“When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one child to move beyond the geographical bands that have connected her with her beloved home and family, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Education and of an Awarded Scholarship entitle her, a decent respect to the opinions of her mother requires that she should fully understand that the causes which impel her to the separation are temporary, with a definite beginning and an immovable ending.”
That Declaration of Dependence accompanied our youngest as she set sail for George Mason University about a year ago, scholarship and suitcase in hand. At first, I wasn’t wild about Arlington. I was even respectfully wary of its proximity to the dreaded scourge of Washington, D.C. But a mother/daughter weekend adventure to finalize her living arrangements there convinced me otherwise. It only took one stop along the Appalachian Trail at an overlook near Charlottesville, during which we were privy to a stunning vista of watercolor blues and lavenders melding sky and mountain together in one vast panorama, to make me rethink my rock solid resistance to having her stationed so far away.
Of course, the month was August, and there was very little traffic, and the weather was beautiful. A rainbow even arced over the highway ahead, leading us like Dorothy through the field of yellow poppies to the Emerald City. It was an omen, we were both sure. And when we found the Red Truck Bakery in Marshall the next morning, the whole thing was just capped off. It would be OK. Not great, but OK. I might even visit occasionally.
But I remembered. I remembered a Washington trip the previous March, during which my cousin and her kids shared a weekend rental with Alli and me. We only ended up in Washington when our planned Boston adventure was scrapped for a blizzard. The city was already a consolation prize but we were determined to have family time, darn it, even if it meant flying from Nashville to Fort Lauderdale to Baltimore first.
I didn’t think wind could be that strong or that fierce or that cold. Scarves on and coats buttoned to the ears, we braved it all over those streets, skirting a protest at the Capitol that we probably should have stopped to understand but were a bit too fearful to become involved with, and literally sailing down the National Mall in our quest to locate the Declaration of Independence. Which we finally did, flanked by burly guards in a dimly lit room that made actually seeing the document impossible. I suppose I can say, though, that I’ve seen it. Not read it, but seen it. I think.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all Children are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Higher Education. That to secure these rights, Parents and Universities are instituted among them, providing tuition and granting sought after certificates of completion after a set amount of time, which in this case can be no more than three years.”
Arlington National Cemetery in the snow, stark white crosses in rows of unbending military precision, was well worth the Uber fare. I counted all 21 steps the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier took before he clicked his heels and did it again, causing me to start the count over. Never blinking. That was topped only by the raw emotion and determination carved into the stone faces of the Korean War Memorial soldiers, forming a ragged line of trench-coated beleaguered warriors slogging through slushy snow toward the Washington Monument.
So much to see. And then we happened upon my diamond in the rough, the one thing that I thought might make one or more return trips possible, even probable. The National Portrait Gallery. With Alli safely ensconced at GMU, I imagined catching the train into the city, dropping off at F Street, and spending an entire day just browsing among what the museum bills as “American Portraiture.”
The place is three stories of treasure for a history nerd who is a bit culture starved. I’d marvel at the collection of women writers and then move on to British nobility and Grandma Moses. There’s the Will Rogers collection and Washington Crossing the Delaware and a full wing of simply presidential portraits. I’m not wild about Obama among the kudzu and question the lucidity of the artist responsible for Bill Clinton’s image comprised of a million individual mirrored tiles that give him a snaggle-toothed wild-eyed, totally disconnected look. But overall, I know I could easily spend a day there in bliss. And I was looking forward to it.
“We, therefore, the Representatives of your Family, do in the Name and by the Authority of the good people of Home, solemnly publish and declare that you are Free and Independent, that you are absolved from all allegiance to us, unless you expect any monetary or emotional support. If that be the case, you are advised to maintain all familial connections in good order, adhere to frequent calls and visits home, and resolve to remain in the dreaded North only so long as required by the Institution of Higher Study. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortune, and our sacred Connection forevermore.”
Her little studio apartment was adorable, if incredibly overpriced. At least that’s what I thought. I didn’t live in the Emerald City though. She did. And she hated it. She hated the stop and go traffic that contributed to a 45-minute 5-mile commute. She hated the gray blustery days and the single apartment window providing a view of the concrete pad that Yankees call a courtyard. I can’t name one thing she was really fond of. August had definitely given way to November and before I knew it, she was headed home. For good. Sort of.
And I hadn’t even made one trip to the National Portrait Gallery.
But then Oklahoma called and she answered. OSU had a place available in January that would precisely dovetail with her Arlington departure so she subleased the studio apartment, furniture and all, and hightailed it south. Or west. During that year, taillights were about all I saw, in one direction or another.
I really wish I could get excited about Oklahoma; as excited as I was about the National Portrait Gallery. She says there’s plenty to do. We could visit Pawnee, maybe take in an Indian reservation or two, and then there’s the intriguing Salt Flats, which is a flat bare 11-thousand-acre slab of land northwest of Tulsa. High on a windswept plain. To get to that dream destination, I get to bounce across Arkansas, perhaps stopping off at Toad Lick or maybe detouring to Petit Jean for a sweeping vista that I’m sure approximates that of the Appalachian Trail. I even get to traverse the Mississippi Delta and downtown Memphis.
I hear the Walmart heiress has a jam up art gallery in Bentonville, which isn’t all that far from Oklahoma, that I bet I could get to in the same amount of time it took Alli to get to class from her apartment in Arlington, so there’s that. It may not be the National Portrait Gallery, but surely I could find enough there to occupy a morning.
In the meantime, I’ve reworded the Declaration slightly to fit Oklahoma, although I’m still working out the kinks. This is definitely her last stop before she comes back South, so here goes:
“Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Families long established should not be departed from for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that children are more disposed to suffer in the arid wastelands of the West than even the frigid avenues of the North. Therefore, at the earliest possible time, all attempts should be made to right themselves by abolishing the forms of Education to which they are accustomed and return to the comforting arms of the Homeland, diploma in hand. We must, therefore, at the present acquiesce in the necessity of temporary separation but total dependence on those from which we took our leave…”
I do have one consolation. She graduates in a little over a year and we’ve made a pact at that time to head directly to the National Portrait Gallery. She’ll drop me off and will not return until the day is done. Maybe that’ll be enough time.
