An ode to George Washington

A few centuries ago when good Old George Washington was having quality wigs made in the likeness of good old Cornwallis, he decided to lay down a city wit the help of L'Enfant on the banks of the Potomac. Many of the great cities lie on the banks of rivers and Washington no doubt sought to emulate those magnificent European cities of yore. And for that simple fact, the notion should be applauded. Why not put down the nation's deepest roots near the place where the good old Pilgrims and Quakers and the like first made landfall.

Here's why not. Washington DC is a swamp George Washington, is what I would have told him, perhaps via a dueling glove. And if we put a city down here it's going to be infernally muggy during the summers. Of course Washington could counter with the winter spent in Valley Forge and a reprimand that would amount to, "buck up soldier." Except, one would then be forced to remind the dear fellow of the vast multitudes of mosquitoes that dwell in swamps.

Swarms and hoards, in such numbers that they overwhelm man in a way that the great predators bears and mountain lions were never able to do. By sheer force of numbers they are the rulers of the earth, and in a place like DC during the summer, never is that ruling class made more evident as my legs catch fire after only a short five minute span of sweeping sticks. Nay dear George, let's put the capitol someplace distant from all these swarms of tics and mosquitoes, from the infernal racket of those bird sized cicadas. Head west dear George as the pilgrims of yore, let us put all those bites and malarial dreams in the rear view. Why then, dear friend, I'd not be toiling away in my yard, shirtless to avoid giving them the pleasure, whilst being bitten fifteen times each ten minutes.

Instead, Dear George, I'd be living out West, watching the slow break of the ocean on empty beaches. We wouldn't allow them to be overrun by condos out there George. Perhaps, perhaps we'd have tucked the capitol away in a fertile valley, encircled in summer by golden grass on rolling hills dotted by live oaks. Couldn't you just see the two of us out there my friend? Sure we wouldn't have the chance to cut down cherry trees, but who the hell cares? Their beauty lasts but a fortnight, withered and gone, like the women of southern Italy.

And I know the wigs would be made of an inferior quality. But we could opine together over the loss of craftsmanship, Dear George, the queer failure of each successive generation to live up to the last. We could do it over a tankard of ale while the ships landed on that wild coast out West, tamed by Cortes and the Spanish five hundred years ago. And after a round of three we'd forget the wigs all together and make merry with that endless sunlight, not colorless and cruel as Herman would have us believe. Neigh, it is life, we might say, tossing together our glasses and slapping the wenches on their, I jest, Dear George, I jest. Is that not acceptable between friends?

And if you insist on making the capitol in this land of peat and low lying land. Why, I don't think it would be too much to ask that on a Saturday, one of those distended mornings, where the heat hangs about you like a quilt, and you have to push through the day and clouds of mosquitoes, all eager to show you the power of their lips, that you, Dear George, should make like good Old Lazarus and emerge from your silty grave to lend a hand with the mower. Why, my wife could even make us fresh squeezed lemonade. I'd supervise from inside, my friend, I've discovered, like you, that my talents are best suited for overseeing, and your bleached bones besides, you have to admit, would make poor fair for the most plentiful denizens of this wretched capital.

I promise you though, if all goes well with the lawn, we'll spend the afternoon making ships to put in glass bottles in the dark. I'll strip off my skin, my bites, my weakness, we'll sit next to one another wearing only the faint outlines of what's left behind between lives.