Goodbyes.

My feet felt like lead as I dragged myself up the hill, and I swiped at my face with my tshirt in a futile attempt to sop up some of the sweat. Damn, it was hot. I was relieved when I finally crested the hill and saw the shade trees that lined Jackson Avenue. The warm breeze may have felt a little bit like the opening of an oven door, but it rustled the flags that adorned each of the stately old general's quarters in picture-perfect fashion. I was glad I had chosen this route- the length of Fort Myer, past the caisson stables and along the crumbly brick wall that separated main post from Arlington National Cemetery- for my morning run on my last day of work in DC. As I rounded the corner I could just see the long, perfectly straight rows of white grave markers disappearing over the hilltops in the distance. There were not a lot of things I was going to miss about working here, but being able to exercise among the monuments and memorials and to find myself alone in these hallowed places of our history- this I would miss.

As I jogged past the brick headquarters buildings that housed the Old Guard headquarters, I saw a lone figure walking in front of me. Even on such a hot and humid morning, there were knife-edge creases in his blue uniform pants. I could almost see the sweat pouring down from under his wool "bus driver's" hat, but he held his rifle over his shoulder at the perfect angle and looked every bit the solemn soldier as he marched off to do the work of the day, paying respect on behalf of us all to those veterans who would be buried at Arlington this Friday. Then he turned slightly and I couldn't help but laugh. He was smoking a cigarette as he walked, in flagrant violation of every uniform regulation of every service and particularly frowned upon here.

As a former leader of Soldiers who had occasionally sent them- at the Army's request- to the Old Guard, I knew the sharp image was carefully curated. Soldiers were selected for this duty because they looked the part: tall, fit, broad-shouldered, and largely white and male; the incarnation of our collective imagination. As an Army officer, I knew that the "real" warfighters looked down on guys who went to the Old Guard, trained killers who instead of heading off to war with their buddies went to DC to get dressed up and march in parades. And as an Army lawyer, I knew that these impressive-looking young men dabbled in drugs and married strippers and got into barfights at just the same rate as soldiers do anywhere.

Still, I thought, as I passed another young soldier, dressed like a member of the Continental Army and carrying his tricorner hat in one hand and a purple Gatorade in the other, this place gave me chills. In this turbulent time of mudslinging and fault-finding and our collective loss of faith in just about everything and everybody, there is still magic in the history and tradition of this, our sacred place. And I was glad I got to enjoy my special access to it one more time.

... I wrote that going on two weeks ago. Later that day, I scanned my badge at the outer gate of the Pentagon one last time and heard the click that meant that my building access was thereby revoked. Hopefully for good, I thought. I considered my Pentagon dues paid, even though I had only had to spend less than a year in the big house, all told. 

We moved into a lovely hotel suite in Old Town, where Finley and Grandma Jayne enjoyed hotel breakfasts and long walks on cobblestone streets and King Street shopping and ice cream and afternoons at the pool. Seth finished school. Ford and I sweated our tails off supervising movers during an incredibly unwelcome heat wave.

Somebody had definitely gotten the short end of the moving stick. (In my favorite photo of the week, snapped by Jayne during Finley's new favorite game, she seems to be saying: "not me!")

Jayne finally had to go home for the first day of school (tears all 'round), and Seth and I had a hilarious, awful day that involve a failed trip to the pool with both kids for me, followed by my remembering (and thanking the powers that be) for the soft playroom at the Rec Center; and a 2am night with a moving crew for Seth during which I'm pretty sure he wound up carrying all the heavy stuff. 

And the next day, we- barely- made it to Seth's graduation, and had one last DC meal in a hotel parking lot on Highway 1 

before Seth and Finley headed north and Ford and I nursed moving-dust colds that meant our last night in town involved sniffling on Michelle's couch instead of any number of other iconic sendoffs we had planned. Friday morning, we cleared the house (mentally congratulating ourselves for hiring a professional cleaning team) and drove away for the last time. It was kind of nuts, actually. I would miss views like the ones above, but- well, I typed this in my last DC traffic jam and mean every word. Especially the last two.