In the fall of 1918, the war languishing over there was nearly done, and each day more homes displayed black wreaths on their doors, telling everyone who passed that this was a family in mourning. The Patriotism wasn’t as strong as it once had been, and every day more people wondered aloud what it had all been for. Still, we continued to picket the White House with our banners, imploring the President, and still we were ignored.
Increasingly, I left the comfort of Cameron House for sentinel duty outside the White House gates. The sedentary work of letter writing and phone calling began to agitate me. I preferred to stand in the clean autumn air even though the clouds in the sky hovered over us with flannel-faced malice, as though Mother Nature herself was content to keep the women waiting
