I rounded the corner to get to my truck. I had caught part of the first half downtown at the Polit-tiki bar, a place with pressed tin ceiling and a bizarre Polynesian sports and political theme. The game was at the half, and I didn’t need any more beer. Michigan was comfortably ahead and it was time to go rustle up something for dinner. I looked up to see a little knot of people with pale faces. At their feet a surprisingly thick stream of dark ruby liquid was spreading slowly from under a chain link fence. Someone was down and bleeding badly. I asked the first person I came to, a prim older gentleman, if there had just been a shooting.

He said there hadn’t, the woman in the row house had just fallen down the decorative iron stairs. It was a long way. I looked at the rich pooling blood. There were two people on the other side of the fence assisting, and three on this side. Several things ran through my mind, none of them applicable. “Don’t move her,” I thought, possible neck or spinal damage. “Direct pressure to minimize the volume of the bleeding.” But I couldn’t see her head and could not see if there was evidence of skull fracture. The sirens rose in the background and with several others I ran to the street to wave down the fire truck.

A fire truck. What good was a fire truck, I wondered, except to have someone else’s hand apply pressure to a fractured skull? This was happening fifteen feet from where I stood at a respectful and uncertain distance. I heard other sirens in the distance, and having nothing meaningful to contribute, I started my truck and drove back the wrong way on the one-way street, flashing my lights at oncoming traffic to warn them that the way ahead was blocked.

I don’t know what happened to the woman, if she lived or died. If she was young or old. If she tripped or was pushed. I caught the end of the game when I got home on the computer, since they were showing some stupid Southeast Conference game instead of something important from the Big Ten. In the excitement of the victory over Purdue the image of the blood on the pavement stayed with me. You forget sometimes how fragile this all is, and that an ornamental iron balustrade could be the instrument of your transition to the Great Beyond. I had spent some time with the Great Beyond that afternoon, so the whole thing was very queer.

I had spent a couple minutes with Elbridge Gerry thinking about time and the past. He is right in front and you don’t need an appointment to see him, not bad for a former Vice President of the United States and the man who invented the Gerrymander, the first redistricting plan to advance narrow partisan interests in a brand new country. You may have seen the cartoon in your high school history book. It is an amphibious creature sliced into wildly shaped irregular parts that make it look like a salamander. The term “Gerrymander” was so witty and so appropriate that it is used today, and in fact the Republicans are merrily Gerrymandering the State of Texas as we speak.

This contemplative mood was intensified because I was at Congressional Cemetery in the southeastern part of the District. It was a lovely fall day, high cirrus clouds, temperature was just right for jeans. Congressional is one of the slightly sad gems of this crazy town. It is 32 !/2 acres of what was once a distant wilderness in the District on the East Branch of the Potomac, or what we know now as the Anacostia. The cemetery is now it is tucked into a quiet neighborhood with Pennsylvania Avenue to the south and DC General to the north and quiet African American neighborhoods of row houses to west. I had been meaning to go for a long time and it was not located far from the bar where the football game would be on TV.

It was a perfect combination of the sublime and the ridiculous.

The Cemetery has had a past as checkered as the city it serves. It should be known that the place has been on hard times for a long time, going to the dogs, in fact. There is no paid staff, only volunteers. The caretaker’s house is a rental unit. The occupant in 1972 was moved to get out and cut the grass herself when she heard that J.Edgar Hoover was coming to be buried. The rent on the caretaker’s house brings in $850 a month to the cemetery association, and important source of income.

The historic grounds have had their ups and downs, and mostly down in the second half of the last century and transportation improved and the bodies of the dead in this transient town could be transported home. Sen. Vance Hartke (D-Ind, remember him?) described the state of the cemetery in 1972 as “national disgrace.”

J. Edgar Hoover is perhaps the most famous American to be buried in Congressional lately. The quiet, private ceremony for the FBI chief renewed interest in the cemetery, whose 80,000 inhabitants include such disparate neighbors as a vice president, scores of senators and representatives, three Capitol architects, a handful of American Indian leaders, some Chinese residents of the District and the district’s first automobile accident victim.

It does not get the attention that Arlington does, which is appropriate, I suppose, but the reason I think is that Arlington Cemetery is in Virginia. They have a Congressman and two Senators there to advocate doing the right thing. That is one of the reasons that things don’t happen in the District. There is no representative in Congress except Eleanor Holmes Norton and she cannot vote, only scold. No one likes to hear her very much. There are no Senators to protect the place, nor so long as the Republicans own the leadership will there ever be. They will be Gerrymandering to ensure that they stay in charge, the same way the Democrats did before they became complacent.

Washington is like Blanche DuBois, who must rely on the kindness of strangers who no longer stay here forever. Even in this cemetery the remains of some of the more famous names etched on the headstones are interred elsewhere. The monuments are of a spectacularly ugly design, clustered together in two areas of the cemetery. Benjamin Latrobe, architect of the Capitol, designed something grander for those Members who died in office and were buried elsewhere. They are called cenotaphs, or “empty tombs.”

