The Battle of Springfield

And then it was on to Springfield, Illinois and St. Louis, Missouri where we were to see The Lincoln Presidential Museum.

D. offered to drive. Unthinkingly I handed the keys over, a misstep on my part. Keys are like the remote: He who hold’th them, has’th the power. No sooner did Sherman leave the Denny’s parking lot when D. inserted a disk titled The American Civil War. Part I. I gave D. the are you #$%ing kidding me look. Unfazed, he pointed Sherman’s nose to the highway and turned up the sound.

“We need to be in the mood.” He blithely opined.

Gee, as if, sitting in this car, I couldn’t already imagine acrimonious debates, territorial disputes and taking up arms.

Lecture one: Prelude to a war. The societal differences between the North and the South commenced.

I proceeded to look out the window (crows and cornfields), checked for voice mails (none) and investigated a chip in my pedicure. Then, I thought about home. I worried whether the cats are being feed which oddly, led me to worry about school starting which segued directly into compiling my new School Year Resolutions.

1. I will not STILL be wearing my workout clothes at pick up.

2. I will pay the Lunch Ladies on time.

3. I will clean Cowboy Pat (the minivan) so biohazards don’t spill out every time we open the doors.

4. I will sign AND RETURN all permission slips.

5. I will keep on top of the sock situation.

6. I will throw away shit.

7. Dinner and milk will be a priority.

Then I noticed that my belly rolled over the top of my pants. Is that new flab? Folded over like that? I lifted my arm and waddled my deltoid. It waddled back. Shit. I’d only missed- what? -ten work outs? My body is so disloyal. I want a new one.

I checked my cell phone, I had frittered away seven minutes.

But surprisingly quickly, we were driving through Illinois, where it is flat and green and populated, with towns and restaurants and antique malls. Not that we stop anywhere. We were meeting Opi (Grandpa M for those of you not versed in diminutive German) in St. Louis for dinner, thus on a time schedule. Still, with Professor Gallagher in da club I was hoping for any small diversion. Then, I got one.

“Hey Mom” asked Nick conversationally “One prairie dog roasted would be… what? One biteful? How many prairie dogs would it take to make a lunch?”

Double quick, Ronnie launched over the seat with a left hook to Nick’s eye. Wow. Those boxing lessons really took.

“Nick” howled Ronnie, intent on damage

“Mom” howled Nick, intent on revenge.

“Kim” howled Don, intent on listening.

Insert new scenario (E) where the din in the back encroached on the drone in the front.

I threaten cell phones, computers and iPods. Order was restored. D’s jaw stopped convulsing. Professor Gallagher, toneless as a treadmill, resumed. A few minutes later, from the back, under his breath I heard Nick singing,” MMMmhhhh Good, MMhhh Good.”

I guess he just really, really, wanted another black eye.

Eventually we saw signs to Springfield and to Chicago. The traffic picked up. The towns got closer. The houses got closer. Then we veered off and once again were in green fields and flatlands and I thought, perhaps not too unchanged since Lincoln’s time. And D. buoyed by the civil war tapes asks the kids if they know why they were going to Springfield.

“I know! I know! I know!” Ronnie said excitedly, waving her hand “To see Homer!”

Hey. I know what you’re thinking. Too much TV, but Homer DOES live in Springfield, so there.

Our hotel was in St Louis which was an hour beyond Springfield. The kids gave up the videos and any pretense they weren’t intent on torturing each other. Sherman muscled its way through several wrong turns; Shirley stridently objected; D. yelled. I issued Scenario E warnings like a weather service. At long last, we found ourselves at the hotel.

And joys of joys, Opi was waiting to greet us and the kids piled out even before Sherman’s motor had stopped, charged the revolving front door and mobbed Opi with hugs and kisses. Quite forgotten, D. and I unloaded 6 bags, 1 suitcase, three computers, one essentials bag, and one technology bag.

Shortly thereafter, we looked for a place for dinner. We needed a restaurant, we tell the concierge, which can accommodate kids, vegetarians, all day breakfast but maybe Mexican but something with steak. The befuddled concierge finally suggested Houlihan’s restaurant as the place most likely to come anywhere near our requests. He gave directions and we set off walking.

