In the Middle of Things - Vicki Rubini

Dear Patriot of the Twenty-first Century,

Your last letter finally arrived. Looking at the return address, I rejoiced to learn that there is still a United States of America. So I guess that old conundrum about whether the sun carved on the back of my chair is rising or setting has an answer. My country lives on.

Now, to the point. You called me a rock star and insinuated I am full of vainglory, as my likeness is seen commonly on currency, stamps, statuary, and art work. I am confounded as to why this nation, a nation born of the blood of many fine young men, would determine to render me so frequently. I am pox-marked and – dare I confess it – toothless. Granted, Ben Franklin is no beauty queen either, and he, too, I hear, is often depicted. If my descendants had to illustrate us, why did they choose to portray us as old men? Why have we not been painted in our prime, youthful blood and vigor stirred by the desire to form what we truly believed in, “a more perfect union”? Napoleon’s artists painted him in such manner - and he was short and ugly, even in youth.

Perhaps someone should commission an artist to create a character– a sort of John Bull figure, if you will – American style. Broad shouldered, on a fine stallion, hair blowing in the free winds of liberty, John Eagle could inspire American citizens to seek education, not statutes; generosity of spirit, not taxation, personal industry, not lethargy. In short, your generation would benefit by the spirit of the Enlightenment that shaped the eighteenth century. E Pluribus Unum, and all that. One nation of many patriots, patriots that cared about the good of the many, not selfish devices.

What am I saying? A man of many words I am not. Once the war was over, I hated the incessant banter in what you now call Independence Hall. Most of the time I just looked at the leafy trees and dreamed of my own independence from government at Mount Vernon. A plate of New England maple syrup poured over Southern corn pone, served by a crackling fire, and a little alone time with Martha would have been of great comfort.

Alas! After months and months of loud mouthed Massachusetts’s fervor and bellowing from the cocky Virginians, the arguing finally ended! But could I go home? No, my Modern Patriot, indeed - I was put in the middle of a new stage. As you undoubtedly know, I was elected as president. My minuets with Martha would have to wait again. I did not fool myself that she would enjoy the bliss of lovemaking with a wooden-toothed, arthritic old gentleman any more in five years than she would at the present time, so I let the corn pone chill and dreams of romantic dalliances die.

So, in parting – please forbear insinuation that I love the attention. Madame, I assure, such is far, far from my thoughts. Pick a roll model that inspires you and your fellow patriots to bestow the blessings of liberty on your fellow man (and I hear woman is to be included too, now). Keep the dream of liberty alive.

As for me, you will be happy to know that in the afterlife, God grants us each a new, glorified body. So I really am in the middle of things. Martha waits.
Sincerely yours,
George Washington