I yield to exhaustion

This picture is from yesterday, not today. Today was sunny and I took some sunny pictures, but am too fatigued to transfer them from the camera into the computer.

Early this evening, after taking a ride in the car going nowhere but back home again, I helped Margie take a seat on the couch and prop her injured leg up on an ottoman. Then I sliced an apple and a pear into a bowl, sat down, placed the bowl between us and shared the fruit with her as we watched the local news.

It was my intent to then come out here, read through my unposted, final Inauguration entry, see if it made any sense and, if it did, post it.

But as I ate my fruit, the tabby cat Pistol-Yero climbed onto my knee and then spread himself out across my lap. I did not want to disturb him, so I stayed put as CSI-New York came on. I figured that I might as well watch it so that the cat could get some needed rest, as he had only gotten about 16 hours sleep so far today. I repeatedly closed my eyes and opened then again to see how the story had progressed and then one time I opened them only to find that the program had ended without me knowing how. For A Few Dollars More had taken its place.

The cat still dozed. I could not budge him, nor could I budge myself. So I stayed put, opening and closing my eyes until Clint Eastwood drove off in a wagon filled with the corpses of the 27 bad guys he and Lee Van Cleef had just killed.

The cat was gone, but another, the black cat, Jim, had taken its place and now snoozed soundly.

I did not want to disturb this cat either, but I knew I had to take action before The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly began, for I could not allow myself to be pulled deeper into spaghetti, but the movie began instantly, and who can get up once those images flash onto the screen, accompanied by that sound track?

Not me. No way.

And the black cat was sleeping. On my lap. There was nothing I could do but sit there and doze in and out as people murdered each other onscreen and then got justifiably killed.

My trip, and all that we have been through, has caught me. I am exhausted. Fatigued. Too exhausted to read my final inaugural post. It will have to wait.

It doesn't matter. The Inauguration is history. Even if I still remain behind, on the National Mall, as President Barack Obama is sworn into office, the world has moved beyond that glorious moment into the myriad of crisis that beset us. Part of solitary me wants to remain there forever, in the midst of two million people, because that's how wonderful it was.

So maybe I will take forever to finally post the final post. Once I put it up, the experience is truly over.

Cats meow at me, 

begging to be fed. 

I must feed them, 

and then go to bed.

The final Inaugural post is done, but I am not happy with it

So I will sleep on it and post it tomorrow.

In the meantime, here is a picture that I took today, right here, back home in Wasilla, Alaska:

Please click on it.

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.

Headed home

We are in Salt Lake City now, soon to catch a jet to Seattle and then another to Anchorage. After we arrive home, I plan to complete the Inaugural series as quickly as I can - hopefully, tomorrow.

A narrow view of the Inauguration of President Barack Obama, Part 1 of 3: Swept towards the Capitol in a multitude of 2 million

Margie is in blue, smiling at the right. The young woman in the "Obama" stocking cap who peeks around the man in the orange coat - that's Lisa.

The first train to leave the Metro station nearest to us was scheduled for 4:20 AM and I wanted to be on it. I set my cell phone alarm for 3:20, knowing that I would wake up at least 20 minutes before it was scheduled to go off. So I woke up at 3:00, took a quick shower, and then rousted Margie and Lisa from their sleep.

I knew that by DC standards, the weather was going to be exceptionally cold and so I wanted everybody to wear their thermal underwear. However, as we began to dress, Margie and I discovered that our thermal underwear had been packed in the bag that American Airlines had lost for us - except for one lightweight pair of pants for me. Fortunately, Lisa's thermals had all arrived safely.

So I put on the light thermal pants and pulled a pair of slacks over that. Margie did have a pair of panty hose that had made it to DC, so she wore those as a substitute for her thermals. On top, I put on a cotton shirt over a cotton t-shirt and pulled a cotton sweatshirt over both. Over this, I would wear a light jacket.

Cotton - the worst kind of material for cold weather that one can wear. Cotton catches your sweat, holds it next to you and wicks your body-heat away from you. Yet, in the wake of the lost bag, cotton was the only option. 

Oh well. I'm an Alaskan who has often camped out in bitter cold weather. Whatever discomfort I had to face, to witness history, I could happily deal with it. But I was worried about Margie.

We boarded the Metro at Friendship Heights, headed for L'Enfant Plaza and found the crowd to be surprisingly light - until we reached the very next station. When the doors opened, people poured in - and they would continue to do so at each stop until no more would fit. It was hot in the train car and I began to sweat. 