The stones there that say Henry Clay and John Calhoun are two of the cenotaphs. The 3-by-5 foot monuments were put in place for a few years after 1812, when the vestry of Christ Church Episcopal voted to set aside 100 plots for use of congressmen and senators. (In 1820, the reservation was extended to include heads of federal departments and their families.) It became a federally financed custom to erect the sandstone cenotaphs even if the memorialized politician’s body had been removed to another location, or had never been placed there.

The Washington Herald summed up the look-and-feel of the cenotaphs well in the 1930’s:

“These official monuments, unusual in their ugliness, are of sandstone and consist of a six-foot square base, surmounted by a pyramidal top reaching to a height of about five feet. Stonecutters frequently were careless and misspelled words and missing dates are numerous. Who selected this form of monument is not known, but in 1877 an act was passed that abolished these tombs, as “it adds new terrors to death.”

Near the rows of cenotaphs is a low brick mound called “The Public Vault,” which was constructed in 1835 as a holding area for famous remains. A sort of national hotel for the dead, who included the bodies of Presidents William Henry Harrison, John Quincy Adams, and Zachary Taylor and First Ladies Dolly Madison and Louisa Adams. They rested here briefly as arrangements were made pending removal to their home states

The cemetery was its own destination in the early days, and the church’s original congregation considered itself the capital city’s nobility. Their vision for the eternal park was that it be “not large but sufficiently elegant.” But the affluence of the congregation disappeared as its members became commuters. The military nobility had gained Arlington as a final duty station. Congressional sank into a long decline, the elegant marble spires and monuments settling into the dirt at crazy angles and tombstones toppling. A child was crushed by such an event years ago. The place was a hazard.

The grounds had once been so far from town proper L’Enfant’s great plan for the city was incomplete. The cemetery could only be reached by meandering paths and mourners walked behind the hearse. The Washington Asylum (poor and workhouse) was constructed to the north in 1846, and the DC Jail in 1870. Under Mayor Berry’s reign, it was not uncommon for bursts of gunfire to rattle the tombstones from trigger-happy guards. Local residents like to stroll through the cemetery, sometimes using it as a shortcut to the Anacostia River just beyond. It was used as a picnic ground in the 1970s, like they say General Grant’s Tomb in New York is today.

Among the others I was here to visit today were Civil War photographer Matthew Brady, Choctaw Chief Push-Ma-Ta-Ha, and 21 young women who died following an explosion at the U.S. Arsenal in the District on June 17, 1864. And casualties of the USS Princeton disaster. Assorted mayors and confidants to George Washington. And suffragettes and disorderly journalists and Associate Justices of the Supreme Court. Not to mention the Commodore who captured Jean Lafitte and J. Edgar Hoover, and John Philip Sousa. The Marine Band still comes down to play a special program of his marches on his birthday each year.

Along the way, I met some people I had no previous knowledge of, too. There was Annie Royall, a woman who was the hedda Hopper of her times. On her tombstone is the inscription reading: “Annie Royall, 1769-1854. Hated Presbyterians; liked all other denominations, and was especially a good friend of the Masons. She was sentenced to be ducked in the Potomac River for her rantings in Court.”

But this was a lost place. Burials nearly ceased after 1920, with Sousa’s funeral in 1932 an exception. The long fifty-year slide began. The river view disappeared in scrub trees and the grass grew long over the stones. By the 1970’s things were wild west at the cemetery. Over 125 tombstones were knocked over at the beleaguered facility, 25 on one morning alone. The suspect eluded a police dragnet. There was special surveillance after a vandalism spree over the past three months in which its outer wall was partially destroyed, five crypts broken into, valuable jewels taken from graves and 150 tombstones overturned. Most of the 32-acre tract at 18th and E Streets S.E. looked exactly like Senator Hartke said: decidedly unkempt. Weeds grow knee-high; tree roots and vandals have dislodged headstones, dogs roam at will.

On the side of the hill that faces the river is Vault Row. Before the trees grew up there was a fabulous view. But now the brush obscures the vista on the downhill side of the chain link fence. Oh, structures are in good enough shape, shoulder to shoulder like the row houses that make up Capitol Hill’s neighborhoods. The construction was solid in the old Cave-dweller family mausoleums, good solid New England granite. But the contents are not what they could be. In the early 1990s police in the three jurisdictions broke up a ring that was vandalizing the contents of the family crypts, stealing skulls for Satanic rituals. I saw the evidence of the vandalism there yesterday. Interesting. Inside the rusting metal grating the marble slabs with the inscriptions had been pried away, the open cavities dark and dank where the coffins of the notables had rested.

In contrast, the areas around memorials to members of Congress are regularly manicured by a government crew. Men from the Marine Barracks tend the graves of Navy men and Marines, including that of bandmaster Sousa.

