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July 17-21, 1986 Manassas, Virginia
In preparing for the trip out east to Virginia, a few details had to be ironed out and they were done at Fort Scott during the annual Civil War Living History Encampment. Some of the guys were planning on driving to Virginia, but I wasn't keen on the idea of a 24 hour drive; I had only 7 days off and didn't wanted to spend half of it on the road. Seven of us decided then and there that we would fly the friendly skies. It would be Aaron Racine, Charlie Pautler, John Maki, Don Whitson, Pat McCarthy, John Travis, and myself. Gregg Higginbotham and his wife Gail were going to drive to Virginia, so they agreed to carry all our weapons and black powder cartridges with them in their station wagon. With the exception of John Travis, who would be leaving from Oklahoma City, the rest of us would take off from KCI airport on Tuesday evening July 15th around 7PM. I am pretty definite on this departure time. I took Wednesday thru next Tuesday off from work. After clocking out at 4PM Tuesday afternoon, I changed my clothes right there at the shop and my wife and daughter came by to drive me directly to the airport, which was about 20 miles away. I had my uniform, plus several changes of civilian clothes already packed in my old US Navy seabag, and I had a small carry-on with some other crap in it.
Upon arrival at the airport, I checked my bag in, had my ticket punched, and said hello to the rest of the gang. We had made a pact some days before about how we would dress on departure day and sure enough, each of us had on a very loud Hawaiian shirt and cheap sunglasses. We laughed and joked till it was time to board the plane, then I had to say goodbye. My daughter Katie was not quite 5 years old and it was the hardest thing I ever had to do, walk away from her. Both of our faces got red and our eyes got puffy as I waved at her and my wife Mona, then I turned away to enter the plane.
We arrived at National Airport in Washington D.C. after a couple of uneventful hours in the air. I think John Travis was there to meet us, having arrived off his Dulles flight some hours earlier. At any rate, we located a car rental place and after some haggling, we acquired a station wagon that we used to haul the seven of us and our gear to a cheap motel near Manassas Junction, VA. We didn't have to be at the reenactment until Friday evening, so it was decided that we would do some sightseeing beginning Wednesday morning.
My brother Mark had joined the US Navy a few years before, had spent a brief period at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, but was now a Petty Officer 3rd class electrician's mate aboard the USS IOWA which coincidentally was docked at Norfolk, VA at this time. I had talked to Mark several weeks before and he said visitors were welcome to visit the ship while it was in port. Don Whitson insisted on doing the driving to the Naval Base. In fact, Don insisted on doing most if not all the driving during our entire stay out east and it was like riding with Mario Andretti. When riding with Don, all we could do was grit our teeth and hold on till our knuckles turned white. To distract us during Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, we began listening to a bizarre morning show on the radio on DC101-FM. The DJ called himself the "Greaseman" and he only played 3 or 4 songs an hour, if that. The rest of the time he spent on skits or prank phone calls. When talking to a female caller, he would ask her to place the phone between her breasts, and then he would make slobbering noises or act like he was masturbating. The favorite skit of the "Greaseman" was to recreate stories of when he was in Vietnam either killing "gooks" or having weird sex with Vietnamese women. These radio dramas were not vulgar, he used other words to describe the various sex acts, but he had a library of sound's effects at his disposal to emphasize the erotic escapades. Anyway, we passed the time listening to "Greaseman" in the morning.
After some hours on the road, we entered the Naval Base at Norfolk. We were given a visitor's pass, and then we drove around the pier until we found the battleship. While the guy's remained on the pier, I went up the gangway to talk to the officer of the deck to ask for my brother. After a few minutes, Mark came strolling aft, conferred with the OOD and the guys were welcomed aboard. I gave Mark a big old hug and introduced him to my pards. A ceremony of sorts had just concluded with officers and men milling about in their best whites. Beside showing off the huge 16 inch gun turrets, Mark took us on a tour of some of the lower decks, including the engine room, the boiler room, a berthing compartment, and a machine shop/welding shop. John Maki fell in love with this last area and would have gladly enlisted right on the spot. As it was just past noon, we were allowed to eat lunch in the mess decks. Right next door from the mess decks was the ship's store and we all bought an official USS IOWA ballcap. 
