Reaga-knitting
(Otherwise known as this post is long and has very little knitting content. I normally put this in my livejournal, but I felt like doing it here)
Knit on size 8 DPNs, this is Noro Kureyon in a bottom up version of a possibly felted change purse.
This is the bag I started and got 4" into waiting in line to view the casket of Ronald Reagan this afternoon. I would have knit more, but an hour and a half into my three hour line, I was told that knitting needles aren't allowed into Capitol Hill. The guards looked at the needles, told me to put them away, but didn't bother confiscating them. So I read for the other hour and a half.
Why did I go? Other than I didn't have anything else to do today... How often would I have an opportunity to do such a thing? It seemed like a unique chance. When do you get to go see a presidential funeral? And I admit a little bit of morbid curiousity. Being in DC gives me the strange opportunities to do things that sometimes it seems only tourists get to do. But I'm a tourist who (sometimes) knows how to use the Metro system. And I walk faster.
So, my day started like it always did, waiting for a bus. That's where I cast on. 45 minutes later, I was at Capitol Hill. It was noon. I wasn't wearing sunscreen. I hadn't eaten lunch. And it was a three to five hour wait. Gods bless the Red Cross, who gave everyone sunblock and more water than you could possibly stand. There were flats of water every five minutes, and a medic I chatted with said that people were having problems with dehydration. Which helps prove my theory that people are idiots.
If I had, y'know, experience and a reputation as a freelance writer, I would pitch this story to the Post. They've done some stories that were similar, but not quite like this. I'd like to keep my own vigil for the 34 hours that President Reagan spends in the rotunda and see the people who are come to see it. Who would want to go to the public viewing at 4 am on a Wednesday? And yet, I have no doubt that people would come. People would be there, and it wouldn't just be homeless people or drunks looking for late night entertainment.
I started waiting in line. It was hot. Rather hot. The women behind me were from Cleveland, the women in front of me didn't speak English (at least to me). It was set up like one of those rides at Disneyland, where you walk around and around in circles and end up only slightly further ahead. The press was everywhere, holding up signs asking what state everyone is from - Utah, Louisiana, California... They stop every third person to ask the same set of questions, and people respond with the same answers. I kind of wanted someone to ask me so I could look bewildered and say "This isn't the line for Space Mountain?" But perhaps that would be inappropriate, and I couldn't give them their soundbite about how much I loved President Reagan, so I didn't talk to them. I was 7 when Reagan left office. I have no real memory of him except as satire that I've seen on Saturday Night Live.
I drank four bottles of water, blessed the Red Cross for the sunscreen many times, got my purse checked three times (Yes! The cell phone was off! Yes! I have knitting needles! No, I'm not going to knit Senator John McCain a sweater with a big moose on it! I promise!) and finally only had a twenty minute wait to get indoors. That's when you get to see the army sharpshooter on top of the Capitol. With a semiautomatic weapon.
Waiting in line... it's hot, sweat drenched and you can feel the sunburn starting. I always think that if I keep moving, put water on my arms, they won't bake and become a nice lobster red. This is why I'm an idiot. Fortunately, it was fairly breezy and overcast for most of the time that I was directly in the sun. The line moves in fits and starts, the monotony hurts, though it's fun to watch the different people cycle through. In front of me is someone wearing a college t-shirt from my alma matter, behind me are a couple of people in wheelchairs and everybody is taking pictures. There is lots of water but no garbage cans, so empty water bottles, newspapers and pizza mark the lines as well as the rent-a-fence.
Once inside the Capitol, after being in line for three hours, (still in line) we were finally ushered into the Rotunda to walk in a half circle around a flag draped coffin. One member of every part of the military was standing at attention and the only noise was the clicking of feet and photographer's shutters.
I thought, "I waited in line for three hours to see a box for 30 seconds."
I thought, "Is there even a body in there? It could be empty and we'd never know."
I thought, "My feet really hurt."
I thought, "People felt such a connection to this man that they drove ten hours and stood in line for three hours for this thirty seconds."
I thought, "Hey, they finally moved the suffragettes to the Rotunda."
I thought, "This man died, and it feels like a tourist attraction."
I thought, "This is as close to glory and power that I will ever be."
Another armed military person and a couple of tour guides ushered my group out, through the maze of people, and out into the too bright sun, with sun burned shoulders and a knitting tan line.
This purse will almost certainly be remembered as the Reagan purse. Which, when you think about it, is a little weird.
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