Michael Lydon, Fusion, September 1972
JUNE TODAY, not busting out in Boston where the sky is as grey as the pigeons, but here. My trip has continued from Bloomington across Ohio and corners of West Virginia and Pennsylvania, through rolling Maryland, and into wet, green Washington where a hitchhiking rock club waitress told me George Wallace had been shot hours before. School kids were trouping through the Smithsonian's hall, and with them I stared at the charred shields of spacecraft and the Spirit of St. Louis. Federal grandeur is hard on the dogs. "We've still got a twenty-minute walk to the car," said a mother to an exhausted four-year-old.
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