The guy's fell all over themselves heaping gratitude at the feet of Mark and myself as this adventure was concluded. We were on the battleship a little over an hour and we all agreed it was the highlight of the entire trip out east (this was a few years before the tragic gun turret explosion).
On the way back up North, we stopped at Richmond and visited the Museum of the Confederacy where we saw Sterling Price's corncob handled sword, JEB Stuart's boots, Robert E. Lee's hat, and other odd and end personal effects from important Confederate personalities. Then we journeyed up to Fredericksburg, then Chancellorsville. After some hours spent at these battlefield sites, it was near dusk, plus our stomachs began to gnaw at us. We went back to our motel, ate chow, and hit the fart sack.
Thursday we decided to go up to Gettysburg. Again we began the day listening to the "Greaseman" on the radio while Don's maniacal driving skills continued to make our sphincter muscles tighten. Upon arrival at the National Park, we bumped into the Higginbotham's, who pulled into the parking lot about the same time we did. We had a gabfest for a moment in which they assured us our weapons and accoutrements had made the trip over the mountains just fine, then arm in arm we strolled into the Visitor's Center to look at the relics. After looking at all the history inside the building, we then took the tour along Cemetery Ridge and up to Little Round Top. Later, we drove over to the Confederate side of the battlefield where Whitson and one or two others got out and ran Pickett's Charge back to the main road.
Gettysburg is the most written about battlefield on the American continent and draws thousands of visitors each year. Two eyesores are readily apparent to the visitor on coming to Gettysburg: the dozens upon dozens of monuments on the battlefield and the invasion of motels and drive-thru restaurants that surround the hollowed ground. Imagine a modern day Pickett's charge coming across the field only to find a McDonald's or KFC in their path. With fame comes a price and Gettysburg has become a tourist trap, with Happy Meals and In Room Cable TV on ground once drenched with human blood.
After leaving Gettysburg we attempted to find the road to Antietam, but got lost and ended up at Harper's Ferry instead. We walked around this historic town for a couple hours, visited the museum, the John Brown fire house, even walked across the footbridge from West Virginia to Maryland. Later we climbed up the heights behind Harper's Ferry to a flat rock measuring at least 10 feet across and balanced like a shingle on a ledge. From this elevation we could see for miles in any direction. The next morning, we went over to the Manassas National Battlefield in which we posed in front of the Stonewall Jackson statue, visited yet another museum, and saw an electric map. That afternoon, we were going to look at something else, but don't recall what those plans were. It may have been a final attempt to locate Antietam, but I don't have any photos to back up that assumption. At any rate, John Maki was planning on visiting a relative who lived in the DC area and would not accompany us. He had already gathered up his uniform and he told us he would meet us later that night at the reenactment.
We had been living in the same motel for the past 3 nights. I think we had two adjoining rooms. Every morning when we left to go sightseeing, we'd leave a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside door knob. We had our clothes scattered all over, plus we may have had beer in the bathtub. All I recall is we didn't want anybody disturbing our bags while we were out. As a result the beds' were left unmade with empty beer cans and burger wrappers littering the floor from the previous nights' debauchery.
We left the motel Friday afternoon taking everything with us including all our clothes and baggage. We probably would not come back, so the maid was free to clean and fumigate the rooms at will. After a short drive, we entered the event site. Never before had I seen so many reenactors gathered in one place for one event. There were at least five thousand people from all across the nation plus several men from England and Germany. The event was held on the site of a future industrial park about 10 miles due south of Dulles International Airport. Every 15 minutes or so a huge jumbo jet would pass over the camps flying at a ceiling of only a couple thousand feet as it made its way to the airport. It was difficult to maintain a 19th Century impression as the French built Concord was passing overheard. As I stated, the camp sight was to be the future home of an industrial park. Except for several distant tree lines, the green vegetation had been plowed under. We would set up camp on a lunar landscape.
