Pauline Nevins

“It’s not Buckingham Palace,” my daughter teased – a reference to my English upbringing. We were in Washington, D.C., travelling with Tina, her husband, Brian, and their two friends, Alicia and Joe. Tina heard the White House was small and a little shabby. She didn’t want me to be disappointed.

We were thankful the tours had not been cancelled. This was 2014, when President Obama was in office. The weeks preceding our trip there had been calamities, from fence jumpers to riots that could have shut down the White House tours.

I loved the simplicity of the White House. I’ve toured European palaces and stately homes, and while these places were more grand, the style of “The People’s House” fit the spirit of the New World – elegant, but not too royal.

A visit to D.C. wouldn’t have been complete without a punt on the Potomac. On the boat from Georgetown to Alexandria, we pointed like excited children to the magnificent monuments we had seen the night before.

From the boat dock, our group sauntered up the cobblestone hill to Alexandria’s old town and stopped at the Visitor’s Center. The petite, grey-haired woman behind the counter was helpful but followed each of her suggested tourist sites with an “Oops, it’s closed today,” or with a worried glance at the clock on the wall, exclaiming, “It closes in 15 minutes.” One place that was open for at least an hour, she told us enthusiastically, was the Apothecary Museum.

A white-haired docent with a charming southern accent greeted us from behind the museum’s long marble counter.

“This museum was originally a pharmacy – one of the oldest in the nation,” he began, “founded in 1792 by Quakers who,” he said, followed with a dramatic pause, “purchased slaves so they could set them free.”

Tina and I exchanged smiles.

Glass cases and shelves were filled with bottles of all shapes, colors and sizes.

“People would leave a lot happier than when they came in,” the docent said as he pointed to a shelf of mysterious concoctions.

Our guide was an entertaining storyteller, his voice rising and falling for effect. My excitement mounted as we followed him up the narrow wooden stairs to the second floor and entered a small, empty room. We stood enraptured, listening to more history. The docent paused, and with a flourish, slowly slid open a door that looked like part of a wall.

We entered a wizard’s workshop. I expected Harry Potter to pop up at any minute. Dusty, hand-blown glass jars, once filled with secret potions, lined the shelves. Tiny drawers were stacked to the ceiling and labeled with herbal remedies that sounded more deadly than healthy. This was the apothecary manufacturing room.

The workshop looked exactly like it did when the pharmacy owner turned the key and walked away in 1933. Museum staff discovered this hidden treasure just a few years ago when they were preparing for restoration work. The museum curator had the good sense to forbid any reorganization.

Before leaving D.C., we had one more place to visit: The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. On our last evening, the six of us walked silently alongside the 10-foot-high black granite walls. Small circles of light from our miniature flashlights, thoughtfully supplied by Alicia, flickered across the etched names. We were searching for one name among the more than 58,000 soldiers killed, and the 1,200 who remain missing.

“What was the name again?” our daughter Tina asked her father, reaching into her purse for her iPhone.

“Eddie Butler,” Jim said. “He was in the Marines.”

Eddie was Jim’s friend. His parents had died, Jim remembered. As teenagers, they spent many lazy sunny afternoons fishing down at Erv’s Boat Landing on the Sacramento River.

“How will we find him?” I asked. “There are thousands of names, and they’re not in alphabetical order.”

Tina began reading from her iPhone: “PFC Edward Wayne Butler. Born on July 11, 1945, Sacramento, California. He died July 22, 1966, in Quang Nam.”

“That’s Eddie,” said Jim, standing several panels away from the rest of us.

Marine Pvt. Edward W. Butler enlisted in the Marines in October 1965 and was shipped to Viet Nam six months later. He served for three months before dying from a gunshot wound to his chest during an ambush. He was 21 years old.

“He’s on Panel 9E, Row 55,” Tina said, scanning the black marble with her light. “Let’s see where we are.” She walked toward her father.

“I don’t believe it. Dad’s standing in front of Panel 9E.”

The rest of us crowded next to Jim, and each shone a light up, down and across the list of names.

“There he is,” said Jim.

He reached out and touched his friend.