Return to Sender

'Tis March...when the sand hill cranes flock in the Platte Valley, the geese vee south along the Missouri, baseballs return to southern diamonds, and Farm Bureau members from across the nation gather in our nation's capital.

We are part of this annual migration, one as perennial as college students on spring break.  It's one last chance to meet face to face with the leaders in Washington that can affect our businesses as much as any drought, flood or plague before we dive deep into the ancient ritual of planting.

Washington, D.C. is a city we have visited in all seasons: when the National Christmas tree glows in the shadow of the Washington monument and when summer warmth lingers deep into October, but it is most memorable in spring when standing under a magnolia's translucent blossoms feels like being inside a seashell.

Or...when introducing your grandchildren to the grandeur and majesty of the monuments, architecture, and museums of their heritage, their history............

Aaron, March 2011, at the airport on his first big adventure without his mom and dad. He was seven with a window seat, a backpack and his mom's old digital camera.  The Air and Space Museum was our first stop and, being a grandkid, he and his grandpa spun and pitched and rolled in any number of simulators.  I took one of my favorite pictures ever of Aaron and Blake at the IMAX  sporting their
3-D glasses; Aaron is in the very first stages of ooooh......aaaaaah.

So many wonders! Like the meat extravaganza of a Fogo de Chao, the view from the top of the Washington monument, Mount Vernon, a New Zealand kiwi, a ride on the Metro, and even more aircraft with Ben and Kenzie... necessitating a three hour nap to recharge...  Aaron, who took so many pictures the first day of the trip that we had to clean off the camera on Blake's computer.  Every one of his aircraft pictures is still in our March 2011 web album, a record of his seven year old fascination with mechanical marvels.

Lizzie, Gabe, and Abbie, traveling together in their seventh year, each picked their number one sight to see:  moccasins at the Indian Museum for Lizzie, Air & Space for Gabe, and the Art Museum for Abbie. The three of them attacked the week with exuberance, imagination, and energy: bounding up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial only to stand reverently before the solemn phrases of Lincoln's great oratory, reading every word.

 Every museum piqued their interest... and led to a visit to the gift shop and smashed penny machine.  Every monument could be measured between finger and thumb, every water fowl needed to be named, every fountain needed to be splashed, and mirror glass demanded a selfie.

 All that action was exhausting, making Grandpa an unwelcome alarm clock in the morning...

and the Capitol Visitor Center the perfect place for a quick siesta while Marco Rubio was speaking.

Our nation's capital is always changing, under construction here or restoration there.  And seven year olds grow too; they learn history, grow long legs, and stand to read about museum exhibits rather than flitting from attraction to attraction like bees on flowers.  Still,  the photography gene is strong.... Gabe, Abbie, and Lizzie took 500 pictures between them last week on the cameras they received at Christmas....and the only reason Aaron didn't is because his mom's old cell phone took a tumble that shattered the screen in the dark at the Korean War Memorial.

Still, that didn't keep his adventurous and hungry spirit from downing a big plate of lobster with his grandpa, fuel for the miles of steps from Lafayette Park to Library of Congress, from Ford's Theater  to the Smithsonian Castle, from Gershwin's piano to Jefferson's books.

Moon Gates, meteorites, and magnolias....for Aaron at 7 or Aaron at 12, Washington, D.C. was a playground of curiosities.

I always return to the National Gallery of Art when we travel to D.C., but I thought Gabe, Abbie, and Lizzie might enjoy a different museum this time around so we made the hike up to the Portrait Gallery in the old Patent Building. After all, it does have the fascinating interior courtyard with its scrim of flowing water and 394 wavy glass panels overhead.  I thought we might take in a few Presidential portraits, but I was unprepared and completely blown away by the kids' knowledge, anecdotal or not, of the historical figures in the paintings and their curiosity and interest about the people they didn't recognize.  James J. Audubon's self portrait (Lizzie: how did he paint himself?) Benjamin Franklin or Thomas Jefferson, John Brown and U.S. Grant, Robert E. Lee or Thomas Edison...famous names and well known faces, for sure, but they also recorded Harriett Beecher Stowe, John Brown, the Preamble of the Constitution on license plates and, of course, Alexander Hamilton.....

