. Well done, America.
Indiana Jones is misspelled, but I agree with the kid. Criss Angel is misspelled, too. He's a magician with his own tv show and refers to himself as "Mind Freak". What makes him a significant part of American history?
Not a bad idea, but I think the ball is in the Baseball Hall of Fame, in Canton. The only one on the entire board that wasn't stupid.
Queen Victoria, the monarch of Britain, wouldn't belong anywhere in the American History Museum. Neither would her crown.
We had to stop at another interactive area because Kristin was getting bored. Here, she stood in front of a look-a-like Presidential podium and recited Reagan's famous speech about the Berlin Wall.
From the monitor, she actually looked like Reagan.
We kept exploring.
This is a casting of Abe Lincoln's hands. I thought it photo-worthy because those hands helped write, quite literally, American history. He held a broom handle during the casting process because his hand was swollen from shaking so many hands the day before. An amazing man, though I still don't know what he saw in Mary Todd.
The hat Lincoln was wearing at Ford's Theater.
Another opportunity to engage museum visitors that I photographed:
If someone sent me that piece to edit, I would gladly do so. The part about her brother's relationship is unnecessary dirty laundry. And of course you've known your brother for a long time -- that's redundant. It should read: "In 2009, my brother was stationed in Kuwait and couldn't make it home for Christmas. He sent me this seashell along with a card that read: "I hope you'll forgive me, and when I get home we will get along better." The part about it being the best gift is probably hyperbole. Bang. You've shortened your piece, made it more powerful, left the readers with a few questions that they'll have to answer on their own.
But it's still just a fucking seashell.
This was the outfit worn by Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven. One of my favorite characters (Will Munny) played by my favorite actor in one of my favorite movies.
Well done, Smithsonian.
I write about the Museum for so long because it is the easy part to remember. I still get a lump in my throat when I think of six months and how long that can be. I will miss having dinner with my family and I will just will miss my family. I will miss my little niece and her hats and my nephew and his ga's and ung's and I will miss my sisters laughing at my brother and I will miss the hugs Mom gives and I will miss my Dad at the head of the table.
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