The gentleman above joined us at an early stop. He brandished an American flag with an image of Barack Obama emblazoned on it. "I'm so happy!" he sang, joyously, "I'm from Africa, living in America, Africa, living in America, Barack Obama, I'm so happy..."

He sang too of his father, in Sierra Leone, who he wished could be here, in America, to celebrate this wonderful day. "I'm so happy, in America, from Africa. Barack Obama! Africa, America. I'm so happy."

I could detect nothing but happiness, joy and goodwill anywhere. Smiles abounded throughout the car, people of all race and background laughed and mingled with those nearby. There was no tension, not between races, not between individuals; good will abounded.

The day was off to a good start.

We change trains at Metro Station.

We who traveled down in the Metro flowed like rivers of humanity through the concrete channels that lace the earth beneath Washington, D.C. toward the grand confluence where we would soon converge into a sea of two million that would cover the entire National Mall from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol.

One river of humanity flows outward through the metro gates.

And then the flow goes up and out of the Metro at L'Enfant Plaza. 

Back in Wasilla, I had been thrilled when I received an email from the Presidential Inaugural Committee informing me that I had been awarded credentials for two press passes to cover the swearing in ceremony. While I knew that this would give me access to the most prime spots that would be taken up by Time, Newsweek and the like, I had envisioned that it would still put me close enough that my my 400 mm lens would be able to discern the faces of principle characters, who would then be recognizable in my pictures.

When I picked up the passes, I was a bit disconcerted to see that they were limited to the National Mall, where the two million would gather.

I was not certain what advantage such passes gave me, other than perhaps freedom of movement back and forth between various sections within the Mall.

After exiting the Metro, we soon found ourselves swept by the river toward the Seventh Street entrance. 

I wanted to go against the current, to work my way toward an entrance closer to the action than 7th Street, but once in the flow, we had no choice but to be swept along with the current. The crowd pressed against us from all sides to surge forward relentlessly in one direction, that direction being opposite to the one I wanted to go. As I felt the force and power in the bodies pressing against mine, I suddenly understood how it is that people who fall in moving crowds are sometimes trampled to death.

Soon, we were on the mall, making our way forward toward the Capitol building.

As we drew near to the foremost fence of the section we had been carried to, Margie slipped off to the side, where there were some trees. She said she would stake her ground there and meet us afterwards. Lisa and I stayed in the center of the crowd and, wielding our press passes like machetes, slashed our way through the crowd toward the front fence. It was my intent to find a way out and to use our press passes to move out of this section altogether and into the next, that section marking what I interpreted as being the limit of our passes.

As we pushed toward the fence, the crowd grew more and more compressed, until even our press passes were useless to cut through. Still determined to get into a better position, I led Lisa off to the the side and from there then to the front fence. A policeman there told us that there were some bleachers for credentialled media a ways behind us and off on the other side of the mall.

I decided to check out these bleachers and from there to find out the exact limitations of our passes.

So, under the dark skies of the pre-dawn, Lisa and I started working our way diagonally backwards through the same crowd that had swept us forward.

As the crowd became ever more compressed, it grew ever more difficult to move through it at all. Here and there, groups of shivering people were sitting and even lying on blankets placed upon the frozen ground. In the dark, they could not be seen until I would find myself tripping over them. 

Finally, we hit a point where it was not possible to move at all, not in any direction. Bodies pressed against me from all sides - and I made certain that one of those bodies was Lisa. I felt as though I was going to trip and fall. I knew that once the people sitting and lying upon the ground rose to their feet, the crowd would loosen a bit, but for now, we simply could not move.

We were stuck. And we were markedly further back than we had been with our initial advance.

"Okay, Lisa," I said. "It looks like this is our spot."

"This is the 3:00 AM crowd," someone standing nearby told someone else. "We are the people who got up at 3:00 AM for Barack Obama!"

For a long time, I took no pictures, because it was too dark and I did not want to use flash. I had not even brought flash. I wondered if I could bear it, to stand immobile for hours in the midst of a crowd of people pushed tight against me from all sides. My cotton clothes, wet with sweat, had begun to wick the heat away from me.

After we had stood in such a manner for quite some time, we heard a male voice shout out, "Can you believe it? It's 6:30 in the morning and its pitch black outside!"

Coming from Alaska, Lisa was greatly amused by that statement.

The ceremony was scheduled to begin at 11:30 AM.

Next: The long, cold, wait.