I drive the same 10 miles of curvy prairie roads every morning and night, and I have to tell myself to look at the landscape, not take it for granted, to watch for the small stuff, the seasonal changes, like the pair of quail that ducked into the brush around the cemetery this evening on my way home.  For frequent travelers, I'm sure the familiar sights of Washington, D.C. can get routine at best, if not downright stale.  Take my word for it: no matter how many times you visit, this city of museums and history and politics will always be new....if you see it with kids!

Joshie?  Levi? Are you ready?

Clothes Make the Man

There are funny ha-ha stories and there are funny humiliating stories.   And every once in a while ha-ha and uh-oh come together to make the kind of tale that bears repeating year after year......

Blake got his first real writing gig back in the '90s, in a column called In Real Life , a title so broad it allowed musings on golf, cherry red pickups, Decoration Day, and the various travails of the small businessman as well as forays into farm policy, energy policy, and the overreaching authority wielded by the Endangered Species Act.  One consequence of this dream job was a beautifully engraved invitation on embossed cardstock requesting our presence at the Frances Boyer Lecture at the Washington Hilton on December 6, 1995.AEI

We were thrilled.  Sure, it was on our dime, but the honoree that year was George Will, one of our heroes and besides...reception!  Dinner!  Dancing! What did we have to lose?? It would be a grand outing, a splurge, a tiny little peek through a crack in the fence by us hoi polloi into the rarefied world of punditry and think tanks.

We sent our RSVP; I bought a dress at Dillard's and called the men's shop in Shenandoah to reserve a tux for Blake.  We hurried back home from the Missouri Farm Bureau annual meeting and I rushed up to pick up the tux first thing the next morning.  We traveled light: just a suitbag and carryon with our fancy clothes and something to wear home..one night at the Washington Hilton and the air ticket was as much money as we were willing to swallow for a spree.  There was just time to check in and find the ballroom before we cleaned up the grime of travel and put on our black tie best.

Yep...Blake indeed had a black tie...and studs....and tuxedo pants.  But, horror of horrors, faux pas of faux pas, what was this?  Instead of a black dinner jacket, Blake's tuxedo coat had....TAILS!  In our rush, we hadn't checked the contents of the suitbag.  Through ignorance, or naivete, or perhaps just a mixup at the rental company, Blake was now going to his first Washington DC reception looking like the maitre d'! There was nothing to be done about the situation but brazen it out.  We went to the reception, standing with our backs against walls, or pillars, watching for famous people and hoping no one was really looking out at us.

Not surprisingly, our table...table number 107...was way out on the fringe of the enormous circular ballroom, well away from anyone we could recognize by sight as an influential politician or talking head from the opinion shows we watched back then: This Week with David Brinkley or Washington Week in Review or The McLaughlin Group.  Our dinner partners were folks with vague attachments to the world of agriculture whose way had been paid by someone with better things to do than go to another DC banquet ...definitely not farmers who had flown in to breathe the same air as the elite and hear George Will speak.  At any rate, we spent no time worrying about sartorial miscues while we were seated there.

The lecture was marvelous.  Mr. Will can spin a pithy and acerbic tale.  Later, we happily strolled the perimeter of the ballroom espying celebrities before they departed, having done their duty.  Tails or no tails, we stayed up late to dance to Eric Felten's marvelous big band, figuring those left had partied long enough not to care what anyone was wearing...

....and, after all, the waiters were long gone.........

In case any of you want to read Mr. Will's speech...as relevant in 2018 as in 1995.... here it is:

  George F. Will's Francis Boyer Lecture at AEI Dinner December 1995

P.S.  We solved the tuxedo problem in 2001 when, in short order, Ann got married, we went to another AEI dinner, and Lee got married.  We'd love to dust it off again..... 

