The Conservative Son

Introduction:

When this event first occurred, I shared it with everyone who would shut up long enough for me to tell it. From this, I learned a valuable lesson: Not everyone is worthy of this story.

Too many, regretably, didn't appreciate or understand it. Too many couldn't relate to it. Too many just really didn't pay that much attention to, what I believe is, a magnificent story.

Today, I only share this with people whom, I believe, will truly comprehend the magnitude of what was a singular and salient event in my life and that of my family. If you reach the end of this tale, you must certainly be part of this group.

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My family had talked about going to Washington, D.C. for several years. My daughter had heard the story of my trip to Arlington Cemetery during my service years more times than her young mind, or my old one, could remember.

So, at last, the time for vacation arrived and we headed northeast in a rented car with little more than vague plans to see the main attractions of D.C. that any patriotic American would want to visit. These of course included, Arlington, the Washington Mall, the George Washington Masonic Memorial and, of course, Mount Vernon.

The first day was the Masonic Memorial. The second was Arlington and the Mall. The third was, best of all, Mount Vernon.

We made the drive to Washington's home on the Potomac River. It was, seemingly, off the beaten path. Of course, there were easy access roads and we found plenty of parking where still many trees were growing, giving it a very forested look.

For whatever reason, we decided to check out the gift shop first. That went well, since we found some useful information there, plus we purchased our daughter, Natalie, an awesome three-cornered hat.

We moved on to the admission booth, paid our fees and entered the plantation. We passed through new construction and I was pleased to see that the old place was receiving a renovation. There were paths and flowers and a road ascending a small rise making for a nice little walk. Suddenly, we found ourselves standing at gates opening before a long carriage path leading to the residence, which seemed to tower before our eyes, about a hundred yards from where we stood.

Soon, we saw signs pointing the way to various points of interest and I took quick note of one giving direction to the family tomb. I, of course, quickly made a bee-line, with family in tow, for that portion of the tour.

We meandered down a short hill on the pea-gravel road following further markers which pointed our way. We walked past fields and a barn with a mule, turned left and quickly found the red brick sepulchre. There, we approached a wrought iron gate that kept the public at barely more than arm's length from the two sarcophagi holding General Washington and his dearly beloved, Martha.

It was a heady experience just standing there at those gates. I repeatedly pointed out to my precious child that we were ever so close to greatness. I told her that we were standing ever so close to the greatest American of all. To say that I was in awe, would definitely understate my feelings at that moment.

I found myself almost transfixed. I couldn't pull myself away from this, might I call it, presence. I was thoroughly basking in the moment.

After some time, I noticed a guide talking to a group of tourists, sharing fascinating facts and anecdotes about the farm, the General's life there and the tomb itself. My family and I paused listening intently to his commentaries. Before very long, I had virtually joined them, standing at almost the very back of the crowd. Next, something happened that will affect myself and my family for as long as we live.

The man continued by asking the group if there were any veterans present. I thought, as often happens at public events, he merely wished to recognize the veterans in attendance that day. No one quickly answered, so, after a quick look around, I raised my hand and stated, "I'm a veteran." He made some positive remarks regarding that and continued with his discourse. Soon thereafter, he asked if their were any school children present. This time, I boldly spoke up and said, "My daughter's in school; she's home schooled."

Next thing I knew, I got what might've been the shock of my life. The guide asked us if we would be interested in helping with the daily wreath-laying ceremony inside the President's tomb. I was so completely aghast that I couldn't even speak. I'm quite sure I looked brainless to the man as I stood, gasping for air like a landed fish.

He obviously didn't know how to interpret my response since he told me that I didn't have to participate. I managed to cough out words to the effect that I really wanted to, but didn't feel worthy. He spoke reassuringly and invited my daughter and I to accompany him to the crypt, explaining to us what would be required during the ensuing ritual.

We proceeded to the tomb where he removed a barrier rope, unlocked the gates and opened them widely. He further explained to the audience that this ceremony had been performed by many heads of state, including Churchill, I noted. (I actually saw George W. Bush perform this ceremony on television later that year.) He explained that a type of green plant growing there on the plantation, (I forget the name,) was used for the ceremony and that it took place once a day in the winter and twice a day in the summer, as I recall.

