Yesterday, my family and I piled out of two very sweaty cars, one large, one small, and entered the Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia. This being the first family excursion I have been on in some time, the trip reminded me of the arduous week-long family trip we took some 5 years ago tracking the historic sites of the East Coast all the way down to Colonial Williamsburg by RV that left me in a state of historic resistance. This trip, struck a different note, one that did not make me want to run screaming and yelling from a camper full of 5 other similarly irritated Barrys. The slow walk through the cemetery past the graves of Thurgood Marshall and John F. Kennedy put my nerves at ease and set me in a snap-happy spree of landscape and gravestone photography. I realized while comfortably sitting on the cemetery sightseeing trolly/bus: I love cemeteries.

Perhaps I am merely the desensitized granddaughter of a funeral director, finding nothing abnormal about the discussion of death over dinner conversation, or the occasional casket disasters that arose at the Barry Funeral Home in Worcester, or what epitaph my mother/father want and how this differs from the words of wisdom my brother, sister, and I plan to send them off with. My brother sister and I have been raised knowing the difference between the joking rolls of laughter my grandfather expressed as he shared an inappropriate, embellished story from his days in embalming school and his prideful dignity as he opened the church doors for the family of the deceased, who had come to him with half the money and been cared for no questions asked. At my grandfather’s funeral, I watched this same dignity emanate from the strong, steady pace of my father and teenage brother as they led the casket down the aisle, carrying a man I admired more than any.

The cemetery where my family is buried, is an oasis amid frantic Worcester streets, there is no commotion, running babies, or honking cabs. The Arlington National Cemetery was no different. It was a cemetery filled with men and women who carried the same self-assured knowledge and acceptance of life’s gifts as my grandfather did. The rows and rows of white, perfect headstones, each weighing a surprising 250 pounds left crowds of visitors silent. Even children could sense the gravity of their surroundings and find no alternative but to stand quiet, to watch. I loved the hills and the way the stones rose and fell neatly tucked in the grass and protected by the overbearing arms of trees rocking in the wind. It was hot today, the kind of thick heat made you light-headed after climbing four tiers of steps up to another plateau looking out over the tombs of the unknown soldiers onto a landscape of city and sky.

Today, the Barry’s were on to D.C. where a large amount of time was spent in Union Station for no reason besides to make a trip to the Verizon store. Our visit then took a more interesting turn as my mother, brother, and sister visited the National Gallery of Art. I stood before John Singer Sargent’s Street in Venice, Yves Tanguy’s Rhadbomancie, and Jackson Polluck’s, Number 1 (Lavander Mist.) Yes, I spent 20 minutes searching the painting for cigarette remains and so did the French couple beside me. Jack (brother) and I then spent the next two hours like two true museum enthusiasts, fervently consulting our museum map and planning our tour of the east and west wing so as to hit all the big spots: Monet, Toulouse Lautrec, and the scary looking Rembrandt babies. By the end I was tired and collapsed on the grass courtyard of 6^th and Constitution Ave but felt I had made the most of my time at the Gallery. Museums to me have always presented a challenge: Kate- you have 3.25 hours, you must hit every 18^th and 19^th century European gallery, you must try to understand the modern art within reason or at least appear to, and take as many secret pictures on your cell phone as possible without getting badgered by the gallery cops.

Last stop: the Vietnam Memorial and the Lincoln Memorial. My mother cried reading the messages tucked against certain walls, we are thinking of you Harry, love the Wilson family, while I stood trying to read all the names on the longest numbered wall and again taking pictures my dad would call boring. Most visitors simply passed through at a steady tempo, but few, stopped at a number, intently reading and searching for a name. I realize the theme of this trip may appear…morbid but our last stop at the Lincoln Memorial and reflecting pool renewed my faith in the humor of my family. Our circuit through the gems of D.C. has deepened my appreciation for our nations capital and left me with some constructive insights. The most foremost being: I enjoy being a blatant tourist.