By the People

"Shall I wear my fake leather jacket? Or my fake leather denim jacket?"

"Wha-at?" Aaron and I are getting ready to attend a reception up on Capitol Hill, in the Hart Senate Office building, and I'm asking his opinion.  The notion of a 'fake leather denim jacket' tickles him  enough that we repeat it several times before I decide on the plain ol'fake leather jacket for this first evening out of our trip to Washington, D.C. After careful consideration, he decides to upgrade from his travel attire to a fresh polo shirt in deference not only to any dignitaries we might come upon but also the significance of being in our nation's capital.  Our walk up the Mall is evidence of his earnestness and sincerity:  we talk about General Meade, the Taft Carillon, and the construction on the Capitol dome, while he frames various interesting architectural elements in the viewfinder of his phone.  Traversing the lobby of the Hart building opens another strand of conversation: about the massive Alexander Calder sculpture called Mountains and Clouds, the earthquake of 2011, and where the missing "clouds" are stashed while the entire installation is reinforced.  "Stabile-ized"so to speak.

Sure enough, Aaron sees two different influential Senators at the AgriPulse reception and is introduced to a former Secretary of Agriculture, John Block, from an administration so antique to Aaron's age cohort as to be not merely historic, but legendary.  The only way to top this intro to Washington DC is to stop at Johnny's Half Shell for supper (downstairs from both CSpan and Fox News DC Bureau) where there's a big crowd this Monday night.  Aaron and his Grandpa each clean up their bowls of lobster while straining to eavesdrop on yet another Senator's politically charged conversation at the neighboring table.

A walk down Pennsylvania Ave. is an exercise in geography and history.  Here on Freedom Plaza Pierre L'Enfant's grand scheme is easier to understand even if the spider web of radial streets strikes a sensible Midwestern boy as needlessly complicated.

Aaron chooses to be photographed in the "Red Room" of the White House after learning that the Oval Office was not included in the original building. And that's about as close as he gets; we can see the President's home from the far side of Lafayette Square and can pose for a picture on the only spot of dead grass available to tourists for an unobstructed view.  Aaron was unperturbed by the distance, being way more interested in the guys wearing the Secret Service vests just beyond the yellow tape.

This mix of current events and historical perspective is a hallmark of the Washington DC trip Missouri Farm Bureau puts together for the 70 to 80 members that attend. Like most tourists do, our group mingles with the crowds at the Lincoln and war memorials on a clear and quiet night.

 Per Aaron's request, we spend time in the Smithsonian museums examining meteorites and human origins, precious jewelry and gold nuggets, the physics of flight, and sea air operations, before tumbling round and round in a flight simulator.  He sits attentively through briefings about regulatory overreach, the economics of trade, and updates on a critical vote on GMO labeling:  issues of continuing concern for anyone in agriculture but not necessarily on the top ten list for 12 year olds.

In the Library of Congress, we are nose to the glass close to Thomas Jefferson's own books, his references on plants, on architecture, on philosophy and religion.  Senator Roy Blunt has his office in the same rooms Harry Truman used when he was a Senator and later, during the 82 days he was vice President. Time compresses in places like these, and the bright line between history and current events blurs.

Not every small town kid gets to eat breakfast with Congressmen and hear them call the folks around the table by their first names. Most folks would be surprised at the familiarity and frankness with which these elected officials speak in front of this particular group.  This get together doesn't feel like the bomb throwing, fist pounding version of Washington we see on the news every night; rather, we hear that this group of representatives works for common ground, aims for civility, and does cross the party divide on occasion. At least the ones that show up for breakfast with the Farm Bureau.

