Yankee Doodle

Herewith, the latest selection from dusted-off published poetry and short fiction, circa 1970s vintage and beyond....

One thing I've noticed already about downtown Washington is the omnipresence of the Washington monument. Oppressive, the needle strikes me again as I head west on Constitution Avenue crossing the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge.

Coming up on the Iwo Jima shrine on the Arlington side of the Potomac I squint trying to pick out which of the Marines raising the flags is the American Indian. All I can remember is that he died derelict, choked to death on his gorge; alcoholic.

Wall-to-wall traffic down Washington Boulevard at the height of the early-morning rush hour, I head south on 95 towards Fredericksburg, searching my memory.

Chancellorsville, Spotsylvania Courthouse, Appomattox, (Burnsides' Slaughter-pen, Joe Hooker - Stonewall Jackson mistakenly shot by his own men at dusk (Lee's right hand gone). Crazybugger Americans. And I think of the many thousands lying dead here, not much more than a century past.

Nine-thirty and I'm just cruising through Georgian red-bricked Fredericksburg and turn onto 17 south, then head toward Tidewater country. What a pain in the arse the fifty-five mile speed limit is. Down to two lanes, traffic slacks right off and I speed up to arrive on time.

The trees are just turning here and obviously will never match the colours of the Gatineau Hills at home. But the sycamores, large and white, are impressive and very, very, English.

I pull in to gas up at Tappahannock on the Rappahannock River and switching off the ignition the car is flooded with a week-day Revivalist broadcast blaring out Jesus Saves! and a voice asks 'fill er up sir?'.

Coming up over a rise I pull over a few minutes later and read 'General Andrew Jackson's headquarters during the War of 1812'. A fine house down a long fenced lane looks back as I take off.

"Good morning", I smile very businesslike at the balding man placing a painting in a showcase display. "Is Mr. Francis in? He's expecting me."

"You must be Mr. Miller from Canada? This way, please." Past the showrooms crammed with familiar paintings, up a few stairs; I smell a good cigar.

"Good morning, Mr. Francis". And we shake hands across the cluttered desk, measuring one another.

"How 'bout coffee, Mr. Miller?" he asks, fondling an English market selection cigar, chewing another. "Have a nice drive?"

"Yes. Lovely country, the Tidewater area. I've always been interested in American history and this part of the country reeks with it. Living in the national capital area of Canada, on the Ottawa River, merely reeks from the pulp mills."

We talk business. He is wary, knowing that the less information he gives me, the less likely he'll be to suffer economically in his Canadian operations. As the morning progresses I realize that I like this wily, cigar-smoking entrepreneur sitting casually across from me in this tidewater-backwater controlling a schlock-art empire.

"I guess you were wondering about the portrait of the Nixons behind me? It's one of two I commissioned and I sent one to the White House. Let me show you the letter of thanks the president sent me", he beamed.

As I'm reading, I hear him say: "What a shame...that man was sadly wronged".

"I guess you're wondering why I chose to run this business from here - which you mentioned seems out-of-the-way. Well, I enjoy cruising and have an eighteenth-Century house right on the Bay. I thought we could have lunch out at the club and go for a short cruise. I have this thirty-five-foot cruiser", he proudly hands me a colour photo.

"Excuse me, Mr. Francis", his secretary interrupts. "It's Joan. Will you take the call?" He apologizes, reaches for the telephone and at the same time holds up a small painted plaque of a cigar-smoking frog, for my obvious amusement, winking at me.

Hanging up, he says "that was Joan Coles. She painted that for me. You can see he's sitting on a pile of ashes. She says it reminds her of me; always puffing away, sitting on my ashes. She's just about the most versatile artist I have working for me. You probably noticed those Tidewater landscapes with the ducks and these cute little frog numbers she makes; they're very popular for children's bedrooms."

I take my leave, passing up the invitation. It's one-thirty. I point the car north and pull in behind a green Ford, a mile out of town. A large man in a knitted suit with too-short trousers and cowboy boots greets me on the boulevard. "Mr. Miller? I'm agent Carl Sands." We sit in my car and talk. I ask if we can finish over a drink - I'll buy. We drive through the main intersection, up and down, and there's nowhere to go. We pull into the school driveway. "Better not park here", he says. "It's against state law." I pull up behind his car again. He tells me to keep in touch, and thanks.

It's getting on, I have a long way to go, but he wants to pass the time of day. We part at last and I go like hell. The local yokels I speed past on this two-lane highway, glare.

Across the Potomac heading north on the Maryland Expressway I reach into my vest pocket for my Budget Rent-a-Car contract wondering how many miles I've done since coming to Washington. I'm incredulous. Eight hundred and fifty. I curse, knowing the mileage recorded on the contract is incorrect and there's no way I'm going to pay $.16 a mile for that mileage; realizing as well I'm going to have an unpleasant scene when I return the damn thing. God, what an ass not to have checked before. As if losing my best camera this trip wasn't enough.

Bumper-to-bumper on the Capital Beltway heading back to Arlington. I can't understand why traffic should be so heavy, so congested late in the day - and wonder where they're all going. I now know Montreal has been replaced by Washington as the lousiest city I've ever driven in, or around.

Washington at night. White, Georgian, cold, and there's that needle.

I make it back with just one stop. A painter, sitting on a concrete hump in a small church parking lot in overalls, hair and face covered in white tells me in surprise, putting down his coffee, how to get across the Freeway without ending up in Richmond.

I park under the hotel tower, and it's grubby, like all underground parking lots. I have just enough time to shower, change and meet someone who's waiting. I wonder what the hell I'm doing here.

c. 1978 Rita Rosenfeld