Chapt Nineteen- A Woman's Touch- A Father's Influence

Chapter 19

A Woman's Touch-
A Father's Influence

Lou Henry Hoover

“ // ”

“Take heed that you do not do your charitable deeds before men, to be seen by them. Otherwise, you have no reward from your father in heaven.”

                                                                                                 Jesus

It is a warm, steamy morning in the Blue Ridge Mountains, as two women ride horses and jabber in the countryside. One, a stately white-haired woman in khakis and a straw hat, and another smartly dressed younger woman, in high boots and jodhpurs. She rides with the self assurance of a movie star, but much more dignified. The young rider is Anne Lindbergh, the quiet wife of the American hero, trans-Atlantic flyer, Charles Lindbergh Jr. They laugh and part at the fork in the trail, as Mrs. Lindbergh, a little saddle sore, heads back to Camp Rapidan, the Hoover's mountain getaway, and Mrs. Hoover, the first lady of the United States, turns and clambers down a hillside to a dew-softened mountain road.

Lou enjoys the descent, and rides comfortably astride her horse “western” style, just as she did as a girl. Bits of evergreen cling to her close-fitting hairdo, tattletales of her using this favorite shortcut in the woods. Her mount, a shining, muscled bay, hesitates for a moment, off balance from the descent, and waits for his directions. The rider gently reins him to the right, no need for spurs, and the faithful horse shakes its mane and begins to trot down the lane, he knows now where they are going. Lou now carries her old straw hat, knocked off while fighting through the brush, as she slows her anxious horse to a walk more kind to her aging body. She is on a tiny errand of mercy.

A logging truck meets her and the driver waves, as the locals know well who she is. They are all smiles. A gentle honk and a combination of squeaking and leaking muffler puffs bid her a good day as the antique truck disappears in its own smoke. It is actually a great improvement over ox-drawn wagons, the mode of transportation common just a couple of years before. Before the Hoovers came. Everything seemed to change in a couple of years, when the President and his wife came to the valley.

President and first lady Hoover had decided to create a getaway in the mountains, but one accessible from Washington within a few hours. They came to this beautiful, magical part of the world, bought some property, built a handsome cabin of logs. Mr Hoover was able to fall back into his childhood, grab a fishing pole and put the world out of his mind. One day a boy saw him fishing and recognized his new neighbor, and when his mother heard about it she sent him back. “He can't catch no fish there... go back and give 'im that fat possum papa killed last night!” It was all she had to give, and she gave it with cheer to welcome their new neighbor. Mr. Hoover took the critter in the spirit in which it was given.

In the country, everybody is your neighbor. This gift began a waterfall of reciprocity that could not have been predicted. One thing led to another, and at some point the Hoovers, highly educated and proud “modernists,” discovered that the children, like the boy with the fat possum, had no school. They were all illiterate. Mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters. Many could not write their name. They could not read a newspaper, could barely use a Montgomery Ward catalog, except in the outhouse. Something had to be done.

The Hoovers immediately committed to a plan of action. Mrs. Hoover drew up some plans for a school building herself. With the weight of the world on their shoulders, which the folks in the valley were fairly oblivious of, the Hoovers saw a need in their chosen sphere, built a school, furnished it, and arranged for the state of Virginia to pay for a teacher, and then they picked a suitable teacher. And that was no easy task.

Known as the Dark Hollow schoolhouse, the building would serve as a community center as well, and the people in the valley would begin to join the Twentieth century. The day it opened, the Hoovers refused a showy grand opening or dedication ceremony, and discouraged reporters from distracting the children during school time. This was serious business. And the people of the valley understood that. So they opened the doors one day and the mountain children, and even some of their parents, began to learn how to read and write. And through all of that, relationships were formed, and grew, and Mrs. Hoover became quite fond of the people surrounding her mountain getaway.

In many ways, they had more in common with her than any of the people in Washington. They were unpretentious, practical, and wonderfully incorporated into the land. They did not know or care that they were considered “poor” by the outside world. The “Depression” was something going on somewhere else, where people had no hope.

Lou reins her horse up to a hitching post at the school. Another horse, one she authorized and purchased, is already tied to the post. It is the school bus. She dismounts and leans against the saddle horn, trying to conceal the painful stretching necessary to establish her balance now that she is on the ground. She hears someone holler and looks over the saddle at the little school, perhaps her proudest creation. She smiles and exposes the generous gap between her two front teeth, as one of the little schoolgirls runs to her and hugs her around the waist.