 To be twelve is to be old enough not just to learn historical facts, but to begin to feel a sense of history, to appreciate the past and compare it to the present.  To touch and visit our landmarks and monuments; to meet, even briefly, those who represent us and govern our country, is to become a participant in our nation, not a bystander, and thus to help bear the burden of the past and future. It's too soon to say whether Aaron will be a better leader because of this experience. But he will be a better citizen....

Mr. Harms Goes to Washington..

...along with Miss Harms and Miss Schlueter.

Relaxed travelers that they are, Lizzie and Gabe pass the time before takeoff playing GoFish. Across the aisle, Abbie and Blake are already deep into their portable electronic devices.  All three kids are chomping gum, having learned from experience..or at least the advice of older siblings...that airplane trips are hard on the ears.  Lizzie and Abbie have tiny square notepads on which to record their upcoming adventures. I hear Lizzie say, "All the dots for the 'i's' are hearts and all the o's have smiley faces." Her chronicle will obviously include emojis.

The geography of the Mall is the stage of our week : the scaffolding of the Capitol on one side and the compass needle of Washington's Monument  on the other. Three kids means three different ideas of what to see, but these guys are used to sharing and a satisfactory plan of attack is created over pasta.

What does a seven year old see in Washington, D.C.?

A thousand miles of wide stone borders to run along like a balance beam.  A dozen reflecting pools and fountains to lean over, lean into, and befriend the ducks paddling in.  Hundreds of  marble steps in and outside of majestic buildings to count, up and down, and then report triumphantly on the accomplishment of climbing.

They are unexcited by the prospects of policy and politicians, but they are patient while the adults speechify and listen, either reading, scribbling, or taking a power nap.  During one meeting Lizzie leans over and whispers to me, "When they talk about Democrats, do they mean the bug?"

As befits children of a greenhouse, the kids concentrate intently on the Plant Hunter's Journal they collect at the desk of the National Botanical Garden, filling out most of the blanks and picking their favorite plants from each of the greenhouse biomes.

 We spend a pleasant hour in the National Gallery among the French painters where Gabe exhibits a keen eye, finding the duck in the reeds a hunter is stalking and the monuments in the background of a Parisian street scene.  All three are fascinated by the notion that Van Gogh painted himself....

Lizzie finds her moccasins just inches from the front door of the Museum of the American Indian.

 The kid's exhibit gives them a chance to stamp their passports by balancing a kayak, weaving a basket, listening to bird calls, and visiting a tepee.  Abbie looks askance at her bison chili, but Liz and Blake chow down an entire plate of buffalo short ribs and fry bread.

We really never see the White House, but the afternoon we visit Mt. Vernon is gloriously sunny and warm.  Transported to the 18th century, this kind of living history is perfect for the imaginations of  youngsters and oldsters alike.

 We talk about all the visitors an isolated farm like Mt. Vernon would have and all the bedrooms it took to house them.  Gabe wants to know how old  Gen. Washington was when he died and is worried about how he got so sick from being outside in the rain. We walk to the edge of the lawn and look out over the same view of broad river and densely forested hills that George Washington saw from his front porch.  As they climb up the brick wall and sit dangling their legs over the side (any wall is fair game if you're seven) both Abbie and Gabe declare they will move here when they are grown and build houses across the river so they can have the same view.  If they do, I say, I'll certainly come visit....

Lizzie does cartwheels on George Washington's lawn.

Along with all the walking, all the gift shops, several lost and found souvenirs and a half dozen smashed pennies, there are serious and lovely moments that I will always remember.  After a long day of travel, I follow the kids up the marble steps in the dark to the somber interior of the Lincoln Memorial.  Abbie finds Mr. Lincoln rather frightening, saying his eyes seem to be following her around.  All three of them gravitate to the Gettysburg Address and stand; Abbie reads aloud and the sound of her young voice navigating the solemn text brings tears to my eyes. Each child wants a picture taken in front of the carved document. Gabe asks if we can go read the other wall and we stand before the Second Inaugural until all three children have finished and we hurtle down the stairs in the dark back to the bus.

Of such things are memories made.