Blood and iron

When Cinci

"Covington, Kentucky, suh-just the other side of the river," Cinci

"What do you do here?" the policeman asked. "Why don't you stay on the other side of the river where you belong?"

"I ain't pla

"Where are you going to?" the policeman inquired.

"Headin' for Iowa," Cinci

"This is a good long way from Cinci

"Welcome to the United States," Elizabeth remarked. "Welcome-but not very welcome."

"I was thinking that myself, not very long ago," Cinci

His wife didn't argue about that. He went back to concentrating on his driving. He knew where he was going, but he wasn't completely sure how to get there. Road maps left a lot to be desired. He'd studied as many as he could at the Covington library, so he knew how far from perfect they were. He also mistrusted road signs. Oh, roads in towns had names and numbers; he could rely on that. But he'd seen during the war that roads between towns might change names without warning or might never have had names in the first place. That made traveling more interesting for strangers.

He managed to get out of Cinci

"Don't fret yourself about it none," Elizabeth said when he cursed himself for fourteen different kinds of a fool. "Sooner or later, you'll come across a road that runs into the one you should have used. Then everything'll be fine again."

"Sure, I'll come across that blame road," Cinci

He felt even more harassed a couple of minutes later, when one of the truck's i

Motorcars and trucks kept rolling past him as if he weren't there. Every one of them-every one he noticed, anyhow-had a white face behind the wheel. Most, no doubt, wouldn't have stopped to help a white man, either. But would all of them have sped past a strange white without more than a single hasty glance? Maybe. On the other hand, maybe not, too.

At last, when he was wrestling the wheel back onto the axle, a Ford did pull up behind the truck. "Give you a hand?" asked the driver, a plump blond fellow in a straw hat and overalls.

"Just about done it now," Cinci

"Believe it," the white man said. "Where you bound for?"

"Des Moines," Cinci

"Go up… lemme see… four crossings and then turn left. That'll put you heading toward the highway to Indiana," the white man said. He cocked his head to one side. "You got family in Des Moines?"

"No, suh," Cinci

"Oh. Good luck." The fellow climbed into his automobile and drove away.

"Thanks for the directions," Cinci

"Come on," Sylvia Enos said impatiently to George, Jr., and Mary Jane as they made their way across the Boston Common toward the New State House. "And hold on to my hands, for heaven's sake. If you get lost, how will I find you again in this crowd?"

U.S. flags fluttered from the platform that had gone up in front of the New State House. Red-white-and-blue bunting wreathed it. Although President Roosevelt wasn't scheduled to start speaking for another hour, the crowd was already growing rapidly. Most of the people gathering around the platform were men. Why not? They enjoyed the right to vote.

Even though Sylvia didn't, she wanted to hear what Roosevelt had to say for himself. She wanted to see him, too, and to have the children see him. They'd remember that for the rest of their lives.

Mary Jane, at the moment, had her mind on other things: "The dome sure is shiny, Ma!" she said, pointing. "It's as shiny as the sun, I bet."

"That's because it's gilded, silly," George, Jr., said importantly.

"What's gilded mean, Ma?" Mary Jane asked.

"It means painted with gold paint" her big brother told her.

"I didn't ask you, Mr. Know-It-All," Mary Jane said. "Besides, I bet you're making it up, anyway."

"I am not!" George, Jr., howled. "I ought to pop you a good one, is what I ought to do."

"I'll pop both of you if you don't behave yourselves," Sylvia said. What ran through her mind was that she'd remember this day for the rest of her life, but not because she'd seen the president.

"You tell Mary Jane that I do so know what gilded means," George, Jr., said. "I learned it in school. And there's a wooden codfish inside there somewhere, and it's gilded, too. They call it the Sacred Cod." He frowned. "I don't know what sacred means."

"It means holy" Sylvia said. "And your brother's right, Mary Jane. Gilded does mean painted with gold paint. And I'll thank you not to call him names. You're supposed to know better than that."

"All right, Ma," Mary Jane said in tones of such angelic sweetness, Sylvia didn't believe a word of it. The face Mary Jane made at George, Jr., a moment later said her skepticism had been well founded.

Sylvia worked her way as close to the platform as she could. It wasn't close enough to satisfy her children, who set up a chorus of, "We can't see!"

At the moment, there wasn't anything to see. Sylvia pointed that out, but it did nothing to stem the chorus. She finally said, "When the president starts to speak, I'll pick both of you up so you can see him, all right?"

"Will you pick both of us up at the same time?" Mary Jane sounded as if she liked the idea.

"No!" Sylvia exclaimed. "If I do that, you and your brother can pick me up afterwards and carry me home." She thought that might calm them down. Instead, it got them jumping around with excitement. George, Jr., did try to pick her up, and kept trying till she had to smack him to get him to quit.

After what seemed like forever, people started coming out of the New State House and going up onto the platform. They had the same look to them: plump men, middle-aged and elderly, many with big drooping mustaches, all of them in somber black suits with waistcoats. Most wore top hats; a few of the younger ones contented themselves with homburgs. They might have been rich undertakers. In fact, they were Democratic politicians.