“Miz Hoovah! Yer jest in time! We are goin' ta recess! You can play jumprope with us!” A toothless smile matches hers, and open, innocent eyes cross a canyon between cultures.

“Well... I suppose... Sounds like fun!” Lou knows that she has not jumped a rope in thirty years. “Maybe you will let me hold the rope!”

“Is that your horse?” The child instinctively levers for information, as mountain people do, being careful not to get too personal.

“Yes! Isn't he beautiful?”

“Can I ride him?” The child asks, almost rhetorically.

“Maybe someday, but right now we have to get back to school... did your teacher send you out here?” Lou asks with motherly concern, as she opens her saddlebag. She pulls out a bottle of liniment.

“Who is that for?” The sweet little spy is becoming a bit of nuisance, but Lou is glad to entertain her.

“A friend.” She states mysteriously, as she puts the liniment in her shoulder bag which hangs on the saddle horn, and lifts the bag and smoothly slides it down her arm to her shoulder.

“What's your name little one?”

“Liza...” Liza realizes as she says her name that she has just broken a rule. “I'm not supposed to ever tell outsiders my name...” Maybe Mrs. Hoover was different.

Lou chuckles impishly. “Come on, let's go see what's going on...”

The two stroll up to the glistening, freshly painted school doors, left open to allow the musk of unbathed children to escape and for fresh air to rush in... and hopefully a little mountain breeze to enter. Loud footsteps break the serenity of the moment and children of all ages begin to pile out like disturbed ants. A storm cloud of ten, then twenty children, all grades, suddenly begin to divide and swirl like spawned tornadoes, and chaos fills the schoolyard. Little Liza hypnotically melts into the vortex of savagery.

Lou is looking for the brave little teacher, who naively agreed to the meager salary and the car the state promised to her to come perform the worst job in the state of Virginia, which also included providing services as a social worker to the adults... in her spare time. She has had her issues, but has already grown attached to the children, and the status of being hand-picked by the first lady for this assignment.

Not seeing her inside, or in the front, the first lady walks around the school building to the back, which seems more private because its proximity to a stand of trees, and there she finds Christine Vest, her favorite angel in the flesh. Christine is standing patiently over a fourth grader, a crying boy who cannot stop sobbing. Lou is immediately engaged. “Do we have a hurt? Or have we done something naughty?”

“Hello Mrs. Hoover. How are you?” Christine barely breaks her focus from the boy. She is waiting for two words. She will wait all day.

“I saw that you were having recess a bit early today...” Lou offers casually, trying to break the ice. But silence prevails. Except for a few sobs every once in a while. Meanwhile the roar from the front of the school is getting greater. The youngster has found strength in having an audience. Especially Mrs. Hoover. Now time is on his side. Teachers have more important things to do, and this one even more so. Christine Vest is taming tigers with a wet noodle.

“I have an idea, Miss Vest, why don't I visit with this young man a little bit, and free you up?” Lou has that gift of timing and wisdom. Miss Vest is glad to make the trade.

“Thank you Mrs. Hoover. And Jacob, you should thank her too.” She finally looks at Lou eye to eye, woman to woman, with exasperation. “He called me a sow and I heard it. I told him that where I come from, we call females ladies, and from now on he would treat me as such, and call me by my name. That's all.” She left with her voice breaking. Lou hides her amusement and smiles with understanding.

Soon the noise in the front quiets, and Lou lets the wind hissing through the forest envelop the moment. They stand quietly, awkwardly, for several minutes. The teacher may have been too busy to complete this session, but Lou has all day, if necessary. Any child in trouble was her business, and her pleasure.

“Jacob?”

“Maaam?”

“Do you know what your name means?”

“No'am”

“Jacob was a twin, and when he was born, his twin came out before him, but Jacob even then, was holding on to his brother's heel! And later Jacob got his brother's birthright... So he was named “Supplanter,” that's what Jacob means... He was feisty just like you, but he was always going too far. He even wrestled with angels! Have you heard of Jacob, in the Bible? It is where your name comes from.”

Silence.

“But you must never think of yourself that way, we all go too far sometimes...” Lou lets the words sink in, watching his reaction. When he blinks she dives in again.

