Within Reach

In the Great Room of Faneuil Hall, beneath a towering painted mural of Daniel Webster addressing an august nineteenth century assemblage, a twenty-first century audience bellowed “Fie!” 

Heads swiveled and people shifted in their seats, some fanning themselves with the cards in their hands. It was a tee-shirt and shorts crowd on a sweltering July 4^th in 2026, but the words spoken and the cause in dispute were those of 1776. A  woman in a red and whited striped camisole read the words of Farmer Joan Hackett and glared at those opposing her claim. “Great Britain has always had our best interests at heart. Without the empire we are defenseless against the ambitious, dangerous nations of Europe. London has always served us as a noble guide and governor. It’s a mistake voting for independence!” 

“Fie! Fie!” Despite the words, the mood was rowdy and exuberant as the bearded moderator in a lavender greatcoat and flounce of white collar banged his gavel. “Enough! In fairness we must hear both sides! Who else would speak?”

Hands flew up around the room, Dave’s among them. He, too, had been given a card by a uniformed National Park Service member and was eager to play his role. But a man in a blue “Boston 250” tee-shirt rose in the back and introduced himself. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Samuel Adams.”

“Ahhhhh…” crowed the crowd in admiring recognition and perhaps envy that this individual had drawn the card of the famous Revolutionary leader. 

With his shoulders back and spine straight, and perhaps an imagined tri-corn hat atop his head, “Mr. Adams” hissed, “If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude than the animating contest of freedom – go from us in peace.”

For clarity’s sake, I think Mr. Adams could have improved his grammar, but knowing his intent, the room erupted. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” and no amount of gavel rapping could quiet the cheers nor dampen the spirits of these pilgrims to the Cradle of Liberty for America’s 250^th.  In the row in front of us, a young lad in Colonial garb leapt to his feet and waved his tri-corn hat in the air. Like most others in the room, his face was animated, his smile broad at this effort to recapture the energy of the centuries old debate. 

While the cards distributed represented the actual words of wigmakers, midwives, seamstresses, and coopers, many of the day’s visitors were women, children, and people of color who would have been denied entry to this hall in 1776, not being white men of property. Without doubt, that spurred the vehemence of the speakers: a wish to give life and voice to those suppressed in the past. Hear us now! 

A woman, once given leave to address the room, rose and announced, “I am Abigail Adams.” 

I couldn’t help myself, “Go Abigail!” I cried, knowing what she would say. In truth, her words were never said aloud, but written to her husband, John, as he and his fellow Founders deliberated at the Continental Congress in Philadelphia. 

“… By the way,” her stand-in said, “in the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make, I desire you would remember the ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power in the hands of the husbands.” The woman paused, her gaze sweeping the room as she raised an eyebrow and smiled a thin, purposeful, smile. “Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.”

“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” We roared our support for this Founding Mother who was home doing it all in her husband’s absence: running the farm, caring for children, and attending to finances. 

At the end of the program, audience members were invited to come to the podium to sign a document in support of independence. The queue was long, and I felt proud to scratch my name with that feathered quill. As I passed it off to the next person in line, the moderator said, “Thanks for committing treason while you’re in town.” 

Many forget, since the battle was won and the Founding Fathers glorified in history’s tomes, paintings, and sculpture, that in signing the Declaration, under British law, they were traitors. They did not take lightly the final sentence above their signatures: “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.”  

How I wish honor carried more weight in government in 2026.     

Dave and I had begun our day in Boston in the shadow of the old State House with thousands of others braving sweltering heat to hear the Declaration of Independence read. Why had we not thought to wear red, white, and blue? Everyone else had. A kind woman gave my navy sundress an appraising look and said, “I have two flags.  Would you like one?”

Of course. Thank you. 

We chatted with those around us, folks from Michigan, California, and New Orleans, some in Boston for the first time, drawn, as we were, to celebrate this momentous anniversary in the city so pivotal to the Revolution. 

Powerful amps boomed Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.,” Lynyrd Skynrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama,” and John Denver’s “Country Road.” The playlist was perfect, and we, united in music and celebration, swayed and sang along.  

When the simple drumbeat strains of Ray Charles version of “America the Beautiful” began, my nose prickled with wistfulness; the ideals of which he sings seem so elusive. Charles opens, not with the traditional first verse, but with the third: 

“O beautiful for heroes proved 

In liberating strife.

Who more than self their country loved

And mercy more than life!”

In this time of power hunger, greed, deportations and detention camps, those words are poignant. And the final line, “And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea” could break your heart. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised that more people joined in on “American Pie.” 

