Martin Luther King, the Unabomber, and Me

We just got back from D.C. and we ran around seeing the sights we’ve missed in the past, but we still had to bypass a few—like Congress.
 

Hey, they never do anything anyway.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

We DID get to the new Martin Luther King Memorial.  It’s sleek, fresh, and still adjusting to its new home.  People criticize the statue because Martin’s not smiling, but he’s got serious dreams on his mind, and the design fits its purpose.  Short granite walls outline an uneven path with quotes from his speeches, and his body, his entire being, faces out to the tidal basin just across from the Jefferson Memorial.  What an idea, I thought, bringing two of our greatest minds together, two men who had aspired and used every ounce of their flesh, all the strength of their souls to move this country in a just and rightful direction.

Oh, and how about that Newseum?  That place seems to collect everything about the news—past and present –from the studio that broadcasts George Stephonopoulos’ show each Sunday to the late Tim Russert’s office, and even Ted Kaczynski’s house.  You remember the Unabomber?  Much to his chagrin, the museum dragged Ted’s one-room shack from the plains of Montana to our nation’s capital.  He wrote an angry note protesting the move, but today it stands, his tiny abode with shelves unevenly spaced along the back wall.  When he was captured, he said it used to cost him $200 a year to live, but the cost had soared to three.  The guy just couldn’t catch a break.

Ted Kacznyski

His house

By the afternoon, it started getting cold.  D.C. got caught in that sudden snowstorm that bombarded the East coast.  I had packed a couple sweaters and was wearing my fleece, but this was beyond fifties weather.  My husband and I grabbed a cab to Filene’s Basement to get something warm.  Practically leaping inside, I felt like a refugee fleeing from the boat—okay, a guest of the Marriott with a credit card and cash.   

In a few minutes I found a hat, scarf, gloves, and long underwear…  I also picked up a cheap cashmere sweater.  As my mother would say, I did good.

When we left, I was almost warm.  Almost.  I still needed something for my arms because I was only wearing a sweater under my fleece.

As we approached the White House, I wondered if Obama sometimes stood by the door and handed out woven garments for frozen tourists.  Didn’t Michelle shop at J Crew?  My daughter worked there part time and got a discount.  Maybe we could discuss a little deal, I thought, when I spotted those white vans a block away selling souvenir sweatshirts.

  “That's the place!” I yelled, remembering from last time and grinning like I just won Dancing with the Stars, except I didn’t trip on stage in front of millions who’d never forget.

I stared at the selection.  There must’ve been a hundred shirts shouting “WASHINGTON” across the chest and I instantly added one to my original ensemble from Filene’s.

By lunch it started sleeting, and my leather shoes were wet and rubbing against my toes.  We cabbed it to the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and I saw a stack of twenties that equaled 32 million.  Andrew Jackson’s picture never looked so good.

The little boy next to me giggled.   I started laughing too.

Let it sleet like hell was freezing over.  It was a wondrous day.