“You might think that God was mad at Jacob, for being such a stinker, but you know what he did? He saw strength and toughness in Jacob, and he made him the father of the Hebrews!

Jacob does not know what a Hebrew is,  but takes note of this. His eyes begin to look around, now stealing glances at her. “He did, God also changed his name to...” Lou waits for Jacob to look up. “Israel! Jacob was Israel, the father of THE TWELVE TRIBES OF ISRAEL!”

Jacob fights back a smile, he knows the city lady is trying to be nice to him, even though he knows he does not deserve it. Grace, undeserved mercy, feels good to young and old.

“But Jacob, you don't have to change your name to become a better person. I love your name. It starts by being respectful of others, no matter who they are...”

“Yes mam.”

“Do you like knowing about your name? Hearing me tell you about it?”

Jacob does, but knows that he is at a critical threshold. If he can just not say anything else bad he might get out of this. Silence is the best policy. He nods, ready to bolt.

“Well I think you understand then, that Miss Vest feels the same way. Do you think you can call her by her proper name from now on?”

Suddenly Jacob feels that somehow he is losing out on this lopsided stand-off. Miz Hoover has twisted his wonderful name into a reminder to be respectful of his teacher... the sow.

Every time he hears his name, he will think about this day, his hurtful words, and being counseled by this city lady. And Miz Vest... she sure hates being called a sow.

Papa calls Mama that all the time. She doesn't seem to mind.

Sows give us piglets, and takes mighty good care of them, and defends them against wolves and timber rattlers. Don't know what the fuss is all about... He could call her a lot worse!

“Will you address Miss Vest by her appropriate name, for me?” Lou takes one more crack at Jacob before the session goes into overtime.

“Yes mam.”

Lou smiles. She is getting jaded inside.

“And mam, I know what your name means.” the boy grins sweetly. “We seen the Hoover vac'm cleaner in the outhouse book. Mama wants ta git one if we ever git lectricity!”

“Uh huh...”

We figured that's why they made yer huzbun prezident!”

“Lets go find the others...”

Jacob races out like his fanny is on fire, as a local gentleman walks up.

“Mr. Weakley!” Lou changes her expression from authoritarian to friendly neighbor, in a flash. “I'm so glad to run into you...”

“You havin' trouble with him, Mizz Hoover?” He reaches out to shake her hand, and winces, forgetting the sharp pain in his shoulder every time he raises his arm. Weakley is a middle-aged man older than the sum of his parts. His hair and posture are gone, his spirit is that of a tired man waiting for death to bring some relief. But he can still whip a kid, if he needs it. Might do them both good.

“Oh NOOO, Mr Weakley, it's all fine. But I do want to give you something.”

Lou marches triumphantly back to her bag, lying where she left it when she met up with Miss Vest and Jacob. She can't believe that the conversation had traveled thirty feet, as Jacob crept away like a snail- and she had stayed with him.

“Here! The last time I saw you, you were suffering so from that darned rheumatism, I want you to try this... its Mr. Hoover's favorite.” She hands him the bottle of liniment.

Mr. Weakley is embarrassed. He cannot take a gift like this from a woman.

“Oh Mam, no, I'm fine, there's no need.”

“You take it, I insist, and in the spring I will trade you for some mustard greens.” She stuffs it into his chest firmly, and turns away so he has to catch it. The only thing worse than charity was waste.

“It'll have to be turnips...”

Before he can thank her, she is up to the front, and saying her goodbyes to the children, who are reluctantly filing in the school doors, even more dirty and sweaty, after a long half-hour of hard play. Miss Vest stands at the door, counting heads, waiting for a few stragglers. Lou strolls slowly to her horse, and says as she walks...

“You are a godsend Miss Vest. The light in the darkness! If you need anything, you send a message... we will be here just a few more days.” Lou pulls up and into the saddle like a Montana Cowboy. “And you know how to get through to me in Washington.”

Miss Vest smiles. She is wrestling with little savages in the veritable Heart of Darkness, hand-picked for the job by the first lady, so deep in the woods that cars cannot reach her, her parents or friends cannot even visit her. Probably nobody but Mrs. Hoover could have convinced her to try... because a woman had to do it, only a woman would understand the needs of a whole community, “Only a woman had the strength to face such odds.” Or at least that was what she said.

And looking at her ride away, so proud and satisfied about the President's Mountain School, she halfway believed it.