The Higginbotham's arrived at about the same time as we. All the gear was unloaded from his station wagon, including the tents we would stay in. Gregg would camp with the boys, but his wife would be in the civilian camp in a large wall tent complete with sleeping cot, trunk, hoop, and chamber pot. Including the tent Gail would occupy, we had two A frame tents and one or two dog tents. I don't recall the sleeping arrangements we'd made except to say Don Whitson and I shared one A tent. All our farb stuff, including my US Navy seabag and the luggage Don had, we stowed to the back of the tent under a gray blanket.
As the evening wore on, more and more reenactors rolled in including members of Holmes Brigade. Maki arrived after a supper he'd had with his cousin and family in DC. Here came Frank Kirtley, John Condra, Ken McElhaney, and Bill Fannin, just to name a few. There was Joe Covais with some of his Illinois sucker boys. Dickson Stauffer could not make the trip, so Don Strother assumed the role as our company commander. Holmes Brigade had registered 60 men for the 125th Anniversary Bull Run event. In order for each company to be evened-up at 45 men each, Brigade commander Colonel Chris Craft asked that Holmes "loan" 15 men to the Union Rifles. I don't recall which children the Rifles adopted, but it was probably some of the Illinois boys.
As John Maki and I were both sergeants at this time, an additional item we acquired for this one time event was the NCO sword. Brought in to us by either Fannin or Kirtley, the NCO sword has a very straight narrow blade with a very modest grip and guard making it look like a toy sword. Its hard metal scabbard is attached to a leather strap, which drapes across the body and bangs into the shins of the man who wears it. The NCO sword really serves no purpose. When issued in 1861, it was strictly an ornamental hunk of metal that got in the way of moving legs, and was disposed of by the soldier very quickly. After wearing the thing for the brief period we did, Maki and I could see why the NCO sword became unpopular.
The Havelock was another worthless piece of property that the soldier acquired in 1861. The Havelock is a piece of cotton fabric that is attached to the forage cap and is long enough in the back to cover the soldier's neck. It is similar to that worn by the boys of the French Foreign Legion. If you've seen the movie Beau Geste, you know what type of head covering I'm talking about. Several sutlers had the Havelock available for purchase for a couple bucks and it soon became all the rage. Soon whole companies could be seen with the little white dishrag on their heads. After being suckered into buying one of the rags for myself, I soon realized that wearing the thing only made me feel hotter as it stopped the breeze from cooling my neck. Out only a couple of bucks, I stowed it away in my haversack to be used later as a cleaning rag.
Whether by design or necessity there was no battle reenactment planned on Saturday, only drill and other minor activities involving civilians and other non-combatants. There was an artillery demonstration with a combined 48 guns from both the Union and Confederate camps, an hour long school of the musician in which drummer boys learned the proper way to "beat off," a ladies tea party, and a children's fair. There was also a period dance and a gospel revival planned that evening. The most strenuous activity of the weekend was confined to Sunday afternoon because of the fierce temperature.