Ultimately, Captain Commanding John S. Damiano of the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of Massachusetts appeared on the State House balcony above us and read the grievances against King George III that sparked calls for Independence, some unnervingly pertinent today. We were many thousands beneath that balcony and filling Congress Street as far as Faneuil Hall, but we listened quietly, sometimes ruefully nodding or shaking heads at the mention of laws abolished, loyalist judges appointed, trade disrupted, and swarms of officers sent to harass the people. 

It was hot, so hot, and these are worrisome times. Who knew, in that multi-colored crowd of citizens and tourists, where political allegiances lay? Yet, at the conclusion of the reading, confetti shot to the skies and showered us with red, white, and blue. People of every age hooted with delight, faces upraised, hands outstretched, while children scampered about striving to catch drifting scraps. And one could imagine, one could feel, that brotherhood was within reach. 

 

 

Bruce and The Message

“Anyone want to join me? I’m going to Home Goods.” My sister’s tone was breezy, nonchalant, with no hint of the unfolding conspiracy. 

“Sure!” I said. “Let me grab my purse and slip on some shoes.” 

As was later reported, the moment the front door closed behind us, and the audible crunch of car tires on gravel signaled our departure, three laptops flipped open. My brother-in-law, Matt, friend, Cathleen, and Dave began frantically tapping on their keyboards along with thousands of others around the world. Their goal: scoring tickets to Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band’s Land of Hope and Dreams show at Boston’s TD Garden. Matt was 15,000^th in the queue – yes! 15,000! Dave was at 1,700, and Cathleen was closest to the prize at 850. Whoa. There are a lot of Bruce fans out there. 

Closer, closer, closer … and bang! Cathleen nailed them! Two tickets for Sunday, May 27^th, Loge 4, 6^th row. The hoots of triumph were quickly hushed as this was to be my birthday surprise.

Unlike Cathleen, who estimates her attendance at Springsteen shows at 20 times or more, Dave and I had never seen Bruce perform. We like his music but were never ardent fans. This concert drew us for more than the music. This concert was a call for unity, awareness, love, and resistance in the face of cruelty, retribution, and authoritarianism, and we wanted to be in the audience with 19, 598 others to hear Bruce deliver that message.  

But we had to get there first. 

Once the glorious surprise was presented, Dave and I headed to Boston over Memorial Day weekend. It was a grim, rainy day of cancelled parades, drooping flags, and dispirited picnics as we pulled up in front of the Hotel Indigo on Friend Street. We spotted Edison, the doorman, in his long black overcoat and cap as he stepped to the curb. I rolled down my window and yelled, “Eddie! So good to see you!”

He beamed at my greeting and said, “What took you so long? We’ve had your room ready since noon. And… you have a new car!” 

Yes, Dave is thrilled with his new lease trade-off, a fire engine red EV Ioniq 5, and we were equally thrilled to be back at the Hotel Indigo, our favorite hotel in Boston. 

We hopped out of the car, hugged Eddie, chatted a bit, turned over the keys, and went to our room to settle in. 

Dave had been planning this night since February and had pictured a leisurely stroll to the North End for a delicious Italian dinner at Antico Forno or Ristorante Villa Francesco before the concert. As I stood at the window watching windblown sheets of rain pelting the building across the street, I voiced my doubts. 

“We have umbrellas,” Dave said, his tone disappointed and, yes, a tad annoyed at his wuss of a wife. 

After all, this was his surprise. He had envisioned the whole scene: Hotel Indigo, Eddie’s welcome, a stroll, dinner, and Bruce.  He came to stand beside me at the window and gazed sadly at passersby hunched against the downpour. I pointed out three restaurants within view, each on the same block as the TD Garden, all a short walk from our hotel. He did not argue further. 

Cathleen and her husband had sent me a Land of Hope and Dreams tee-shirt, so I was in uniform, part of the Bruce clan. In the lobby and the elevator, other guests commented, “Nice shirt! You going tonight?” There was a vibe of anticipation, of community, and my shirt was my badge of inclusion, pretender though I was. 

Having not been to an indoor concert in a major venue in decades, we didn’t know the drill. We’d chosen a food court adjacent to the Garden and wound up parting ways as we inched among and between Bruce fans to check out the offerings. Lines were long… but not at the pasta place. Not usually a good sign, but the pasta pomodoro looked tasty enough, so I submitted my order, and stepped aside to wait, hoping Dave would find something he liked. 