                                                                      “//”

“My father always said he enjoyed going camping with me- and I suppose it was because I was never a complainer... I loved the chores of gathering wood, building a campfire, roasting freshly caught trout. We both loved the sweet quiet of nothing but sky and forest. Maybe a rippling brook.

It was a get-way for him. But it was a pilgrimage for me.

My sister Jean never cared much for it, she was a homebody. But I loved riding the forest trails, sleeping on the side of a mountain. Sometimes we would just sit quietly and watch a storm blow in, or a sunset until the stars came out, then we would watch them sweep across the heavens until we fell asleep. When it was cold he would wrap his blanket over both of us, and we melted into the night. Sometimes the magnificence of it all kept me awake!

“Isn't that beautiful? It was you know... People look at me funny when I talk like that. So many people do not relate to Nature now... or are distrusting, they think it sounds inappropriate. I never thought about it. It was natural. Beautiful. My father would never, never have done anything but protect me- Teach me. We were great pals. Soulmates.

“And I probably learned more from those camping trips than any other influence in my life. Out there- in God's wilderness, there was a certain equity among us. My voice would echo down the canyon as loud as Papa's. My trout were always welcome additions to the ones he caught. Papa treated me like a little grown up. I had to saddle my own horse. Scale my own fish. Sometimes his! I was an important part of the team... and sometimes our survival was dependent on my competency. That kind of responsibility is good for a young person.

Those trips gave me a confidence equal to any mountain man, any man or woman anywhere. It made me unafraid; of danger, of embarrassment, or the unknown. My sex had nothing to do with my potential. Therefore, for the rest of my life, I was never so concerned about my gender, I was never one to recount past abuses to women, or fear failure because I was one. It never gave me any concern that women had been supposedly downtrodden, disenfranchised. Those conditions only challenged me to fight it with all the confidence my father, with Nature's help, had instilled in me.

“Every little girl should have such a father... one who gives them wings, and never clips them. I did and I know it set me on my life's path, which has, in spite of all our obstacles has been quite wonderful.

“Maybe that's what is wrong with our society, or at least one of the things, is we have become so cynical, distrustful, protective, that we cheat ourselves out of beautiful things, like camping with your daddy. Sharing those life-inspiring things. I cannot imagine who I would be without those glorious trips in the mountains. Girls are often cheated these days because of fearful mothers... but I was lucky in a way for my mother's misfortune, she was asthmatic and was glad for me to go. We had come to California because of her breathing problems, but she could not handle the thin mountain air. Still, she knew it was good for me. And she trusted my father.

“Trust, genuine trust shaped their marriage, and then that trust created an environment where I could find, better than most young girls, what I really loved. What I wanted to do with my life.

And even more importantly, her trust taught me to be able to trust my man someday. Love begets love. Trust begets trust. God is the giver of both, but we see them first as demonstrated by our own parents. Godliness and the fruit of it produce infinite blessings to generations.

Sadly, my father was a prisoner of sorts, behind the steel bars... of his bank... and boy how he loved getting out into the wilds and hunting and fishing... and probably the most important thing I learned from him- was to never let myself get trapped into a life that was not of my choosing- as he had done. He would have rather been a trapper I think, if Mama could have stood it. But she was a town lady... He gave up his first love to gain her... and God gave him me, so he could get some of himself back.

He had wanted a boy so bad, that he just did everything with me, as if I was.

“So I had this wonderful childhood, then got an excellent education at Stamford, and then married the pick of the litter. Then we were able to travel abroad, because of his job, and experience so many things. And we did well. Bert is a genius, and a good man. A winning combination. God really blessed me there. I just thought he was very princely and handsome. And he was! Seriously, when we met, we were more like brother and sister... that kind of competitiveness... picking at each other. He was older and nearly graduated, and I was thrilled to spar with him. Had no idea that he was in love with me.

“I'll never forget the time he described his family, his faith to me. It was so dear. He was so noble, just a marshmallow really, yet so deep in his thoughts. He was an orphan you know, and he wanted us to have the traditional family he never had. But it was his unfortunate background that made him so wise and compassionate, and so durable.

“When we moved into the White House, he put me in charge of almost everything. Scheduling. Decorating. Invitations, guest lists... who should be put in the same room with whom... He totally trusted me. He rarely changed anything. I was not so politically astute, so I'm sure sometimes he wished he could have.