Within minutes, we were at directional odds with each other.

“Cross over here” Opi said.

“No, you’re crazy” said D. “we need to go up and then crossover”

“Really?” I said “because I am positive the concierge said to go straight and it would be on our right hand side.”

No one listen to each other. We argued several more blocks, unyielding in our positions.

“We are going the scenic route, yeh?” challenged D.” To me he said “I don’t think there’s even a restaurant anywhere near here. There is no one on the streets”

However, after a few hard twists and turns, Opi delivered us to St. Louis Union Station Mall and, yes! A Houlihan’s restaurant. Ahh, we of little faith.

“Wow” Said D. looking around at the empty booths. “The economy must really suck here. Its 6 o’clock? There is nobody here.”

Leaving the restaurant, the girls spot a tattoo artist offering henna art. M girls? Tattoos? Need I say more? Chase chose a dragon, B a crow, Ronnie a skull and I picked a lion. Nick said he’d rather poke his eye out with a hot poker. Sensing an estrogen dominated moment, D., Opi and Nick beat a fast path back to the hotel.

“Never mind them” I said, watching their backsides disappear quickly “Girls rule. Boys drool.”

Getting a henna tattoo isn’t as easy as I thought. Its labor intensive and our artist was a perfectionist. He stopped and restarted several times. I found myself making small talk to past time. The booth across from us sold fudge. The chief fudge maker was also the chief salesman. He had gathered a crowd around him. With a large rack, he mixed the fudge while inciting the congregation to put their hands in the air, clap to a rhythm and send shout outs.

“It’s like a revivalist tent meeting" I observed “does it sell fudge?”

“It must” mumbled my tattooist. I guessed the same technique wouldn’t work for tattoos. And then he tells me he was engaged to his girlfriend. They were getting married after she finished school. He looked barely twenty and I privately hoped this was not high school she was finishing. As I watched him painstakingly map out my lion, I started getting anxious for him. How much could he make in this mall? Could he afford rent? Buy a car? Buy gas? Wait. Stop. You don’t know what you are doing.

Then he cheerfully finished my lion, charged my card and wished the girls and me a wonderful St. Louis visit.

Ahhhh. The very young, so optimistic, so carefree. Me? I’m pessimistic and old. We caught cab back to the hotel; it was way past my bedtime.

The next morning we headed back to Springfield. As we loaded up, I joked to Ronnie, “Ready to see Homer?”

She looked at me over her nose. “Mom, you do know the Simpsons are a comic strip, right?”

Well then, don’t I feel foolish?

The seating arrangements were different now that Opi was with us. He took the front seat. I wedged myself between Nick and Chase, noting sadly the spread of my thighs. I sucked in my tummy to see if that made a difference. Uh. No. Moreover, there were only four head sets, so no Pink Panther for me.

Professor Gallagher embarked on General McClellan contempt for Lincoln’s war strategies.

“Dad, you’re going to love this guy” D. enthused. I was convinced Prometheus had it easier.

Springfield itself was a bit under whelming. The main road in was lined with nondescript houses, strip malls and dentist offices. Even the sign pointing to Lincoln’s Presidential Library appeared rather dingy. It took some hunting but we found a parking garage which could accommodate Sherman’s height (8 ½ feet with his “hat”- the Thule compartment). The kids spidered out of the car. I followed more slowly, carrying four cameras, two cell phones and three water bottles.

Our museum entry was less then welcoming. A security guard wearing a gun on his hip instructed us to check our bags: No Backpacks. No water bottles. Small purse ok. Yes sir. As we left the security area I wondered where I could get a Glock. Hey Kids: Dinner. Homework. Brush teeth. Bed. Perfect.

“Link up” I said to B and Ronnie, taking both their hands as we entered the Plaza. “Absolutely no wandering off. You need an adult to be with you at all times. Got it?”

“Yessmom.” Monosyllabled. ZZzzzzz. Mom is so predictable.

We were greeted in the plaza by life sized Abe, Mary, Tad and Willie, behind them stood the White House. An absolutely must do photo op. We got pics with kids, pics without; with D., without D.; With Opi, absent Opi; and one redo because Ronnie touched Mary and the security guard interfered. After we got that out of our system, we were able to focus. The plaza is the entranced to every exhibit or gallery. After some discussion, we chose two introductory films.