In mid-July the temperature was well into the century mark with almost 100% humidity. There was barely a cloud in the sky, with only a hint of a breeze. Plus we were clad in wool uniforms and camped on an arid piece of desert we called "the Devil's Anvil." It would truly be the hottest event I ever attended! However uncomfortable the temperature was, the host made sure there was plenty of drinking water and portable toilets to be had. With so many people in attendance, rations were not provided and it was up to the individual to tend to the needs of his or her stomach. With a few exceptions, such as our trips to Mississippi where we relied on a fish fry to help sustain us through the weekend, we were really not used to this type of reenacting. Having a company mess sergeant cook the food for everybody had spoiled Holmes Brigade. As a result many of us were uncomfortable with "eating out of our haversacks." In the past, most of us used the haversack to carry socks, playing cards, dice, French postcards, or other non-food personal items. If a brave soul did bring a food item in his haversack, it was of the raw vegetable variety or possibly Slim Jims and jerked beef. To be honest, many reenactors preferred to fork over a few bucks for a "Battle Burger" or other grease pit sandwich from a food vendor than stand over a cook fire in the summer. Eating unauthentic chow or "farbing out" is done by most everybody because of laziness, convenience, or simply because there's no food in the haversack. Usually the most serious infraction of "farbing out" is limited to getting a cold soda, but we make sure the vendor pours it into our tin cups before we take it back to camp. Nothing looks worse than a styrofoam or plastic cup in the hands of a dressed out Civil War Reenactor.
We did have hard tack! I continued to use a portion of the Holmes Brigade treasury to buy crackers from G.H.Bent, Co. so I'm sure we had crackers to distribute at this event. Personally speaking, I felt it was too damn hot to eat. However, Gail Higginbotham was planning on driving to a nearby grocery store for some things, so I gave her a couple bucks for several cans of peaches. Peaches and a funnel cake from a food vendor was about all I cared to eat that weekend.
The authentic sutler had his business set up not far from the military camps with a line of tents stretching down one side of long field and up the other side like some kind of strip mall. With temptations lurking behind each tent flap, taking a stroll down sutler row was akin to a "visit to Las Vegas" with it's own vices lurking behind closed doors. Each sutler's tent, which could roughly hold 20 people, held tables filled with merchandise and assorted knick-knack's designed to temp the soldier and visitor to the reenactment. Stepping inside a typical sutler tent, you could find such items as antiques, battlefield relics, books, boots, bullet molds, buttons, candles, candy, cigars, gum blankets, guns, hats, hoops skirts, leather goods, ponchos, shirts, tents, tin ware, uniforms, and video tapes-just to name a few. The proprietor of the business, or sutler who is dressed in period 19th Century civilian attire, stands behind the counter with his best used car salesman look on his face and tells his customers, "I take cash, check, or credit card." If there is time to kill between activities, the reenactor will usually take a nap or go visit the sutler. In many ways, the reenactor is like the bored housewife who just likes to get out and look at the latest fashions. With uniforms, leather goods, and tinware being the universal product featured at each sutler tent, the reenactor will see who has the best bargain or who has the most authentically made item. It was at this 125th event that the phrase "going to visit Las Vegas" was born and it literally meant going shopping along sutler's row. One of the more popular businessmen at the event was Mr. Fritz Kirsch and his outdoor photographic studio. For a small price, reenactors could have their image taken with an antique camera and made into a series of 2"x 4" paper prints mounted on a card. (This type of photograph was known as a CDV or cartes de visite after the French for "calling card." Prior to the paper print, images were exposed to specially treated tin or glass plates. 
The images exposed to these plates could not be copied and were expensive to make requiring several hazardous chemicals. A paper print could be produced over and over again using the same single negative, just as in modern photography, and it was very affordable to the common soldier during the war). An appointment had to be made for seven of us to have our image made as Mr. Kirsch was attracting many reenactors to his outdoor studio. We had agreed to pose for a group photo. As the two sergeants, Maki and I sat on two camp chairs while the other four boys arranged themselves behind us. We had all our trappings of war: musket, bayonet, and NCO sword at our hip. I believe Mr. Kirsch made one print for us to look at, but he had to mail us the other copies.