“Living in the White House was a great adventure, and the hardest thing a woman might ever try to do. I already had a staff, but it had to grow... could have done with a few less cooks I suppose... but there were never enough servers, or groundskeepers. Or letter writers! People had no idea about the gardens, the statuary... all of those windows...

“My favorite task was bringing history back into the grand old house. You can do that best with appropriate period furnishings. We did quite a bit of research, just to figure out what we needed, and then we had to find it, or make it. And we did. Nobody but Lucy Hayes fifty years before had ever done so much to deck out the place as it should be, with period furniture, appropriate colors and fabrics. We worked very hard to re-establish the grandeur and elegance and the history of the Colonial era.

“Grace Coolidge had tried, and even got funding, and then her husband threw water on the whole affair... sometimes Mr Coolidge could be such a... stinker. That may have been one of the most important differences between us... Bert could never, would never have said anything to block me if he knew I was committed. He respected me. And he agreed that the White House was more than a big white house, it was our national symbol.

“America was a young country, but not without a worthy heritage, and our people did not fully understand the importance of our legacy, the importance of preserving our traditions. We felt that it could and should start in the White House. So we dedicated a study to Abraham Lincoln... brought in his desk... the very room where President Lincoln had signed the Emancipation Proclamation. And another room which I used as a drawing room, we dedicated to James Monroe. We were actually quite lucky, and found some of his furnishings, and a clock. I was the first one to really try to restore the rooms authentically... almost as time-capsules.

“And we just about had the West Wing completed when it caught on fire one night during a Christmas event... musicians playing, all the dignitaries milling about. They ran up frantically and told me, that the fire department was on its way. I reverted to my Boxer Rebellion mode, gathered all the children and began to lead them in Christmas carols, trying to save the evening.... The children were singing Jingle Bells while the firetruck was ringing its bell, coming down the drive like it was a planned part of the program or something. It would have been quite funny if it was not so awful... meanwhile Bert and some of his friends and the staff frantically emptied his drawers- I mean of his desk! And covered his wonderful old desk with a wet rug... and hoped for the best.

“The firemen put it out and dragged everything out onto the grounds; Smoking...furniture, plants, paintings, rugs, all spread around like a... fire sale! Most of it was ruined by smoke damage. It made me sick... So much progress lost.

“But thankfully nobody was hurt. Things can be replaced. It could have happened later, when we were asleep, and we all might have perished.

“That was our first disaster as president and first lady! I suppose God was preparing us for the bigger challenges which were soon to come. It was a warning not to get too attached to the place. Not to forget that the enemy is always lurking, seeking to destroy. Not to put too much store in material things.

There seemed to be devils lurking during our time there. They never showed their faces, but bizarrely, our best efforts were consistently sabotaged, our hopes dashed. Who would ever have predicted that the Hoover's would start out so strong, so promising, surviving wars and scandals and elections, and yet end up crushed by bar talk and headlines?

“We would learn a lot in the coming years, and we learned to face each mountain kind of like that damned fire; It was hot, it was destructive, it could take every thing away from us, but it would eventually go out. All fires do. But nothing could take away our faith, in each other, and in God.”

“I remember one day standing brokenheartedly in the Monroe Room, almost depressed, having just gazed outside at the“Bonus Army,” they called it, American heroes... 43,000 men, women and children amassed right outside to protest their treatment by our government. Wanting Bert to do something. It was sickening. And it was hard to imagine that local and state governments had failed so miserably so as to pass these poor men up the line to us.

It was a colossal human failure... and a political one, as town, and county and state governments and agencies passed on any responsibility, even mischievously, sending the Bonus Marchers on to Washington like some ill-advised practical joke. How many congressmen or senators had turned a deaf ear to this monumental social movement? And so they marched... In some case thousands of miles! We could not help but believe the whole thing was a political stunt, secretly organized by our political enemies.

Still, here they were, these veterans- who had sacrificed life and limb for us, and all they asked was to cash in early on their certificates, kind of like military pensions, distributed to them by the World War Compensation Act in 1924... which were to be paid out in 1948... But these men needed financial salvation sooner than later. The depression had made their plight even more intolerable. The beauty of the Monroe Room was almost vulgar in juxtaposition with the ugly, desperate gathering outside. Families in tiny tents, hovering over fires in tin cans. I had wanted to save our history, our noble American legacy, but out there those men were telling- and truthfully, a far different account of it.