The first was Ghosts of the Library. It started in a staged library with a host whose spoke to us on how things are collected and studied and what you could learn from simple tools or letters. He walked about, lifting objected, talking history. But, as he talked, ghostly figures rocked a chair, civil war soldiers appeared and disappeared, battle scenes were laid out, a quill pen wrote in the air in Lincoln’s handwriting.

How did they do that? I wondered. Were there screens? Sheer curtains? Projected light? Then I wondered about the host. He looked real enough but….hmmmm. I wasn’t the only one baffled. Chase leaned over and asked if he was a robot. While I puzzled, the host snapped his fingers and disappeared. I didn’t think even a robot could disappear like that.

“I don’t know, honey. It’s a mystery.” I finally answered.

Our second film, Lincolns Eyes, was an interpretation of Lincoln done by an artist. It was just as engaging. The artist split Lincoln’s face down the middle and interpreted every line and curve as a way of understanding Lincoln’s life and choices: Melencholy, intelligence, resolve, forgiveness and finally the sunken face of death. Like Ghosts in the Library, the film interacted with the audience: Screens snapped up and down, cannons boomed, a horse kicked. This last, the horse kicking, particularly entertained Ronnie. So much so, she re enacted her unexpected astonishment- eye popping, head spinning, body jerking- several times. Finally, I could take it no more.

“Ronnie” I said “The first time is funny; the second time it is not so funny; the third time it is downright unfunny.”

God, I hate it when I open my mouth and I hear my mother talking. Ronnie was unperturbed.

We started the pre- presidential years, called Journey One, which began in the log cabin replica and Abe reading on a fence. I learned something new. Lincoln’s mother died when he was ten and he was raised by a wonderful step mother. Other exhibits illustrated life on the river, a slavery block, Lincoln with his rumored girlfriend, Lincoln with Mary. We meander through Campaign 1860 where Tim Russert moderated the Lincoln Douglas debates. I left Nick fixated on the screen. Ahh, my little politico.

I was listening to Lincoln give his Springfield farewell speech when I sensed a commotion coming on.

“Mom” complained B, raising a gouged hand,” Look what Ronnie did”.

“You were trying to choke me” Ronnie countered.

“I wasn’t trying to choke you” gritted B, swelling up like a puff adder, “I was trying to.POP.YOUR. MELLON. HEAD!” Challenge issued. Challenge taken. B tackled. Ronnie blocked. Together, they convulsed to the floor in a Gordian knot of knee caps, knuckles and permanent teeth. Heads turned. Jeez Louise, where was that Glock when I needed it?

I waded into the fray, wedged in a knee, followed it by the tiniest bit of elbow, applying my Vulcan death grip and squeezed them into submission. I had them subdued by the time a security guard descended on me.

“Ma’am” He said “Could you keep the children from running? There are elderly people about.”

“Yes, of course” I said as contritely as I could, squeezing harder to quiet their squawking. I held my smile waiting for him to move on. He didn’t. Oh, how it sucks to be in the clearly in the wrong.

“May I suggest Lincoln’s attic as a more appropriate venue for the younger ones.” He continued. “It has coloring” he sing sang brightly, lowering himself to their eye level. Still swaying in my pincher grip, both girls suddenly become mute. In the prolonged silence, Ronnie rolled her eyes like a cow; B probed her gouge wound with her tongue. Both intermittently flapped a limb, wordlessly declaring themselves imbeciles. Ok, maybe just dimwitted. Still, I was mortified and made a hasty exit the moment I could.

“That really, really, really was….awful. That sucked! ” I sputtered, looking desperately for D. or Opi or even Chase. “We looked like idiots.” The royal ‘we’ didn’t land any punches. So I upped the rhetoric “YOU looked like idiots” They surreptitiously grinned at each other. Nothing unites faster than a common enemy. Reluctantly, I released them back into the wild.

The presidential years, Journey Two, began with a fashion show. Presumably the intent was to show the Washington fashions of the time. The creators, however, thought it clever to have Mary’s social rivals as part of the exhibit, each woman dressed in a different style, offers some snide remark about Mary looks or her hostessing skills. I thought this wholly unfair to Mary. What woman wants her enemies to have the last word? Hell, we don’t even want our friends to have the last word.

