I sometimes wonder whether or not it’s during an election year when an American’s patriotism is really tried—Bicker here, bicker there—ad hominem here, and a few there. Debate after debate falls from the candidates onto the people and forces me to wonder who really upholds the truths of the Constitution and, in a more critical sense, the truths of God and His morality. But patriotism is hard to come by (the stuff in stories, at least). I wonder whether or not American patriotism is another word for that feeling we get reading the epics of Homer and Joan of Arc and whether or not Washington and brave Montgomery (rest his head) fall into the same fold as the heroes who came before. I wonder if we Americans feel about Knox, Jefferson, Hamilton, Franklin, Washington, and Putnam in the same way the Romans must have felt about Romulus and Remus and if we recognize they are all of a similar breed of fantastic men. I wish we had a candidate like them, but I can see how wishing for men like that really ought to lead to men and boys simply starting to be that kind of man.
In my want for a dose of American Pride, I stumbled upon the fact that we were still passing by Mt. Rushmore. I’ve never been and had nothing to expect, and certainly could not have expected the mountain’s marvelousness, but I was really happy and pleased by the monument when I saw it. The setup to the moment, I figure, had as much to play in my delight as the grandness of the moment itself:
We’d just finished the longest drive so far of our adventure, about seven and a half hours, and found ourselves at Wrinkled Rock. Western South Dakota is full of wrinkled rocks. We arrived at sunset, and above our campsite was this massive boulder that poked out from its brood of smaller boulders in a sort of upward race for the multi-colored sky. River found the path, I followed, and we got a spectacular view of the sunset.
We crossed the highway the next morning and pressed up the highway to the monument. Rushmore itself had just caught the morning sun on the faces and the state flags, too, which went wonderfully with the morning. I’d found a quarter in my pocket with Rushmore on one side, and we paid our respects to the Idaho state flag.
I’ve dabbled in clay and in drawing, but I have never seen so large, so intricate, and so well boasting the American pride a sculpture as Mt. Rushmore. I might fall over if I ever saw Washington’s or Lincoln’s monument. American history has always been a very specific love of mine, and seeing the faces of such heroes displayed on the mountainside in all the glory of the morning pleased me very much. I wonder how we’ve displaced ourselves so far from that. It’s hard to put into words, but I mean the virtues of self-sacrifice, honor, nobility, and courage.
But in that sense, I think that even if Rushmore were to fall to rubble, D.C.D.C. to burn, New York, Boston, and Philadelphia to be overrun, or the Statue of Liberty to slip beneath the waves forever, the stories of the heroes in America and before will dwell in good men willing to entertain them and honor them. Sir Winston Churchill realized before me, and I think this is what I am really getting at, that if Britain did fall to the Axis powers, so long that they gave all that they had, all will, all strength, all their hearts to the cause, that they would live on lifted up in immortal hope. Perhaps that is the real quality of a hero and where real patriotism lies.
And, of course, here are some pictures.
