A narrow view of the Inauguration of President Barack Obama, Part 2 of 3: The long cold wait

I now sit at my desk in my office at my house here in Wasilla, Alaska, much too tired from an exhausting and trying trip home, a trip that we spread over three days to make it more bearable for my injured wife, to think up the words for this post. Yet, history is forging forward. The joy of the Inaugural is receding into memory, so I had better set my fingers moving over the keyboard and see what comes out of them:

During the first couple of hours of the long, cold, wait, I took almost no pictures. It was too dark.

Compared to the -10 to -48 degree temperatures that had settled down into Wasilla's own Matanuska-Susitna Valley for three straight weeks just prior to our departure to Washington, D.C., the air that surrounded us was warm. It lacked the bitter sting and murderous chill of the cold weather that had beset us at home, yet, I was dressed in a pitiful manner, wearing nothing but cotton, my warm clothing doing me no good in the bag that American Airlines had lost for me. I could do nothing but to stand still, and so that relatively warm yet still chilly air gradually pulled my body-heat out and away through my cotton layers. It then penetrated my skin to sink into my meat and bones. Gradually but surely, I descended into a state of unrelenting discomfort, by no means to be measured among the worst nor the longest periods of cold that I have endured, but unpleasant just the same.

I did worry a bit more about Lisa, standing by my side, also dressed pitifully. "I can handle it, Dad," she assured me. "I'm an Alaskan. Soon we will have a new President and I won't even care that I got a little cold while I waited for him." I worried more about Margie, who was dressed the most pitifully of us all and diabetic - and also completely out of my sight. Several times, I tried to call her, so that I might direct her to where we stood, thinking that the three of us could then huddle together, and so share our body heat, even as the group piled together above shared theirs.

The local cell phone system was overwhelmed. I could not reach her.

I wore no hat, but only an ear band, and my hands are so cold-conditioned that I had no need for gloves. The light jacket that I wore does have a thin, wind-breaker style hood, so I pulled that up over my head and took care to create a layer of air between the fabric and my head, and that did warm me up a bit.

"Dad," Lisa said, "I keep closing my eyes and every time I open them, I can tell that it is a little brighter than it was before. That makes the time go faster." When it grew bright enough to make out the people around us, I could see that many, such as the young woman to the right, more warmly dressed than us but less accustomed to cold, were suffering.

Yet, no one complained. Despite the physical suffering, the feeling that pervaded the air was one of joy and hope, of anticipation that no matter how miserable the moment, something better was coming, that the cold, hard, deep, bitter chill that had for so long locked America in its grip was about to ease, that, in just hours, the sun would arise anew and, however slowly, would bring warmth back to the land.

An odd thing happened when finally the sun came up and rose over the crowd. At first, the temperature did seem to warm. Just like a solar panel, my jacket magnified that warmth and the feeling it brought to my body was pleasant, but then the air seemed to grow colder - much colder than it had been at the darkest point during the pre-dawn. I felt the cold hard against my face, it penetrated my jacket and my cotton layers, dampened by sweat.

And then these kids began to dance. Suddenly, it felt warm again.

Noticing that I had no gloves upon my hands and that I hefted big, heavy, cameras with much metal in them, the blue-bundled woman standing behind Lisa offered me some chemical warming pads.

"Thank you," I said, "but I am fine."

"You are going to freeze to death and you are going to frostbite your hands," she insisted. "Please! Take the warming pads!"

"No, really," I answered. "I am fine. I need to keep my hands free to operate my cameras." I wanted to tell her about how - and science proves that this happens - I have cold-conditioned my hands so that the blood is thick in them, so that I can operate cameras bare-handed in zero degree temperatures, so that when I have been on shoots on Arctic ice, even Iñupiat Eskimos, the toughest cold-weather people that I have met, whose natural physiology instantly brings the blood into their hands when needed, have commented favorably on my warm hands.

I wanted to tell her that, however it appeared to her and as uncomfortable as I was, I knew how to bear cold and discomfort, that I had often born much worse, for much longer, and that this little bit of discomfort would soon be behind us and would mean nothing at all.

But it seemed silly to try tell her these things, so I did not. Lisa accepted the hand warmers, but later told me that they didn't work very well.

In the midst of them stands a small child. They gather around that child, to give her their warmth, to protect her from the cold. I cannot know for certain, but I suspect that in future years, when this child thinks back to this event, it will be the warmth of the moment, rather than the cold, that will prevail in her memory.

This land is your land, this land is my land...