I mulled over what my frienemies would say about me as I past the Fort Sumter (a picture of the shot heard round the world). From there I entered the Whispering Gallery where you saw all the political caricatures of Lincoln, hundreds of them, mean and ugly. You know, I think I must be too thin skinned for politics. My feelings would be hurt. I’d plot revenge. I’d kill someone. I stopped short. I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen a kid in awhile. I back tracked to Fort Sumner. No kids. I found D. in Lincoln’s office. Seen the girls? Nope.

I discovered Ronnie in the Kitchen Gallery. She was trying to touch the tools which made the perimeter alarm buzz. She was (being a M) amused by this and repeated the maneuver several times. I elbowed past a group of interested observers to get to her. I saw the leg of a security guard rounding the corner. I gave her the elbow hook and exited, stage left.

“Where are B and Chase?” I ask, wrestling her hand in the hallway.

“I have No idea” she declares, disentangling herself from my grip.

”You must, I said “absolutely must hold my hand” She complied by glomming on and dropping like a pendulum. Oh boy.

Then it was back to the gallery, Ronnie in swing, to Willie’s death. I stood in front of the recreated bedroom with Mary at Willie’s bedside and Lincoln coming through the door from a party. You heard the party music tinkling in the background. It was so poignant for me. Lincoln is standing in the doorway, caught between his public life and his personal life; Mary, stroking the face of her dying child, her guests dancing away. My heart constricted. How could you bear it, Mary? I wondered. Of course she didn’t. She went mad. I decided I could live with Ronnie hanging on my arm like a monkey. In fact, I wouldn’t have it any other way, security guards and all.

We found Opi, D. and Nick in the War Room watching the Civil War in four minutes. It’s an electronic map which lit up every battle of the Civil war. It was so cool I watched it twice, vowing to listen more to Professor Gallagher. Then it was on to an exhibit of eight soldier’s stories (four from the North four from the South). Bits and pieces of their stories were sequentially displayed though out history of the war. There was one about the youngest solider on the side of the North, a drummer. He is wounded and survived to be sent, after the war, to West Point. Another was a black standard bearer, wounded three times and who insisted he returns to battle. He eventually got a Medal of Honor.

This was followed by a huge interactive wall. You could pick a picture, touch a screen and the picture’s story would appear. I touched one called Jennie Hodges, a woman masked as a man who served as a soldier. She lived as a man afterward, her secret safe until she broke her leg. The screen told me there were an estimated 400 woman who masqueraded as men to fight. I touched another photo. It was a Union soldier from Andersonville prison: a skeleton, just bones with skin and haunted eyes. Such inhumanity, such sacrifice on both sides. Not for the first time I wondered whether I had that kind of courage for my convictions.

Then I realize, again. No child is with me. Where did Ronnie go? She was here just a second ago. I irritably back track to the soldiers’ stories and found Chase reading the inscriptions. I asked her where her sisters were. She didn’t know; she didn’t care. I made her. Relatively soon we retrieved them from Mrs. Lincoln’s Attic.

Back on track, the girls and I found ourselves in the Emancipation Proclamation Gallery. It’s a corridor where, presumably you are Lincoln and everyone is yelling at you. The North is unhappy. The Abolitionists are unhappy. The south hates you. I started to appreciate how extraordinary Lincoln was, truly extraordinary, and way ahead of his time. He abhorred the war. He abhorred slavery. He knew he could never make either side happy. So, instead, he did what he believed was right. No poll taking. No advisor committee. Just Duty. Honor. Country.

I followed the corridor to the Tide Turns and Washington Celebrating, wall paintings commemorating various victories. Against the odds, Lincoln is re-elected, the North started winning battles and the Emancipation Proclamation was issued. Somewhere along the line, D. caught up to me. As we turned the corners, each display became more somber. The inevitable was going to happen. The war would end and Lincoln, this great man who single handedly turned our course of history, would die.

I found myself with an enormous lump in my throat. By the time I saw the display picturing Lincoln addressing party goers on the White House lawn with Booth skulking in the background, the lump had grown enough to make my nose itch and my eyes sting.