The other Las Vegas was located at the opposite end of the reenactment site, a couple hundred yards away, and conveniently placed along the avenue to the battlefield. This was the unauthentic area where people could buy cold drinks, hot food, popcorn, funnel cakes, ice cream, t-shirts, bumper stickers, cardboard kepi's, little flags on a stick, and anything else that could be sold with a US or CS sticker on them. Sonny Wells may have been at Manassas selling MCWRA trinkets. Classic Images Video was located in this area as well. Their intent was to videotape the entire event and sell VHS copies to any and all for about 20 bucks apiece. Maki and I both placed an order for a VHS tape, and then we bought a commemorative 125th anniversary T-shirt from a nearby stand. Including the shirt, videotape, CDV, and what junk I ate from Las Vegas, I probably spent close to 70 bucks at the event alone.
As I've already mentioned Saturday's activity was spent, among other things, on drill. We had become part of the Western Brigade by now, which was made up of units from Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, and Kentucky. The Army of Tennessee group that had been formed three years ago at Champion's Hill, MS was now extinct, as it had been absorbed by this new organization of western federals. There was Colonel Chris Craft, several staff officers and a sergeant major, plus our own company officers and NCO's. At the 125th Manassas (Bull Run) event we learned for the first time how to drill as a full brigade. I believe the Western Brigade mustered 300-400 infantrymen, while the National Regiment as a whole mustered 600-800 men.
During the drill we had in the morning and the afternoon, we practiced marching in the "division" formation. It was imperative we perfected this drill as it would be how we would present ourselves during most of Sunday's battle. We began quite simply by marching in columns of four, past the food vendors, to a long flat area about double the size of a football field. Upon arriving on the field, we formed a brigade front (or two ranks of men facing in one direction). Two companies were instructed to march forward, still in two ranks. Another two companies followed them and so on till we had at least six 90-man companies one behind the other. This, we were told, was the "division" formation. When the order was given to march, special attention was made to ensure there was proper wheeling distance between each "division." An officer in front of each "division" admonished the men to either slow down or step out as required to keep enough space between his "division" and the one in front of him. Turning the "division" left or right was made by wheeling the entire line like a giant gate on its hinge. The boys on the outer flank usually had to trot a bit faster while the turn was being made. Sometimes an NCO would scold the boys to "get the bow out of the line!" or "dress your ranks!" It was imperative that each man maintained a touch of elbow with the pard at his side; if touch were lost, the line would fragment. After several wheels to the left or right, the colonel then instructed the brigade to wheel into line. Each "division" turned together at the same time and in the same direction. If proper wheeling distance had been maintained, all six "divisions" lined up side by side with each other like peas in a pod. As I stated, this was the formation we would utilize during Sunday's battle reenactment, so we practiced this for at least an hour, then returned again in the afternoon for another hour. Colonel Craft wanted to make sure we understood how to do it correctly. He was like a kind schoolmaster who works with slow-witted children. He spoke calmly, slowly, and never yelled or lost his temper. Chris Craft was Western Brigade commander from 1986 to 1990. Since then, there have been other men who have worn the emblem of full colonel, but for my money Chris Craft was the best.
Sunday afternoon, just past noon. The Western Brigade was to take position on the right flank of the Federal line, while the rest of the National Regiment occupied the center and the left. They marched off first and advanced at a left oblique down the hillside in the direction of a line of trees about 500 yards away. The Western Brigade was ordered to wait while our Union comrades occupied the attention of "Johnny Reb", then we would pounce on the exposed flank of the graybacks. To our left and on the same hillside, some 20 federal artillery pieces barked to life, signaling the start of the 125th Anniversary Battle Reenactment of First Manassas (Bull Run). At this event there were an unspecified number of mounted US and CS cavalrymen who clashed sabers and fired pistols in the air, all for the amusement of the crowd. A total of fifty thousand tickets had been made available beginning May 1st for this spectacular. With tickets priced at a mere 3 dollars a head and by the size of the crowd that I saw lining the hillside on the far left, I'm sure every ticket was sold.