“Of course officially we had to spurn them... any encouragement, or our very appearance might have set off a riot. The crowd was grungy and profane, with plenty of flask nipping and some cursing and threats, which we could not make out. Still we anguished for them. Bert spent a great deal of the time trying to find a solution, on the phone with the generals who knew them. Eventually they were told to go away or else.

“And brave American soldiers as they had been, they went nowhere. I teared up, as Monroe's old clock ticked away, it started to drive me mad! They were hungry and freezing to death. Letters and phone calls came from everywhere, pleading their case. I finally could not stand it anymore and ordered that some blankets be taken out to them... anonymously of course. We cooked up many gallons of soup in every pot in the kitchen, and had it taken out in a farm truck...nobody was to know where it came from. But we could not need feed them all.

I heard later that the president had sent some coats and things that could be scraped up from Army surplus and such. He cared more than he could say. But once it got out of hand, and the marchers had chosen their radical chiefs, self-important prigs, it could not have a happy ending...

Then one day General MacArthur brought in the troops and cleared them out. It was a disaster. Many grown men cried- on both sides that day. Many of them were hurt, and two were killed, and the army burned their makeshift village. We were heartsick... I felt like I was watching the Civil War in my front yard. It was then I realized how big our country is, and how treacherous things can get... when large groups of disgruntled citizens circle the wagons...

“Yet we as a country have maintained our civility pretty well, all things considered. You can empathize with the people... Life is full of injustice, and yet you have to have laws, and people have to obey them. Or it would be the French Revolution all over again.

“Looking back on the damned depression, it is quite painful, but God knew what he was doing. Americans became angry... and I don't blame them, their leaders had failed them. Failed us too. But with our records of service, they could never suggest that we did not want what was best for them- and the country... that our motives were pure. Even if they hated the mess we were all in, they knew in their hearts that we had not caused it, that we were not evil, that we were suffering with them. That probably kept them from storming the walls, no matter how desperate they were. Can you imagine what they would have done if Harding or even Coolidge were in office?

They were mad, but they never really knew what to be mad at... never realized what had happened. We were there in Europe, frantically trying to save the starving, while the peace delegations were making “the deal,” moving borders and fortunes around like a board game; Forcing the Germans into financial debt and collective financial slavery which could not sustain peace, and only inspired more indignation and rage. No one person was responsible for the debacle that followed. Certainly leaders on all sides failed to establish an arrangement which could grow peace. The world war was not only deadly but terribly expensive, and had caused financial collapse in too many European countries, and angry, hungry people have been known to do terrible things. The economic collapse had been put off temporarily, but mounting debts and government failures all over Europe grew until we all went down with them. Ultimately there was no way to avoid 'paying the fiddler'... and no easy fix. Just hard work and patience.

“Bert and I were never afraid, you know, about elections or disasters... we both knew how to enjoy abundance, but we were just as happy in a cabin in the woods. Public anger, hatefulness, was just the enemy attacking what God had sent us to do.

We knew that we were going against him from the very beginning.

We learned very young to seek God's Will and find approval from one another. We were never ashamed or regretted anything. We were, as Jesus warned, sheep among wolves. He taught us to expect persecution when we were about “our father's business.” We learned to expect mean and unfair accusations, just as he had suffered.

In fact, I would say that when judging a public servant, beware of the one who enjoys too much popularity. When given an easy choice, the crowd chose a murderer to get a reprieve rather than Jesus, a harmless healer and teacher. The crowd demanded the heads of most leaders, teachers and capitalists during the French Revolution. Even priests! The crowds all over the American West hung innocent men, hapless Negros, just to satisfy their anger, their lust for revenge. The unrestrained mob has rarely been just. How many times has the furious crowd rushed the doors in Mexico City, to replace the government with another despot, who eventually was fed back to the.... crowd. The crowd, led by bank robbers and anarchists murdered the Czar and his family, nationalized all private property, and created a godless, ruthless dictatorship in Russia.

The angry mob has rarely been the arm of justice. We take so much for granted in our country. Our own revolution might well have ended the same, without the likes of a godly statesman such as George Washington to guide it. No, we consider ourselves fortunate to have been serving in America, where our public leaders are decided by elections, not executions. Our conscience is clear. We can face our God with few regrets.

We fought the good fight. The sun will come up tomorrow. I plan to be up then to greet it.