In order to return the dog Owens to his mistress, I drove him from Atlanta to Memphis, taking a longer route because I took the wrong Birmingham exit. So I cruised through deserted downtown B'ham on a federal holiday with a greyhound in a truck. Owens and I finally made it to Memphis in time to meet Jesse and the Highland youth group returning from Belize. Lots of love in that group and quite a mission accomplished.
I flew out the next day to Dayton where my mom and big sis picked me up on their way to the D.C. area to visit mom's brother, Benjamin Franklin Robinson. He is on hiatus from the horseshoe pitching circuit. His home is a stone's throw from Mount Vernon, on land that was called Muddy Hole Farm when George Washington owned it. Because he's tall and bearded and lives close enough to the White House, he reminds me of Lincoln. Uncle Ben worked in government accounting after he completed his education at Indiana University and served in WW2. His house is filled with books, and my mom took another load to gift him. The titles included church history and references to Methodist circuit preachers, Ben's current research topic. (He was thrilled when my sister showed him how to google a list of preacher's names.)

Speaking of preachers, Ben and Mom descend from Franklins, one of whom was Elder Ben F., Midwest circuit-riding evangelist, editor of The Reformer and later, American Christian Review, and main character of Earl West's book, Eye of the Storm. My daughter, as part of a group project for a graduate course at Harding last year, indexed the published papers of her prolific ancestor. I'm curious why Elder Ben perpetuated the belief that he was related to the early American statesman, Benjamin Franklin. My grandmother saved his obituary from The Anderson Herald and reiterated his prestigious claim in her genealogical research. Alas, when my mom took on the task of completing the research, all roads veered away from the famous B.F. to another New England clan. This family's claim to fame was Revolutionary War Captain Joseph Franklin of Swansea, Mass. who married Abigail Daggett (her family settled Martha Vineyard) on New Year's Day,1746. Their progeny included a Benjamin, and voila! Elder Ben did indeed have a namesake uncle. I think he pinned his family label on the wrong lapel. But the preacher in him made it a good story and the myth survived.

One of the places we visited was Arlington cemetery, and Robert E. Lee's former home , an architectural sentry overlooking acres of graves. The expansive view of Washington from the home's entrance and the upper bedrooms is breath-taking and the breeze through the center hall was relieving. When I learned of the tremendous burden Lee felt to align with his family's loyalty to the South versus his accomplished reputation in service to the Union, I was eager to know more. Fortunately, Uncle Ben had the books begging to be read! He made sure my personal library now includes four volumes of R.E.Lee by Douglas Southall Freeman. After Lee left his wife's inherited home in order to serve the Rebel cause, the government confiscated the estate and it was used as Union troop headquarters. It was determined that should Lee ever gaze over the grounds again that he would view a vast cemetery.

One hot day, we walked to the WWII memorial. Curious thing, there is no parking close by for the older generation or the disabled. With its playful water fountains and contemporary architecture, it lacked, for me, the solemnity and reverence of other memorials: Iwo Jima, the Tomb of the Unknowns, Viet Nam. I sat with Mother on a shaded bench near the entrance, and as veterans climbed up the steps and made their way out of the heat to the bench nearby, we interviewed them about their war experiences. The emotion that was lacking in the stone was, instead, evident in the people.

For this trip, I had packed The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brien. I had resisted reading this book recommended by my son because I dread war stories. Concerned about Iraq, visiting Washington war memorials, having sons and relatives of draftable age, knowing veterans, I was compelled to read it now. O'Brien's stories are powerful reminders of how the truth of experience is not necessarily rooted in the facts, but is yielded from moments of sacrifice. And sometimes obligations are fulfilled, not out of bravery, but because of a lack of courage.