Washington — I'm a liberal, and I love Eisenhower Republicans after viewing the new memorial for the 34th president. There are few such moderates left in President Donald Trump's deadly wake.

The dedication ceremony happened on a rainy September night. It made me proud to be an American for the first time in four years. Most Americans, in fact, liked President Dwight D. Eisenhower, a man of few words and no tweets. As the slogan said, "I like Ike."

I wasn't born yet during his presidency of peace and prosperity, but gosh, the 1950s seem swell now. 2020 just brought grief: over 210,000 lost lives in the pandemic and the COVID-19 case-in-chief.

Compared with a boastful president who contaminates the West Wing and the Pentagon with the coronavirus, pays pennies on his taxable wealth, and insults and interrupts through a debate, I like Ike.

Eisenhower's slight smile was calming. Imagine that. You knew what would happen next with a man who knew how to run an army at war and a country at peace. The strong old soldier was everything the slipshod showman Trump is not — but wishes he was.

The contrast couldn't be clearer as we descend to the lowest rungs of government anyone living can remember.

Close your eyes. Leave Trumpian chaos, fear and uncertainty.

Sixty years ago, Eisenhower, on the cusp of 70, would soon hand the torch to John F. Kennedy, 43, the sunrise of a new generation. While in office, Eisenhower had a heart attack and also underwent surgery at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. He didn't do defiant balcony photo-ops. Nor did he order Secret Service agents to drive him around the grounds so he could wave at circus crowds.

Ike wasn't the most exciting guy, but hey, that's OK. He exuded character in command in the father-knows-best spirit.

Eisenhower was a Kansas farm boy who went to West Point and became the supreme allied commander of D-Day. That's the famous 1944 invasion of Normandy, France, which made World War II victory all but certain.

Shockingly, he wrote before, soldiers, sailors and airmen would do "all that bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt, it is mine alone."

When our siege is over, go visit the striking homage to Eisenhower on Independence Avenue at the foot of the Capitol, beautifying a brutalist building of the federal government with the world's largest sculptural tapestry. It represents Normandy's cliffs and coast.

Even if Eisenhower had never become president, storming Normandy was a great place in history.

The architect, Frank Gehry of California, told the gathering (by Zoom) that it's one of his proudest public works. He reveals Eisenhower's life progression from a farm-boy figure.

The memorial vision was refined as cutting-edge Gehry weathered resistance from the Eisenhower family. At the opening, an Army male chorus sang in the rain, and the Marine Band played.

When Eisenhower called out the 101st Airborne, it wasn't to harm peaceful protestors. The reason was to integrate Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, and protect nine black schoolchildren.

He's best known for building interstate highways, which cut swaths through city neighborhoods.

But as an American general, Eisenhower witnessed human remains of executions at a German concentration camp, part of Buchenwald. For me, the most moving testament he ever made was searching every "nook and cranny" of the death camp to witness horror for history — and speak against deniers of atrocities.

On his way out, Eisenhower warned of the "military industrial complex." His sage farewell was ironic, as he heightened the Cold War.

The 1950s were a lot like Ike: more complex than they seemed on the serene surface. The decade and the president matched in another way. The times and the man were relentlessly masculine.

American women were expected to embrace home and enjoy their new appliances. There was no public role for women in Eisenhower's world — and no place at "stag night" White House dinners. The old soldier simply liked the company of men at work and in his favorite games of golf and bridge.

Trump didn't show up to honor his perfect opposite. They had only one thing in common, anyway: golf.

Jamie Stiehm writes on Washington politics and history. She may be reached at JamieStiehm.com. To read her weekly column and find out more about Creators Syndicate columnists and cartoonists, please visit creators.com.