A Sunday Drive to Crawford - August 15, 2005.
The trek began early Sunday morning – a decision to drive 181 miles to support Cindy Sheehan, a courageous mother who lost her son in the Iraq War. She has taken a stand against the war, and against those who lied to justify the war, right outside the gates of George Bush’s ranch. She’s camped out in a ditch, literally, waiting for the President to speak with her. Waiting for him to take 10 minutes and answer her questions.
So there we were - two cars, two adults, 3 kids (no dog, although we considered it) a cooler of food and tons of bottled water for the Peace House. To me, it felt like Christmas Eve, anticipation and excitement in not know what we were about to experience. The 19 and 13-year-old daughters (complete with window sign – Honk if You’re Going to Crawford) followed the adults and the 9-year-old daughter. We were all together, and we were on a mission as we pulled out of the driveway and set out north on the monotonous I35 corridor.
Traveling that road is almost like pulling out your fingernails and we’ve done it many times visiting family in Dallas. On this occasion,we exited at Belton and were now in unfamiliar territory. 40 miles to Crawford, via Belton, Moody and McGregor – definitely small town Texas. Small towns with an air of depression; broken down houses and old faded businesses. Finally, we see the sign – Crawford – 10 miles. I start thinking about a scene in Lord of the Rings, as they approach Mordor and start to draw parallels - the air did seem a bit heavier as we sped closer to the Texas dwelling of George W. Bush.
Crawford is a tiny town with one main intersection. To the left of us, a convenience store and the obscenely decorated shrine to Bush, complete with gigantic Ten Commandment tablets. To the right, a bit down 5th street, The Crawford Peace House. We cheer as we approach and are amazed to see people everywhere. Parking is not an easy task in a small Texas town that’s not friendly to visitors, especially when the visitors may soon outnumber the population. There are NO PARKING signs everywhere, so we drive a bit to the football stadium and walk back up to the Peace House. We drag our cooler with us, hoping to find a spot in the grass for a bite to eat.
The Peace House is, in a nutshell, packed with people. Inside we found a sign-in center, a communications area and Cindy’s corner, where a PC sits for her to write correspondence. The kitchen is bustling and the aromas coming out of there are amazing. We walk out and around to the side of the house, where we see a canopy and tables adorned with tablecloths and flowers. Signs are going up – “Iranians for Peace” “Iraqis and American United for Peace” along with photos of Iraqi women. As we find a place to sit in the grass, we are told the luncheon’s guests will be Cindy Sheehan along with Iraqi and Iranian activists and Iraqi War Veterans and their families.
While we are waiting, we scrounge in our cooler for a snack. Daughters go off to help hang signs. There’s an announcement the luncheon is about to begin and Cindy has arrived. By this time, there were at least 200 people all over the grounds of the Peace House. Tables full of the most delicious-looking middle eastern food had been set up. Cindy arrives with much cheering and clapping. She looks a bit tired but is in good spirits. Everyone is told to eat. The food is plentiful and there’s more than enough – tons of bottled water and drinks too. I looked at the cooler and smiled, feeling a bit silly. We didn’t even need to bring it. Those wonderful people cooked and provided a hot meal for every single person who had come to support Cindy. How could we not eat their food? I think to myself that if this had been a conservative event, the bottled water would have cost $5 each. My two younger daughters go to volunteer serving drinks.
So we eat. I can’t begin to know the proper names of all the prepared dishes. I will say it is a feast – and all delicious. The mood is festive and everyone incredibly friendly. As we eat, we hear from Cindy, who talks about being personally attacked – she says she has thin skin and what they’re saying hurts her deeply. She is resolved though. She also says something that stays with me throughout the day, as we walk and sweat in the 96-degree Texas heat. Being there, camping in a ditch, enduring the heat, is nothing compared to what our soldiers have to endure every day in Iraq; what they have to go through every day just to stay alive. My daughters here these words too and don’t complain all day long.
We then hear from an Iraqi man who talks about the war and why it’s wrong and hurting Iraqis. He faults the White House for not understanding the Iraqis can take care of themselves, for making the divide between the Kurds, Shiites and Sunnis even worse instead of bringing them together. He says the US media doesn’t show us what’s really going on there.
There are more speakers, more eating and then a prayer for the Iraqis – everyone under the canopy and on the grounds are asked to join hands in unity. We do. It is quite moving as we all fall silent and bow our heads.
Things start to break up now. So many people, and my wish to meet Cindy in person is dashed as she is whisked back to Camp Casey. We decide to stick around the Peace House a bit longer and help clean up. There are lots of dogs lounging in the grass and I notice they’re all panting in the heat. I find some bowls and distribute a cool drink to them. The lapping of water tells me they’re appreciative.
We decide to put the cooler back in the car and head to Camp Casey. My two older daughters take the long walk back to the stadium for the car. While they are walking, arriving supporters on their way to park stop and give them a ride. In turn, daughters bring them back up to the Peace House. Daughters are tickled by the camaraderie exhibited by everyone.
