The Cupola

image borrowed from bing

The Cupola

“Mankind, when left to themselves, are not

fit for their own government.”--George Washington

I left D.C. at 6:30 a.m. on an already hot July morning,

driving fast over the Memorial Bridge, hell bent South

the 16 miles to Mt. Vernon, Virginia; finally taking time

to check out George’s crib.

The estate is vast, almost a colonial village in itself.

The Mansion stands at the north end, like a great

white patriarchal crown, with its red roof shining.

Strolling around the large circular drive I passed

a plaque that read First in War--First in Peace. 

I was determined to get my 17 bucks worth. Entering

the front door, I slid past the first floor guard and scoped

out the Central Passage, being irritated by the large

plastic shields that blocked access to most of the rooms,

all smelling strongly of cleansing supplies, old fabric,

shellac & dust.

Climbing a tall staircase I found the second floor

to be charming, but rather austere. This is where

Martha had all the plethora of guest rooms. 

We all could peek into the Lafayette bedroom; 

big deal.

At the back side I noticed there was an ornate circular

staircase that wound itself like a sweetly carved serpent

up to the third floor, to the Cupola, proudly wearing

its Dove of Peace weather vane. It was posted as

CLOSED--except for two days during the Christmas season.

I sat on a hard bench staring at the serpentine seductress 

for a hour, then suddenly noticing a rare moment when

guests and guides were absent. Without hesitation

I crawled over the low gate and quickly made my way

up to the forbidden third floor. 

I burst victoriously into a huge round room that was

completely surrounded by large paned leaded glass

windows, with a 360 degree view of the compound.

I was quite surprised to find someone else there,

a tall man seated at a desk with his wide back to me,

dressed appropriately in a dark 16th century costume,

his long hair tied back, and powdered, not favoring a wig.

He stood up and turned around--

Christ, it was old George himself.

“What are you, some kind of Disney hologram?”

“No,” he said, flashing his perfectly white elephant ivory

dentures, “I own the place. Sit down, brave sir. Let’s have

a chat. I don’t get many visitors up here.”

My amazed expression must have amused him.

“Let me answer some of your obvious questions. I am 6’ 2”,

quite tall for my time, and yes, I know Lincoln was 6’4”.

No, I never had a pair of wooden teeth. In my day dentists

carved dentures out of ivory, but they never really fit properly

and they gave me constant pain, and yes, I did use

laudanum regularly to manage the discomfort.”

“What do you think of our gun control issues?” I stammered.

“Firearms for all Americans are essential, for without them

their liberty is barren & toothless. Did you know that I only

had one real tooth left when I became President?”

“Did you really free all of your slaves in your will?”

“Yes, and I really hoped that one day there would be a plan adopted

for the abolition of slavery.”

“How do you think we are really doing with our Civil Rights issues?”

“There are important strides that have been taken, but racism

is a rabid rotting fungus, and it is difficult to completely eradicate;

but I will say that Obama as a twice-elected President brightens

every one of my dark days.”

“So, how are we doing so far?”

“Remember government is not reason, it is not eloquent, 

it is a force like fire--a dangerous servant and a

fearful master.”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” came a voice behind me.

I turned to face a security guard wearing a three corned hat.

“Ah, nobody really, I was just practicing my Civics speech.”

I was escorted roughly from the Mansion, and driven in

a red-white-& blue golf cart to my vehicle. I was informed

that my name would now appear on a NOT ABLE TO VISIT

list, and that I would not be welcome for a return visit--

but I still am very curious as to what the slave quarters

looked like. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets-Poetics

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