photo by Rich Grady

America’s Rotunda

by Rich Grady

The roads and sidewalks were still covered in a mush of snow and ice. The snow was not the pure white blanket of a day ago, but a dirty mix of sand, salt and slush. I decided to walk the two or three miles to the US Capitol from where I was staying, drawn by the lure of history and a life well-lived. Jimmy Carter was lying-in-state in the Capitol’s Rotunda.

The footing was slippery, but the premise was solid. The man and I were born on the same day, but in different years. He was younger than my father would have been, but they were of the same generation and both served in the US Navy. One was from Plains, Georgia and the other was from Dorchester, Massachusetts.

My father was a quiet man, and his sense of patriotism was genuinely deep and tempered in the flames of WWII. He didn’t wrap himself in the flag and had our Irish ancestry as a reminder that a red, white, and blue flag had not always stood for freedom for our people – but in the US, it did. As kids, my three brothers and I learned by observation, and we all saw how our humble, quiet old man stood tall as the Stars & Stripes approached in a parade, took his hat off with his right hand, and put it over his heart. He wasn’t an overly religious man, but he was kind and believed in the Golden Rule. He was raised Catholic, and raised us all the same way, but not in a draconian manner. He didn’t go to Church every week, but he prayed every day, and we saw him bless himself whenever we drove by a Church. He believed in a higher spirit. We all wanted to be like him.

When Jimmy Carter died, I thought of my dad. We both voted for the man when he ran in 1976, although we didn’t discuss it; and I doubt that it mattered to my father that Carter was a fan of the Allman Brothers Band, but that resonated with the youthful me. That was a big year in our nation’s history – the Bicentennial of the Declaration of Independence. It’s hard to believe that we have almost reached the Semiquincentennial – halfway to 500. I felt compelled to rally and make it to the US Capitol to see our 39th President lying-in-state.

During the walk over, I was surprisingly alone. I expected to see more people going in the same direction. Perhaps it was because it was a cold wintry night with a windchill in the teens, or perhaps because most were taking public transit or driving; or perhaps because I started relatively far away and my path was not linear nor predictable – just heading in the right general direction.

I came to an intersection where I knew I should go left, and saw a middle-aged couple walking in the direction that I was going. I fell in behind them at a respectful distance. They took turns looking over their shoulder to check me out, and quickened their pace. I kept up with them, maintaining separation. They stopped at an intersection and the gap closed between us.

Sensing their tenseness, I volunteered that I was not following them, just heading to the Capitol. I could almost hear a sigh of relief, and the woman said, “We are, too,” and we began to walk together. Soon, a young man came up to us and asked if we were going to the Capitol, and our formation grew. We started to see people walking ahead of us, and behind as well. I began to feel part of a loosely-formed procession, parading along – not with the tight precision of the caisson that earlier in the day brought former President Jimmy Carter to the Capitol, but with the same resolve and sense of purpose.

As we got closer to the Capitol, other people joined the march from different directions. There was no single rallying point to start from, and no single path to get there, and no one telling us to go. We made up our own minds and we followed our own paths.

As we got closer to the Capitol, law enforcement officers in full regalia, some wearing balaclavas as a buffer to the biting winds, were directing people to go around to the back side of the sprawling building, to where the line began. My cluster of pilgrims arrived shortly before 7 pm, when the doors were scheduled to be open. The line was a long, tight zig-zag along fencing and quite a way from the actual entrance. People were patiently waiting and there was a murmur of numerous conversations. The young man standing next to me grew up in Annapolis and now lives in DC near the National Cathedral. His wife stayed home, but he wasn’t going to miss it. Talking to him helped pass the time and reinforced a feeling that this was an historic and rare event. Whatever led us there, we seemed to be feeling similar sentiments and sharing a common purpose – to pay respects to a man of honor, humility, and humanity.

So many people of all shapes, sizes, and shades, peacefully and respectfully standing in the cold, patiently making their way into the Capitol’s Emancipation Hall entrance where we went through metal detectors before lining up again to await a turn to go up into the Rotunda. Inside the hall, armed law enforcement became less evident, and cheery ushers became prevalent. They were counting us and demarcating groups for making the ascent into the Rotunda.

The Rotunda is very beautiful, with a domed ceiling, historic paintings, and sculptures. Jimmy Carter’s flag-draped casket was in the center, resting on the catafalque that held Abraham Lincoln’s in 1865. The military honor guard stood perfectly still and tall at solemn attention.

Silence reigned over the mourning citizens, who needed no royal assent to be there. I looked at the flag-draped coffin and shed a silent tear as I put my right hand over my heart. The power of quiet was strong, and I blessed myself as if I was in Church – knowing that the man at rest was just a man, but a truly great man. I then signed the condolences book and walked back out into the bitter cold night with a warm glow of faith in the quiet strength of caring Americans.

President Carter visitation line at US Capitol. By Rich Grady

Frederick Douglass statue inside US Capitol. Photo by Rich Grady.