We are told the best way to get to Camp Casey is the shuttle service so we head out to the road in front of the Peace House to wait. Unfortunately, just about everyone else is waiting too. The shuttle service is a group of volunteers driving their own vehicles and buying their own gas and at the moment there’s too few vehicles and too many people to transport. We look at the crowd and make the decision to drive to Camp Casey on our own. We are told there is parking along the side of the road.
Off we go, back through that intersection and then making a left turn at the Lutheran Church. The narrow road leading to Camp Casey seems endless with sharp twists and turns. There are many vehicles going in each direction so the 50 MPH speed limit is not possible. Eventually we turn and up ahead we can see a grassy triangle and the convergence of three roads. The Camp Casey sign is visible in the trees to our left. There’s nothing out here but flat Texas prairie and fences. We see two huge trucks heading towards us so we pull off the road a bit – they’re catering trucks. I wonder out loud if they came from Bush’s ranch. Probably I say; can’t imagine they actually do any cooking out there.
We continue up the road to the right of the triangle. This triangle is a large privately owned grassy area. The owner has prohibited anyone from setting foot on it; signs are posted and a ‘guard’ stands watch. Off to the right is a small group of Bush supporters. There are maybe 20 of them; a pick-up truck is adorned with several huge American Flags and a Texas Flag. One of the men has an American Flag draped around his body. I see a small boy dressed in Army fatigues next to a sign that reads, “I am not afraid”. We drive past them and park on that side of the road.
To our left is Camp Casey. It sprawls out in two directions – up the road to the left and then down the main road, in the grassy ditch, across from that triangle. For anyone who has never been to Texas, every inch of ground in this area is privately owned and
fenced. There’s usually a 6-8 foot wide area off the road (a ditch) and then a fence. That’s the space given to Cindy and those camping with her.
We start walking up the road to the left, past the Code Pink table, past the tent where people can write a letter to Bush (I see a woman writing a letter and crying). We head on up past so many tents and people and see Cindy’s van. She is inside taking a nap. We continue without stopping, respecting her privacy. We see a local news channel van across the way interviewing the Bush supporters.
There are two porta potties towards the end of this stretch of road. We are relieved to see them and after taking turns head back down the road towards the triangle. We turn left on to the main road and stretching out before us are white grave markers, lining the side of the road, 2-3 rows deep. We stop and say nothing. They go on for about about 250 yards, names of fallen American soldiers written on them. Some are adorned with flowers and American flags. There’s a tent with a photo of Casey Sheehan and on the ground below is his marker. The sign reads “We Demand Accountability”.
We start walking, and reading. The names…all those names. My 19-year-old daughter sees someone she recognizes from high school and gets teary. The walk seems endless, cars are driving past. There are many of us in a line, walking single file down the street. We see a car driving up slowly, a woman leans out and calls us freaks. There are others who drive past in disdain and I wonder why. At least, they should have respect for the dead and those of us there to honor them.
We reach the end of the markers and see the Arlington (cemetery) of Crawford sign. It tells us there are 842 markers in honor of our fallen soldiers. I glance up the road and try to imagine if over 1000 more were added to what’s already here. The enormity of it gets to me and I start crying. We hike back up the road in silence. Even my daughters are silent. I think about the Iraq War and I think about the events that led to it – about the lies that were told by George Bush and our government to gain support for the invasion. My feelings of sadness are mixed with anger.
It’s now 5 pm and we decide it’s time to head home; jobs and the real world will prevent us from staying any longer. We say goodbye to some people and look one last time to see if Cindy is around. It appears they’re setting up for an interview and as far as we can tell she’s still in her van. We move off to the car, a bit disappointed we haven’t met Cindy in person, but also realizing her cause has grown beyond just a few people and she can’t meet everyone. We honk and wave as we drive out of Camp Casey and out of Crawford Texas.
Although we are completely exhausted, we are exhilarated and feeling good. We reflect on the people we met, the mood at the Peace House and Camp Casey, and the growing numbers in support of Cindy Sheehan. More and more people are descending on Crawford every day – it’s truly amazing. We also agree it was worth it to be a part of something that could be the impetus for change in this country. Sometimes it does take only one person to make a difference.
My thoughts wander as the car speeds down I35 towards home and into a thunderstorm. I think about the media and Bush supporters painting the anti-war protesters who have come to Crawford as scary, radical nutty people. It is sad they can’t step outside of their own narrow-mindedness to see how wrong they are. What I saw today was a great cross-section of Americans exercising their right to free speech. All kinds of people, and families like mine, who have never felt the need to get actively involved until now.
We continue driving and are relieved to eventually make our way out of the thunderstorm. I glance to my left and see a magnificent, perfectly-shaped rainbow. We all ooooh and aaaaah.
A good omen, I think.
Pics will follow when I figure out how to post. I took a lot!
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