While the Western Brigade continued to wait in reserve, Mark Gardner strolled over and began to serenade us with his banjo. Mark is a citizen of Colorado and a friend of Holmes Brigade who prefers the dress of a quiet country gentleman rather than an infantryman. He is an encyclopedia of mid-19th Century banjo music, specializing in songs of the patriotic as well as the humorous. I believe Mark was delighting us with "Where did you get that Hat?" or it might have been "The Cabbage Head" song. Whichever song it was, he was able to bring a smile to the entire Brigade while we baked under the noon sun. While Mark played, Higginbotham lifted his legs in some kind of funky dance till his knees almost touched his chin.
"ATTENTION BRIGADE!"
We came to life, formed up, took our weapons from the musket stack, and then we were given the order to load and come to the shoulder. As the National and Regimental colors were being unfurled in the center of the brigade, Colonel Craft stepped to the front and with a flourish of his drawn saber, we stepped out. After a dozen yards or more, the command was given to form by "division." We divided the Brigade into sections of two companies each as we had practiced and marched at an oblique until each "division" was lined one behind the other. A few lads with fife and drum were right there with us, playing a spirited tune which was designed to keep us in step all the way downhill to the enemy 500 yards away.
About half a distance away, the strangest apparition we had ever seen suddenly came into view. A battalion of baggy pants soldiers emerged from a tree line and began shooting at us. This was Wheat's Tigers, a band of Louisiana wharf rats outfitted in a costume that reminded one of Ali Baba and his 40 Thieves. The only thing that was lacking was the flying carpet and the genie in the lamp. After a few ragged volleys, they held wicked looking Bowie knives in their fists' and said hurtful things to us. What did we do? We formed a brigade front and then delivered withering volleys until we had the Tigers' by the tail. The survivors skedaddled to the rear and we pressed on.
Even as we neared the bottom of the slope, we began to notice some straggling in our lines. It was literally "hotter than 7 hells" and after thirty minutes under the afternoon sun, some of the lads were looking for shelter under the shade of the trees. Dozens upon dozens of brave soldiers, members of battalions that had passed before us, were laid out under what meager shade the tree line offered. These men were all bare headed and as pale as the shirt they had skinned down to. Reenactors who had come to the event portraying hospital stewards, surgeons, and nurses had a real serious task on their hands as they wandered from one stricken soul to another applying a little comfort and a cool wash cloth. An ambulance arrived on the scene of the temporary trauma center, even while the event continued on, to ferry out the most severe cases of heat exhaustion. In order for our Brigade to pass through a break in the tree line we had to form a column of companies. Once we'd come out on the other side of the tree line, we veered left in order to take position near the "Stone House." This was a fake prop that the sponsors had put together to resemble one of the structure's from the original battle. The other building they built was a copy of the Henry House.
By this time, we were just about out of canteen water; our tongues were thick and our throats were as dry as a powder horn. About 50 yards away at least one hundred men had gathered around a water buffalo. It looked like each man there had a dozen canteens in each hand, apparently getting water for the entire battalion. Two or three men from each one of our companies volunteered to stand in line for water while the rest of us struck off in search of the remnants of the National Regiment. It was here that I decided to sit down.
The heat, humidity, my diet of donuts, and the NCO saber whacking my shins conspired to give me pause and I plopped down against the "Stone House." A short distance from me, two medical stewards were attending to a soldier who was in the extreme grip of the heat. The poor wretch had been picked clean of every article of clothing except for his skivvies and he was as pale as a ghost. Water from a basin was dribbled over his limbs, down his neck, and on his head a cool wash cloth played over his sun baked scalp. I sat there behind the "Stone House" too tired to move or remove any of my accoutrements. I took off my cap, splashed what little water I had left from my canteen on my head, and tried to slow my beating heart. After about ten minutes, I resolved to get back on my feet. One of the medical stewards expressed some concern for my health, but I calmly announced I was well enough to rejoin my pards, so I struck off in the direction I knew they had gone.