D. and I proceeded to the Ford Theatre. We read how Mary hugged Abe’s arm moments before the shooting. We learned how Booth timed the shot to coincide with the audience’s laughter. We read how bystanders pulled Mary off her dying husband. We heard how she asked the doctor: Is he dead? Can he recover? Most heart wrenching, she begged someone to run get Tad because Abe would always talk to him. That image of Mary, Mary who had already suffered so much loss, confronted with yet another dreadful reality, well, that’s all it took for Kim M. I started openly sniffling.

D. and I viewed the funeral trail map, listened to the speeches and read about the crowds who gathered along the track. Lastly, we filed past the full scale replication of Lincoln’s lying in state in Springfield’s Representative Hall. Everything was draped in black. The lights were dim. If the was an audio to this display I don’t recall it. I remember it being soundless. I exited from the dark hushed room into the bright rotunda light. My throat was knotted, my nose runny, my eyes puffy and red. And then, I realize I’d quite lost the kids.

Next up was Lincoln’s law office. Somewhat of a letdown after the terrific presentation the Museum gave. The guide spent an inordinate amount of time talking about the history of the building (three stories, Greek Revivalist structure, was a goods store, then wasn’t, then was). Finally we saw where he worked, where his children famously misbehaved (good- he’s approve of B and Ronnie) and where he told his law partner not to take his name off the plaque because he’d be back after being president. What was Lincoln thinking? Hold that thought. I have to go be president. I’ll be back in a jiffy.

Then we walked maybe six blocks to Lincoln’s home where a ranger gave a un air- conditioned tour. We found out Lincoln bought his house for 1500 dollars in 1850. They had a horse hair sofa. They had raised the roof for more room. The family room had kinescope (pictures slide that is three D). We found out their beds were custom made, their eldest son, Robert, was already off to law school, and they had maids who came and worked and lived with them. That’s what the guide knew. She didn’t know: how much Lincoln made the year he bought the house, whether he owned a German newspaper and whether the wallpaper border was the original or added later.

“I’m sorry” she said “I’ve just come off of maternity leave. I’ve forgotten a few things. I’ll have to brush up” It’s got to be her first child, I thought, or she’d know damage from Mommy Brain is permanent.

Our last sightseeing was Lincoln’s tomb in Oak Ridge Cemetery. I was glad we ended the day there. It was fitting, having followed his life, to end at his grave. The cemetery was serene. It was near closing and very few people were about. Huge oak trees cast longer shadows across soft green grass. The tomb itself was a huge granite structure, decorated with four military sculptures (Naval, Calvary, Artillery and Infantry). Each sculpture depicted scenes from the civil war. An obelisk topped its base.

In the rotunda, a ranger gave a small talk about the tomb, its history, the many bronze statues which line the walk to the vault, and who was buried there (Lincoln, Mary, Edward, Willie and Tad) Till that moment, I hadn’t really thought about this being a family tomb. Here, even in death, he was divided: a president, a father and a husband.

A visitor said she noticed that in each Lincoln’s statue, his foot appeared worn or rubbed. Did the artists all do that on purpose?

“No” said the ranger, “Even though no one is suppose to touch the statues, everyone rubs Lincoln’s boot, he pointed to the rotunda statue “except this one because I’m standing here”

Who would want to rub a shoe, I thought. But as we make the circle heading towards the tomb chamber I found my hand compulsively touching each boot.

“Mom” Chided B. “You’re not supposed to touch. Look with your eyes.”

“Opi did it” I countered.

When we got to the burial chamber, the kids were appropriately hushed. There were wreaths laid by the grave marker, apparently Lincoln is buried underneath the ground because of an attempt to steal his body. I touched family members plaque wondered why Robert wasn’t buried with the rest of his family.

I snapped a few picture of the statues. We walked back to Sherman, and the kids spidered back in.

“You know” Opi said” what we forgot to factor in today?”

“What” I said.

“A nap” he yawned.

In the car, General McClellan laid siege to Yorktown for a month.

I hear ya, Opi.

Two pop guns, one shirt (Lincoln singing along to an iPod), two presidential trivia books (#3, #4) one refrigerator magnet, one doll (named Mary Todd) and one family portrait with Lincoln.