Since 1981

I took a trip to Washington, D.C., with some other Corps members last Saturday. We saw the usual sights, the monuments and the museums. We also stopped by the White House.

Across the street from the back entrance to the White House, I met an old man in a black-leather biker jacket camped on the sidewalk. He was manning a protest, against nuclear armaments and wars consisting of him, his beagle, a tryptic of hand-painted wooden signs, a camp-stool, a day old copy of the Washington Post open atop a milk crate in front of him, and a large plastic tarp behind him in case of rain.

"How long has this been going on?" I asked.

"Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, since 1981," the man replied.

I whistled in amazement and went back to reading the slogan painted on the tryptic and shaking my head at the graphic photos of survivors of Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

A family of three passed on the sidewalk behind me. I heard the little boy ask, "Daddy, what's he doing?"

"Protesting," the father said, smiling at me.