It is ironic that it is the dogs who have saved the cemetery, or at least their owners. The place was in a disastrous condition. But it was disastrous and open. And so came the dog walkers. As the Hill began to be re-claimed by the yuppies, they needed a place to walk their dogs. Congressional was a perfect place to do it. No one cared about their presence, though it was private, and the leash-laws didn’t apply. Perfect place for urban pioneers and their canine companions. True to their nature, the yuppies organized, and thus the canines may be Congressional’s salvation. Dog owners are expected to pay $100 a year and $5 per dog to use the cemetery grounds. And pick up after, too. I must say that I didn’t step in anything except the grass as I walked across the undulating field of settled earth over the old graves.

At the head of the field of cenotaphs I saw a handsome Golden Retriever relieving himself on a Congressional marker. I refrain from mentioning which one, out of respect for his memory. But I did comment to the owner that they had finally found a decent use for old politicians. I continued on under the blue skies, marveling at the lavish carving on the Victorian monuments, even if some of them were at rakish angles.

The walking tour says that the little tract in the far corner by the river is “military.” It is not. The two-and-a-half rows of government-issue stones are all Marines and Sailors. They are in rigid uniformity and they are all upright, at attention. There are sailors with ratings that no longer exist in this world. Paymaster Clerk. Coal Heaver. The Marines are mostly Privates, probably from the Eighth and I Street Barracks. But there is a Marine First Sergeant who served 39 years on active duty. He has a non-regulation stone to mark the tribute, and although broken, is propped upright and in line. I saluted the First Shirt who must be the ghostly detachment’s Non-commissioned Officer in Charge. This would be a fine place to wind up someday, but for whatever reason, it was used from 1898 to 1903 and the line abruptly changes back into non-regulation civilian stones, most toppled or gone.

There are certainly enough Admirals and Generals here. Crusty Commandant of the Marine Corps Archibald Henderson is here. He was an Indian fighter and in charge of the Corps for a staggering 39 years. They named the Headquarters of the Corps after him, Henderson Hall. He is under a bleached white spire. It is said that when the announcement was made that there would be a Woman’s volunteer branch of the Corps his portrait in the War Department leapt off the wall, damaging a silver set donated by the Government of Japan.

The latest notable to be buried at Congressional was FBI Director, J. Edgar Hoover, who died in 1973. Others include Civil War photographer Matthew Brady, Capitol architect William Thornton, and Vice President Elbridge Gerry, of gerrymander fame.

The Cemetery wanted to look ahead to such possibilities as cenotaphs for Rep. Hale Boggs of Louisiana and Sen. Philip Hart of Michigan. I saw that Boggs was there. I will have to go back and see if Phil Hart was ever memorialized.

The walking guide is curiously mute about some Congressional’s residents. There is a co-conspirator of the Lincoln assassination, but his grave is unmarked. There is an asterisk in the guide but no note to mention of a special interest section in the Strategic Plan. The Association is reaching out to anyone it can in an effort to get volunteers and funds to stabilize the grounds and preserve the monuments. Gay veterans are one of the constituencies.

It is appropriate that I found SSGT Richard Matlovich, USAF, at the corner heading up to the Hoover Family stone. His marker is a headstone and a big black slab. He has two triangles on the headstone and the notation that “The Air Force gave me a medal for killing two men, and a discharge for loving one.”

“Never again,” says a bench in similar black material next to it. Across the lane is another granite stone, this one white and placed by someone still living, or at least without the date of death filled in. It says “Gay Vietnam Veteran.”

Hoover’s stone up the hill is shared with his parents, and the FBI Association of Special Agents has placed a wrought iron fence around it so that the dogs do not urinate on it. The fence has the FBI seal and there is a metal bench right in front in case Hoover’s long-time personal assistant Clyde Tolson might want to come down and sit a moment and reflect on the legacy of the late Director.

At the very front of the property is the memorial to Gerry, pronounced with a hard “G” as opposed to the way we pronounce the Gerrymander. He was a character. he signed the Declaration of Independence, a document which is treated better here in town than he is, and did not sign the Constitution, though he had the opportunity to do so. He declined because he thought that too much power was given to the Chief Executive. He was headed to the Capitol to preside over the Senate when he was overcome by a pulminary ailment and died in his carriage. He was 70, and believed that if a citizen only had one day of constructive life, it was best to spend it in service to his nation.

His monument, constructed at the public expense, is in good shape. A few feet further, hard by the little wrought iron-gate I would use to take my leave, is the stone memorializing Commodore Tingey. He is located hard by the caretaker’s building, a tan brick structure built to replace the original in the 1930s. He might even be under it. His sandstone slab is framed by heavy iron to keep it intact and erect.

The Commodore was the first Commandant of the Washington Navy Yard, the oldest naval base in the nation. He was also instrumental in the Church and in establishing this burying ground. He was in charge of the Navy Yard so long that when he passed away he left the Flag Quarters to his wife in his will. It took a couple months for the Navy to send someone around to politely ask her to move out so the new Commandant could move in.

Such is the gulf between the living and the dead, and the bridges between them. Congressional is a bridge, I thought, and wondered if they got the lady who fell down the steps to DC General in time to save her.

Copyright 2003 Vic Socotra