On the way, I bumped into someone from my company (might have been Randy Rogers) coming back from the water buffalo and I offered to help carry some of the canteens he had filled. With him leading the way, I found the Brigade located about one hundred yards to the left of "Stone House" and only a few paces in front of the tree line. They had formed a front, two ranks deep, and were exchanging volleys with the foe up on "Henry House Hill." In amongst the tall grass that lined the edge of the woods to our rear, several dozen of our own lads were prostrate and in a horizontal position. Charlie Pautler was one of the lads I saw afflicted with the heat and as I attempted to share some tender words with him, he bent over at the waist and heaved. It was only a dry heave, because nothing was in his stomach. I offered him a sympathetic shoulder to lean on as well as a canteen of fresh water. His eyes moistened.
It was some minutes later that the tide began to turn in the favor of the Rebels. They had captured several Union guns, plus a fresh wave of infantry soldiers was pressing forward. The order came to fall back, but with our backs already to the tree line, unit cohesion evaporated and it was every man for himself. The avenue to the rear was blocked with retreating Federals on the verge of panic, so our Brigade opted to crash through the trees like we were being chased by angry hornets. Most of us were too tired to run, plus it was an uphill climb back to camp, so we either half dragged ourselves along or collapsed in the dirt and prayed for the mercy of our foe. I know I staggered up the dusty slope for a few dozen yards, paused, then staggered another yard or two feeling as if I had a 50-pound weight tied to each foot. Finally, I accepted a ride in an ambulance to the top of the hill 300 yards away. The battle reenactment supposedly lasted two hours, but it seemed like two years. We had gotten a taste of what it must have been like to the soldier of 125 years ago. The 1986 Manassas event was the hottest event I've ever attended, although Athens, MO in August is a very close second.
I made it back to camp about one half hour later. The guys were beginning to knock down the tents and strip down into t-shirts and shorts. We were feeling more dead than alive and could have used something cold inside us. About that time a delivery truck rode past and some dud offered to sell us ice for 5 bucks a bag. We told him to fuck off! We were all about to have a heat stroke and he was only interested in seeing how much money he could leach off us. Fuckin' vampires all of them! I don't know what time it was when we made it back to the motel. We returned to the same old haunt we'd stayed on the previous days. It was near dark when we all got back and we immediately headed to the pool. Ahh Heaven! After this refreshing dip in the pool, we had a decent meal at the motel restaurant, put a few beers down our necks, and soon were lulled to sleep by a passing electrical storm.
We had one more day before we had to head back across the friendly skies to the Midwest, so we decided on a visit to the nation's capitol. About twenty miles outside the city limits, we boarded the Metro subway system and rode all the way to the stop at the Smithsonian Institute. We had the Metro mostly to ourselves as it was past 9 AM and everyone was already at work. We walked along the Mall, into the Aerospace Museum, The American History Museum (where you can see Archie Bunker's chair, Fonzie's jacket, etc), past the Vietnam Veteran's Wall, past the White House, the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial, the Jefferson Memorial, Ford's Theatre, whew! We spent the entire day just looking around, just like a tourist, until it was just about sundown. We located the Metro and took it back to our Rent-a-Car, had a meal and hit the fart sack for the final time.
The next morning, Tuesday, we loaded up the station wagon with ourselves and our luggage, dropped John Travis at Dulles and headed on over to National Airport where we would catch a noon flight back to KC. After disposing of the Rent-a-Car, we had some time to kill before our flight was announced, so we went to the airport bar. We'd spent an exhaustive week traveling up and down the East Coast from Virginia to Maryland, plus two full days baking under a cruel July sun, and now we were drinking cold beer on an empty stomach. It wasn't long before we started to get silly and laughed until the tears ran. The little Oriental woman who was running the bar must have been frightened at us ugly Americans and thought maybe we were scaring her customers away because she shuffled over to our table and meekly asked, "What time your plane leave?" Very soon our flight was called, we boarded it, was served some pre-fabricated meal, had another cocktail, and followed the sun all the way back to Missouri.