Washington D.C. 1978
Me feeding the gray squirrels at the National Mall in Washington, D.C. spring of 1978
On a typical Saturday, my father’s attire was a pair of green work pants and a white T-shirt. With a Budweiser in his hand, he’d be working on some type of project around the house. Perhaps it was in the basement at his work bench with his tools lined up on the peg boards and saw dust gatherings. Sometimes Dad would cut our acre lawn with the green self-propelled Lawn Boy. I can recall the small cans of 2-stroke oil he’d put into the special gas can and the smell of his smokey, sweatiness as I stood close by to watch. It was the odor of a hardworking man and to me that equated to love.
On Sundays, my father’s attire was a suit coat, tie and button down shirt. He had a small ceramic box atop his dresser that was filled with different tie clasps. He wore “stink-um” (his word for deodorant) and Old Spice aftershave. This was the smell of going to church. Mom and I would wear dresses and my father, a gentleman, would open the door for us to enter. My family had a specific pew that we sat in every Sunday. Since my parents were founding members of our parish, it was known that the Krahe’s would be attending 9:30am Mass and no one took “our” spot. As a child, I hadn’t realized the implication of that honor. It’s just where we always sat.
On certain Fridays, my father would pull out a large brown garment bag from his closet and lay it across his bed. These were the weekends he had go away and report for Active Duty. It was entrancing and exciting because my father didn’t just pack. He performed a ceremony. And I was captivated.
He’d start by lowering a pair of black patent leather shoes into the base of his brown duffel bag as if he were laying foundation stones. Their mirror-shine engulfed thick black socks stuffed deep into the toes to keep the leather from collapsing.
Next, my father layered pristine white cotton skivvies and t-shirts pressed into sharp, right-angled bricks, followed by two handkerchiefs ironed so flat they looked like sheets of paper, tucked neatly into the side gaps. My father’s hands moved with practiced precision toward the ditty bag, sliding the safety razor and a heavy tin of shaving cream into their slots next to his black plastic comb and toothbrush.
Then came the sound I eagerly waited for. The protest of the hinges on the small black square box as he checked his cufflinks, followed by that final, definitive clack as the lid snapped shut. His tiny black squeeze top pouch with the gold cross imprint containing his worn silver and black beaded rosary was always the last item to be stored, essential for my father’s trips away. Beside the duffel sat my father’s mysterious gray attaché case, its silver tumblers glinting under the overhead light. I’d stare at those locks, wondering what combination of numbers held the secrets of his world inside.
My hands wanted to touch these sacramentals, already knowing the weight of each item and the exact tension of the thick zippers. By the time I was eight, I didn’t need to be told the order of operations. I just sat on the edge of my father’s bed and felt the familiar rhythm of the room shift toward the door.
On occasion, he would bring me and my mom on his trips to the Office of Naval Intelligence and the Reserve Officers Training Corps in Washington D.C. My father was a career reservist who was background investigator for the Judge Advocate General. It was only on these trips that I saw my father in his professional Naval attire. One trip in 1978 remains in my memory.
When he stepped out in his Service Dress Whites, my father moved with a confident gravity that seemed to part the humid D.C. air. The starch in his uniform held a crispness that looked like it might snap if he bent an elbow. The gold buttons with the proud eagles caught the spring sun, casting flickering reflections against the marble facades. The Officer escorted us toward the Metro with a stride so sure that tourists instinctively cleared a path.
We descended the long, plunging escalators into the belly of the city, entering a foreign world of concrete vaults and cooling shadows. The air down there held a peculiar amalgamation of hot copper, damp stone, and the sour tang of old newspapers. I watched the floor, where a fine, invisible grit crunched beneath the soles of a thousand commuters, and looked at the chrome poles stained with the inky smears of morning headlines. Then came the low foreboding rumble that I felt in my marrow before I saw the headlights.
With a protective hand on my back, my father ushered me through the crowd to find a place to stand. Once on, I latched on to him as an appendage, holding tightly as the train moved us further into the unknown. "Next stop... Foggy Bottom." I giggled. The name sounding like a fairy-tale swamp rather than a destination for men in high-collared uniforms. I cannot recall where exactly we disembarked but I do recall reemerging into the welcoming sunlight. I was relieved to come out of the smelly, dark cave.
