Is it just me or does Presidents Day feel more auspicious than usual? Maybe it’s because this is an election year. Maybe it’s because we are yearning for the seeming stability of the presidents we idolized in grade school. Or maybe it’s because we are all inundated with breaking political news every five seconds and the media’s obsession with comparing and contrasting every flub and foible uttered by the presumptive candidates. For me, it’s safer for my sanity to just read the highlights of the day, preferably from Letters from an American, and go about my day in my comfy cave minding my own business.
I’m happy though, that we still remember and memorialize George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. Frankly, I’m happy that we remember any history at all given the environment of persecution and denial we live in. I have fond memories of learning about our forefathers, memorizing the old tropes of reading by candlelight and walking miles to return a borrowed book. Reading under the covers by flashlight after lights out seemed acceptable to my young mind. Lincoln’s dedication to learning made it okay for me to read A Wrinkle in Time for the tenth time after midnight. George Washington, on the other hand, while a great president, was a wish-washy role model. In fact, I held a grudge against George between the ages of six and eight. Telling the truth was an admirable quality but chopping down that cherry tree in the first place was unforgivable.
Two houses down from us lived the Thompsons, an older couple with no kids. Their backyard and ours, as well as several yards in both directions from our back door, were connected by a field of grass, wild flowers, and clover. Smack in the middle of the Thompsons’ yard was a huge cherry tree redolent of blossoms in the spring and heavy with fruit through the summer. That tree was also smack in the middle of my run to my best friend’s house two doors down from the Thompsons. One day on my way to Paige’s house, Mr Thompson caught me gazing up at the ripening cherries and made me a friendly offer. I could eat all of the cherries that fell from the tree if I promised not to climb it. I quickly agreed and kept my promise. At every opportunity, I gorged on the abundance of cherries that fell from the tree.
I loved that cherry tree in all its glory, festooned in blossoms, green leaves, or snow covered limbs but summertime, despite the risk of stepping on honey bees with my bare feet, was the best. Two summers later, my parents had built a house and we were moving. I walked around to the backyard, heading out to say goodbye to Mr Thompson. From the edge of our yard, I watched as he carefully shook each lower branch of the cherry tree, dropping the ripe cherries to the ground. For me, I realized. That’s why there were always so many!
That George Washington, the father of our country would have the audacity to chop down something so beautiful as a cherry tree felt traitorous to me, to my love for the cherries, to the tree, and I think to Mr Thompson and his generous spirit. To my great relief, I later learned that the story was fabricated, like so many stories we hear today in an attempt to laud or defame.
We need truth to keep us on course and we need leaders who in their humble humanity challenge and inspire us to be better and to do better. We need men like Lincoln and Washington to remind us where we come from and how far we have come.
Cave Dweller: Alone in a Social World 