After he completed his remarks, we joined together in patriotic song. (For the life of me, I can't remember which one.) Per his orders, Natalie and I picked up the wreath, which was on a prepared stand, stepped into the tomb, placed it between the saints reposing there and pivoted with big smiles on our faces. Before our exit he encouraged my darling wife, Roberta, to take pictures and video of the moment.

Just before this, the moment after we turned from placing the wreath, I had an epiphany, I suppose. As I stood there beside the remains of the father of our country, a thousand thoughts and feelings rushed through my already soaring mind. Almost without thinking, yet, still knowing exactly what I was doing, I reached my hand down and, ever so lightly, stroked the edge of Washington's sarcophagus. Had I thought more about it, I would likely not have done so.

Now, this is, sadly, the point where I've seen far too many eyes glaze over and lost more than one listener. To try to explain to the profane and ignorant why I would do such a thing, I have found to be completely impossible. I have discovered that if I have to try to explain this one seminal event to you, I simply cannot! Yet, it was the most moving and affective part of the entire ceremony for me. If you are numbered among the mind-numbed who think it strange that I made it a point to do such a thing, I would only want to ask you, "Wouldn't you have done the same?" If you answer, "No," then you are not among those who have made it thus far in this discourse.

I thanked this unnamed park guide profusely and tried explaining to him what an honor this was for my daughter and I. I conveyed that it was a double honor since I was currently serving as Worshipful Master of my Lodge and that, of course, Washington had held the same office in his own. He asked me to sign a simple notebook with mine and my daughter's names and explained that these would be added to the archives of the home, along with the names of others who had performed the same ceremony as a perpetual memorial, so to speak, that we had been participants in this most honorable event. We lingered there, of course, for some minutes, and finally made our way from the grave site.

Needless to say, I was overwhelmed and overjoyed. A feeling overcame me that was not unexpected, but tremendously more emotionaly powerful than for which I was prepared. We walked for a minute or so and I tried to discuss the swarm of emotions that were presently coursing through me, but found that there were no words. My wife and child smiled and the former remarked how I had really, in so many words, had a fine day. To this, I agreed.

I'll freely admit that I'm not a man who is above crying. I've cried at births and funerals and even at the right moment in just the right movie. I've cried when I've felt the Spirit of God sweep over me in a way that only He can do. No, I don't cry at the drop of a hat. Still, I do sometimes cry.

Well, I'm not ashamed to say that this is one time when I did cry. I broke down and cried like a baby! I don't mean dainty little tears that barely reached half-way down my cheeks. I cried the tears of a man who had been broken and humbled in a way that he will experience not even a handful of times in his life. I cried, I cried and then, I cried some more. I cried great heaving, uncontrollable sobs. I blubbered! I wept!

Now if I have to explain to you what it meant to stand at this grave and take part in this ceremony along with my darling daughter, I can't. If I have to explain to you why I was so swept up in the moment, being at the tomb of the man who did more for me than any other American, I can't. If I have to explain to you why it affected me so to be allowed to pay this tribute to the man without whom there would be no United States of America, I cannot.

My father was a decorated combat veteran of WW II, but he held the same esteem for General Washington as I. My Savior is the God of the universe and no one has done more for me than He. Nothing I say is to diminish their sacrifice for my life and salvation. These men are more important to me and mine than I can ever articulate. They are the reason I am the man, if any man at all, I am today.

The honors confered upon me in my life are few and far between. I've proudly worn the uniform of my country, being honorably discharged and receiving the good conduct medal. I've been bestowed with at least one honor that is "emblematical of purity and all perfection." I was elected Worshipful Master of my Lodge and dubbed Sir Knight of the Templar Knights in my local Commandery. I've performed many Masonic funerals for brethren who have "sought admittance into the Celestial Lodge above." I'm honored to have a wife and child who love me dearly. I'm proud to be an American! Still, I can say with certainty, that this, along with those others in my life, was truly more honor than I deserve.

Labels: Arlington National Cemetery, D.C., Freemason, Geore Washington, graving, honor, Martha Washington, Mount Vernon, Potomic River, Templar Knights, three-cornered hat, vacation, Worshipful Master