A man standing behind me ordered a panino, then turned and asked, “So, you here to see Bruce?” 

“Yep! First time! I can’t wait to hear him sing ‘Minneapolis,” I said, testing the waters to get a sense of the man’s politics. 

“Me too!” he said. Jason was here for the music and the message and had brought his teenage daughters along. “It’s important for the next generation to hear this. We need voices like Bruce, leaders speaking out.”

Once my pasta was ready, Jason and I bid each other farewell, and I set off in search of Dave. He’d nabbed seats at a nearby table and was nibbling disconsolately at what looked like a plate of plain tomato wedges. That was indeed the case, and he was not happy. He’d ordered a Greek salad and wondered, “Would a bit of feta? Some lettuce? A few olives be too much to hope for?” My pasta was piping hot, perfectly cooked, and sprinkled with just the right amount of parmigiano. I offered Dave a bite, which he took, and said “not my favorite.” 

Sigh.

Like I said, we didn’t know the drill, and when the crowd thinned out, we should’ve paid heed. That was a message too, but we took our time, finished up, and headed through the bank of doors leading into TD Garden. 

OMG. The line! Or I should say lines… hundreds, nay thousands, of people shuffled along, a surge of souls – who’d had the sense to wrap up dinner promptly - making their way to a distant destination I could not see. Still, like Jason, like the folks I met in the elevator and lobby, this was a community, yes, of Bruce fans, but also – judging from the snatches of conversation about the ballroom, war in Iran, division and detention centers - many were here, as we were, for the message as well.

En masse, we pressed forward, squeezed through doors, climbed stairs, bumping one another, apologizing, smiling, falling into conversation. 

“You’re from Maine? What do you think of Platner?”

“Well, he’s got problems, but Collins is a nightmare.” 

More doors. Should we bring up our tickets on our phones? No, not yet. Security ahead. Hands up, through the scanner. “Open your bag please?”

“Sure, of course.” I open my bag to expose tissues, Chapstick, pens, phone, and enzyme pills.

 “You’re good. Thanks. Enjoy the show.” 

Almost there! But first, a trip to the restroom, and a conversation overheard:

“Is he going to be uncomfortable?” 

“I warned him. This tour is not just about Springsteen’s music. There’s going to be a vibe, a message…” 

“He’s not gonna like it.” 

“Well. I told him…” 

How many in the audience were going to feel like the man in question? At least two more… and they were sitting next to me once we reached our seats in Loge 4, row 6. In the darkness, in the scramble of apologies as we nudged our way to our seats as Bruce spoke onstage (yes, we were late. Of course we were. I was with a Sylvestro, and he thought the show didn’t start for another half hour), I did not notice their dissatisfaction. Plus, I was focused on the man in the spotlight and his words.

“The E Street Band is here tonight in celebration and defense of the American ideals and values that have sustained our country for 250 years…. Our democracy, our Constitution, our rule of law are being challenged right now as never before by a reckless, racist, incompetent, treasonous president and his ship of fools administration. So, we ask all of you to join with us in choosing hope over fear, democracy over authoritarianism, the rule of law over lawlessness, ethics over unbridled corruption, resistance over complacency, truth over lies, unity over division, and peace over war.” 

And then, boom, Bruce and the E Street Band dove into “WAR, Huh. What is it good for?”

On this, all 19,600 of us could agree, “Absolutely NOTHING!” 

Loved the opening, the song, and the message, but to my dismay, this was an “I’m not gonna sit!” kind of concert. Everyone was on their feet, hands in the air, singing along, knowing every word. 

We did not know the words. And I’m not a big hands-in-the-air kind of person, but Bruce and the E Street Band are a force, and their fans love them. As did the two women sitting next to me. They were up and dancing. They knew every word. They were hands-in-the-air kind of people… but. Whenever Bruce slung his guitar over his back and came to the front of the stage to reflect and grieve over government corruption while calling for “honesty, honor, humility, character, truth, compassion, humanity, thoughtfulness, morality, true strength and decency,” the women sat down, arms crossed over chests, stoney-faced, lips pinched in a thin line. Hm. Seemed to me, everyone would find those qualities desirable? No? As soon as the Boss was back to the music, the women were on their feet, arms in the air, and mouths wide with song.

We had sort of a see-saw thing going, me and those women. Sure, I stood, bounced, and swayed when I knew the song or was moved by the lyrics, but I sat a lot too. When the instruments stilled and Bruce walked center stage, the ladies sat and glowered, while Dave and I rose in tribute to the message.   

Thank you, Bruce.