There’s not much all of America can agree on, but maybe we can all agree that 2020 has been a really tough year so far, and doesn’t look to get much better with the election and all of the divisiveness. Maybe a road trip to take part in history will help.
There’s not much all of America can agree on, but maybe we can all agree that 2020 has been a really tough year so far, and doesn’t look to get much better with the election and all of the divisiveness. Maybe a road trip to take part in history will help.
HONORING RBG
We can all agree that 2020 has been a really tough year so far, and doesn’t look to get much better with the election and all of its divisiveness.
As a moderate Democrat, sitting here in mid-October, things have been looking better and better to me with former Vice-president Biden surging in the polls and the very real possibility of the Democrats retaking the Senate. Trump and McConnell will almost certainly ram Amy Coney Barrett through as a Supreme Court Justice, which will tilt the Supreme Court firmly conservative for the foreseeable future
The only sitting justice in his eighties is Breyer, who is 82. Only Thomas and Alito, at 72 and 70, respectively, are in their seventies. The remainder are in their fifties and sixties, with Barrett only forty-eight. Only three of the eight sitting justices were appointed by Democrats. We may be in for a very long couple of decades of right-leaning jurisprudence.
But I’m not writing this as a discussion of the political tilt of the Supreme Court. This is a recital of how, even though it looks like Joe will win, the last six weeks before the election turned pretty crappy for me.
Due to the coronavirus pandemic, the Gold Star Mission 500-mile bicycle ride to raise funds for scholarships in honor of servicemembers lost in the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, changed from a four-day ride with nearly forty cyclists in peloton to a month-long individual effort to ride five hundred miles. By September 22, my seventy-first birthday, I had ridden three-hundred-fifty miles.
With eight days to finish the five hundred miles, I only needed to average twenty miles per day to hit the goal, but I wanted to get a couple of bigger mile days in, just in case something interrupted my riding. Mike Hungerford, my Edwardsville, Illinois, riding friend plotted out a seventy-five-mile ride from O’Fallon to Staunton and back on the Madison County Rail-to-trail paths.
The ride met two goals, one for me to ride my age at least once during the year and two, for me to pile up some miles in reserve. Wednesday, September 23, we met at the Bike Surgeon, a bicycle shop in O’Fallon, at 8 am, to set off on our ride. My Trek Damone carbon fibre road bike performed beautifully as we spun north on the clear, cool September morning. The trees not yet turning, but the farmers in the fields picking corn. With a long-sleeve t-shirt on under my Gold Star Mission 500 bicycling jersey I quickly warmed up as the miles flew past. Two bottles of water snugged into the water bottle holders and a couple of English muffins, slathered in almond butter and honey, wrapped in aluminum foil tucked into the jersey pockets riding against my back provided reassurance that I’d be fed and watered until our planned lunch break in Edwardsville.
The wind cooperated, providing just enough breeze that we stayed comfortably cool despite our fifteen-mile-per-hour average pace. Tucked into the black, zippered cross bar bag, on top of the spare inner tube and tire levers for changing flat tires, rode a twenty-dollar bill to cover lunch, my retired military ID card and on top, under the clear plastic lid sat the ubiquitous device we all carry today: my mobile phone.
On one of our infrequent stops I, as we’re all wont to do, checked my email. Little of interest, except an email from Former Members of Congress, the alumni association for recovering politicians who’ve served in the US Congress. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg had died on September 18th, the Friday before. The email stated that House Speaker Nancy Pelosi set aside from 1030 to noon, Friday September 25th for former members to pay their respects to the Justice in Statuary Hall.
This would be an historic occasion as Justice Ginsburg is the first woman and the first person of Jewish faith to ever lie in state in the Capitol.
I realized the event would occur in less than forty-eight hours but thought it so significant that I immediately forwarded it to wife Annette, knowing that as the first woman elected a circuit judge in the five counties of Southern Illinois’ Twentieth Judicial Circuit and a great admirer of Justice Ginsburg, she would be thrilled at the invitation, even though the timing made it impossible for us to go.
Silly me. Twenty minutes later, I get a call. “I’m on the computer, we can’t get a flight. There’s only one non-stop and it doesn’t get there in time. We could drive.” I’ve driven the near thousand miles from Belleville, Illinois to Washington DC. It’s a sixteen- hour drive at best.
We’re not packed. We have no hotel reservations. We’re in the midst of a pandemic. We haven’t been to a restaurant or more than fifty miles from home since the pandemic started six months ago.
This is historic. We have just celebrated the one hundredth anniversary of the adoption of the nineteenth amendment to the Constitution granting the right to vote to women. Annette had single-handedly organized the ceremony and served as master of ceremonies at the St Clair County Courthouse recognizing the centennial.