Big Jumbotron screens had been positioned throughout the National Mall , but for the  early part of the morning, nothing played on them. Then, to loud applause, images and sounds appeared from a pre-Inaugural celebration and concert recorded at the Lincoln Memorial two days earlier.

President Elect Obama had spoken there, as had Joe Biden, Martin Luther King III and many others. Artists such as Bruce Springsteen, Garth Brooks, Beyonce, Stevie Wonder, James Taylor,  Sheryl Crow, Shakira and others had made music.

Now, it seemed that they performed all over again, for the entertainment of the crowd that waited in the cold. And then an aging but seemingly forever young Pete Seeger (left) stepped up to the Jumbotron mic. Backed by Springsteen and other performers (above), Seeger begin to sing the alternative national anthem, penned by the great folk singer, Woody Guthrie:

"This land is your land, this land is my land, from California, to the New York Islands..." Many throughout the crowd began to sing along.

Damn! What power! Such energy! So much vigor! White voices! Black voices! Asian voices! Native American voices - including that of my own dear Lisa. I can't sing, but hell, I even joined in and as I did, my vision became blurry. I could not see through the lens of my camera. My vision was blocked by my tears.

Our official national anthem speaks of battle between the people of the United States and our prevalence over an external foe; this unofficial anthem speaks of the battle that we have fought within America, between ourselves, so often a battle between the wealthy and the powerful and the dispossessed, those on the outside.

Now, on this day, just hours before Barack Obama would be sworn in as President, the song seemed to illuminate this feeling that, at long last, this land had become our land... all of our land... whatever our color, whatever our status... This land is your land, this land is my land...

Yes, I know. The battles that we fight amongst ourselves will continue, as will those we fight against enemies external. Yet, never before in my life did I so strongly feel that America was finally rising above itself to become... America.

Can you see me? I am right there... before you... with two million others... singing... "this land is your land, this land is my land..."

Singing and weeping.

Yes, it was still cold, but warm... so very warm.

At 10:00 AM, the official pre swearing-in Inaugural Day activites began with performances by the United States Marine Band, followed by The San Francisco Boys Chorus and the San Francisco Girls Chorus, pictured above on a more distant Jumbotron.

Many dignataries, from celebreties such as Mohammed Ali, Dustin Hoffman and Beyonce paraded into the area reserved for the biggest of big shots, along with politicians of all sorts, from Governors (but not my fellow Wasillan, Governor Sarah Palin) to Congressmen and Senators. All the living past presidents came, along with their wives. Their years not withstanding, Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter continue to look good.

Bill and Hillary Clinton. I am not trying to discriminate against George H.W. and Barbara Bush by leaving them out. It's just that my view of this more distant screen was obstructed by tall people. To photograph it, I had to lift a camera with a 400 mm telephoto lens above my head and point it at the screen in the hope that I would frame and focus correctly. Sometimes this technique worked, sometimes it didn't. It worked with the Clintons. It didn't work with the Bushes, but I tried just as hard.

I am not among those who booed when President George W. Bush first appeared on the screen, nor did my voice join those who sang, "hey-heyeeh, good-bye!" I believe the office of President should command a certain degree of respect. Unfortunately, I do not believe that the man who held that office for the past eight years - this man - did pay it the respect that the office deserves. I feel that he paid the office terrible disrespect and now we must all pay a price that we do not yet fully comprehend.

So, however wrong it might be to boo at a Presidential Inauguration, there was an important message for Mr. Bush in those jeers and I hope that he grasped that message. I kind of doubt it, for, even as he passes on a crumbling America that his successor must now struggle to piece back together, he seems to have justified every action that he took in his own mind; he seems to take oblivious comfort in the implausible notion that history will redeem him, that it will even lift his reputation up until his image shines right alongside the great presidents.

I do not know what actually goes on in his head during his quiet moments, but, from a distance, this is how it appears to me.

Flags fly and cheers rise as Vice President-Elect Joe Biden greets the crowd.

Next up: The swearing-in, and how the people near me reacted.

Comments

[Doris]

I was there, too. You summed up the experience beautifully and accurately. Thank you for this fabulous article and photos.

[debby]

You know who else was part of that crowd of 2 million? My own daughter Cara.

Tell me. Did you and yours jump up and down on the frozen reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial, shouting as George Bush's helicopter circled around one the mall one last time? Did you scream your head off, yelling 'Begone! Get out of town!' No?

*sigh*

I tried. Really, I tried to raise them right...