Above ground, the National Mall stretched out like a green sea, bisected by long, tan paths of crushed tan pea gravel that crunched underfoot and puffed up tiny clouds of dust with every step. Inside the Natural History Museum, rooms of taxidermized animals and fake people fascinated me. I stood motionless beneath a massive Bengal tiger, its glass eyes fixed on something in the beyond, his massive, tufted paws frozen in a permanent, mid-air pounce.
That day ended with a souvenir from the Air and Space Museum - a silver pouch of freeze-dried strawberry ice cream. I can recall the sound of munching on a chalky, brittle pink piece and the creaminess of the treat as I let it melt on my tongue. Back at our hotel room, Mom helped me get ready for a special outing and I had to wear a little blue dress that had some ribbons woven through the bodice. My white Mary Jane shoes were shiny patent faux leather, just like my father’s shiny shoes. That made me feel very special.
Back in the hotel room, Mom held up my white tights, opening the legs for me. I steadied myself on her arms as I pushed my little toes down into the stockings. Her fingers glided across the bodice of my dress, carefully adjusting the thin silk ribbons woven through the blue fabric. I tried to stand still as she smoothed the skirt, but my attention remained fixed on my new white Mary Janes waiting at the foot of the bed. I slid my feet into the cool, synthetic leather. They possessed that same mirror-shine that mimicked the black patent leather shoes that Dad had meticulously buried in the base of his duffel bag earlier that morning.
After I strained to push the prongs of the buckles into the silver straps, I walked over to the mirror to witness my transformation. I found myself standing a little straighter, my chin lifting to match my father’s steady, horizontal gaze. Looking down at the twin reflections on my feet, I felt a surge of pride. I was a tiny, polished echo of the man in the Service Dress Whites whom I adored. I walked across the room with a deliberate, rhythmic step, finally belonging to the same disciplined world that my father moved through so effortlessly.
My last recollection from that trip is of a fancy dinner. The restaurant opened into an expansive dining room where the air seemed to shimmer with an amber, honey-toned glow. Polished brass fixtures wove through the space, catching the soft light and reflecting it against the deep chocolate hues of the leather booths and heavy wood paneling. It felt grand and hushed, almost like being in Saint Peter’s Cathedral back home.
I sat between my parents and my father gallantly pushed in my chair for me. Mom placed a thick dinner napkin on my lap and said I could have a Shirley Temple. I remember a heavy white bowl filled with Manhattan Clam Chowder. It was a briny mix of flaky white fish, sweet tomatoes, and a hint of peppery herbs. Each delicious spoonful yielded tender, chewy bits of clam and potatoes that melted away yet has remained in my memory. I have spent the decades since scanning the menus of seaside bistros and high-end eateries, chasing the ghost of that red-broth magic. Sometimes the memories of childhood are so pristine, even the best of reality cannot compare.
Upon returning home, the uniform came out of the garment bag for Mom to take to the dry cleaners. Dad’s rosary went back on his nightstand in its typical place. His squeaky patent leather shoes returned to the special position in his closet, in the back behind his everyday work shoes. My white Mary Janes found a special place in my closet, lined up with my other shoes, just like how my father organized his.
Over the years, my father encouraged me toward the Navy, even touring me past the Defense Language Institute in Monterey during my junior year of high school. I was approaching fluency in French and had a mind for the work, but I was too timid to envision a life on the other side of the country and in the service. The military was his calling, not mine.
Yet, I realize now that the ceremony I witnessed on the edge of his bed was never about the Navy. It was a lesson on how to meet the world: with a pressed shirt of confidence, a steady gaze of integrity, and a profound respect for the order of things. My father was planting the seeds of leadership in me.
A few years later, I found myself standing before my own mirror. I smoothed the fabric of a navy blue A-line skirt, adjusted my matching jacket, and checked the line of my dress shoes, each pair standing in a disciplined row in my closet, a direct inheritance from his. I picked up my leather Hiram College folder with the gold tips and placed it inside my burgundy leather briefcase. As I pushed the prongs into the locks, I heard that same definitive clack that had echoed through my childhood.
I wasn't heading to the Office of Naval Intelligence, but I was stepping into the world as a non-profit counselor with a heart oriented toward public service and a thirst for justice, just like my father. That 1978 trip to D.C. had provided me with the blueprint. I walked toward the door with a deliberate, rhythmic step, finally understanding that while I had chosen a different uniform, I was carrying the same gravity my father had shown me all those years ago.
April 19, 2026