And, of course, I’d heard more than once, the story of how Annette met Justice, then attorney Ginsburg in the summer of 1973 when Annette, between graduating from Bradley University and starting law school, worked a summer job as a receptionist/secretary at ACLU national headquarters in Washington DC and Justice Ginsburg was an ACLU attorney during the Watergate crisis. So, I wasn’t surprised at her reaction.
Three hours by bicycle from my car, two o’clock in the afternoon, I rapidly calculated travel times and necessary logistics. “I’’ll be home by five, grab a shower, we can pack tonight and leave by seven am tomorrow. I’ll make hotel reservations at the Willard Intercontinental by the White House when I get home. We can do this,” I said.
Of course, we can do it. The Judge may be five-foot-three and a hundred pounds soaking wet, but she is indomitable. Who was I to get in the way of her participation in history.
Back on the bike. Pedal like hell. Home before five. Shower. Call the Willard. Room for two nights secured. Start packing.
Now it’s easy for me to pack. After thirty-five years in the military and a two-year hitch commuting to DC for a term in Congress, I’ve got it down to a science. “Hmm. Let’s see. I need a Navy-blue suit. Red, white and blue tie. Black belt. Black shoes. Black socks. Change of underwear. White shirt. Shave kit.” Done. I’m ready to go. Oh yeah, black umbrella just in case.
Ahh, but then there’s the agony of Annette’s selection process. This is not sexist. Or if it is, it’s truth. Women pack differently than men.
“Which outfit do I wear? Which jewelry? Which earrings go with the necklace. Should I wear the gold necklace, or black? Then comes the issue of shoes. Oh my God. We’ll probably walk from the Intercon to the Capitol. A good fifteen-twenty-minute walk. The shoes must match the outfit. They must be comfortable enough to walk in, yet stylish enough to stand up to public scrutiny in our nation’s capital. Then check the weather. “Oh my God, it’s supposed to rain!” More agonized decision-making.
Suffice it to say, by 9 pm, bags packed, in the car and ready to depart early.
In thirty-five years of marriage, in spite of my military training, that “if you’re on time, you’re late”, we seldom leave on time. We walked out the door at seven am. Of course, we had to stop and fill the fuel tank, as I’d neglected to fill it the night before in my rush to pack. Another violation of my military training. Always fill up the fuel tank at the conclusion of a mission.
The bad part about driving from Southern Illinois to Washington DC in one day is that by the time your get to West Virginia you’re tired. Your reflexes aren’t quite as sharp. The interstate winds through the mountains. It’s narrow, truck-filled and hazardous. And you know you still have hours to go to reach the comfort of the hotel.
Safely through the mountains of West Virginia and in the outskirts of DC, just a few more miles to the hotel. The modest traffic on the eight lanes of interstate grinds to a halt. Road construction! The interstate is completely blocked as crews work through the night-time hours to avoid slowing daytime traffic. Forty-five minutes later we pull past the heavy equipment. One am we pull up to a deserted valet stand in front of the Intercontinental, a stone’s throw from the White House. Exhausted, but arrived.
At seventy-one years of age, I’ve just done a road trip that would have taxed me as a college student. And in a few hours, we must get up, dress and get to the Capitol to honor a towering figure of American jurisprudence and icon to women everywhere.
The next morning, as the rain held off, we strolled down Pennsylvania Avenue, eastward, to the Capitol. As we walked past Trump International Hotel, FBI Headquarters, our apartment when I served in Congress we were stunned by the vacant sidewalks, the litter swirling in the breeze and the plywood sheathed windows. This is not the DC we knew a few short years ago.
Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House to the Capitol in work-week, mid- morning September is supposed to be packed with pedestrians. Some tourists in shorts and t-shirts, snapping pictures. Some in the dark suits of lobbyists, businessmen and senior staffers. The streets filled with cabs, Uber drivers and tourist buses. The streets cleanly swept in the pre-dawn hours.
That’s not the familiar sight we thought we’d returned to see. This is our first time back to the city since I’d left in January 2015 and a barren, desolate, almost post-apocalyptic city.
As we approached the Capitol, we noticed the temporary fencing surrounding it. We took the sidewalk to the south passing between the Capitol and the Rayburn Building, familiar to us as the site of my seventh-floor office. The Capitol police spotting the Congressional pin on my suit lapel, identifying me as a Congressman, or former Congressman, waved us past the yellow fence line. We were stunned at the mere handful of onlookers. Ordinarily those sidewalks are jammed with tourists, staffers and hometown businessfolk present in DC to meet with their local Congressman.
While serving, I’d frequently walked up that sidewalk to meet constituents on the steps of the Capitol so that the official Congressional photographers could take a quick photo of me shaking hands with folks from back home with the Capitol dome gleaming in the background. Not today. No photographer. No constituents. No staffers scurrying along, self-importantly texting while walking. No tourists milling about.
Once under the portico, through the heavy brass and wood doors we went. Waved through the magnetometer, courtesy once again of wearing that identifying lapel pin. The security guards told us to head up to the Rayburn room, outside the minority leader’s office, where the assembled Congressmen and women were gathering.
Once there the sergeant at arms, in response to my inquiry told us that Speaker Pelosi had directed that female members of Congress would process through first, followed by male members, followed by former members. Protocol rules in DC.
As the current members filed past us, we waved or spoke to several who’d served with me. Others who’d come to Congress after me, ignored us, as we’re no longer members of the club, in spite of the small courtesies wearing the pin still brings.
As we waited our turn Annette and I murmured to each other, with disapproval, about the conduct of the female members. They stopped next to the Justice’s official photographic portraited posted on a tripod just outside the Rayburn Room to snap selfies to post on their social media accounts. Their giggles and chatter reminding us of nothing so much as a group of high school girls. Dinosaurs that we are, giggling and snapping selfies at a solemn, historic occasion is inappropriate. Interestingly the male members of Congress didn’t pause at the portrait to take a selfie.
A few minutes passed as Annette sat in the gilded room under the watchful eyes of Sam Rayburn, former speaker of the house, while I paced. I’d frequently stood in that cavernous room waiting for a press conference to begin as reporters jostled for prime position, yet today it was nearly empty, with perhaps a half dozen former members awaiting their turn to pass before the flag draped coffin.
The sergeant at arms beckons to us from the doorway. The half dozen or so mourners follow him to the entrance to Statuary Hall. He stands aside as we proceed into the room lined with statues of prominent Americans. Once again, we are confronted with a venue which I’ve only seen filled with life, noise and people, nearly devoid of people. A uniformed Supreme Court police officer at either end of the casket, a nearly invisible C-Span video cameraman and an official photographer moving about are the only obvious occupants.
My highly polished black shoes click on the marble floor as we pass at a respectful twenty feet from the casket. Annette and I pause as we face the casket with the House of Representatives floral arrangement to its right. Just as I have done so many times before at servicemembers’ and veterans’ funerals, I come to attention. Slowly, painfully slowly, raise my right hand in salute. Annette one pace to the rear and two paces to my right. I hold the salute for the prescribed time then slowly, painfully slowly lower the salute. I don’t notice the video camera filming my salute nor the photographer snapping photos, moving right to left, although Anette notices, and our neighbor back home in Belleville, watches on her television set, while scratching our yellow Labrador’s head as she dog sits her in our absence.
Salute concluded, right face, and move to the foot of the casket as the next former member takes our place. Another few minutes and we’re out the door, thanking the sergeant at arms for his courtesy.
We’re quiet as we slowly walk from the Capitol to the Statuary Garden Pavilion Café at Seventh and Constitution for lunch. The café is a quiet spot in the normally bustling downtown area. Annette loved walking in the gardens then having lunch away from the noise and pressure of the Capitol complex. Although we had a reservation for that evening at the Intercontinental, we decided to check out and drive part of the way home so we’d be home at a decent hour on Saturday.
Five hours later, we’re sitting overlooking the Monongahela River in Morgantown, West Virginia, having dinner at a nearly deserted convention Marriott. Lovely fall evening as the kayakers ply the river just upstream from a lock and dam, while the walkers and bicyclists occupy the asphalt path on the river’s bank.
The following day we’re back in Belleville, nearly two thousand miles in less than 56 hours. Exhausted from a road trip that would have taxed us as twenty-somethings. Concerned about our possible exposure to a potentially deadly virus. Was it worth it? Was all that effort, was all that risk, not to mention expense, worth a few minutes to stand before the casket of an eighty-seven-year-old woman who died from cancer?
Unequivocally yes. I’m proud that we made the effort to honor a woman who stood for so much of what we believe in as Americans.
I wouldn’t have made that trip had it not been for Annette. Thank you, Annette, for inspiring me to, once again, be there when history is made.
But back to why 2020 is a really crappy year for me. Sunday after returning I’m back on my bicycle putting in the miles to complete the Gold Star Mission 500. At mile marker 444 I crashed with a fellow bicyclist at 20 miles per hour. Bouncing seventy-one-year-old bones off an asphalt path is not a good thing to do. With one surgery down and one to go, I’ve got a stainless-steel plate and five screws holding my shoulder together. I won’t get the five hundred miles done this year.
But the good news is Annette says it’s ok if I get a new bike. Music to a cyclist’s ears. Maybe 2020 will turn out ok after all.