1910 Portal

My sister handed me a timeworn, canvas-bound scrapbook and said, “I don’t know where this came from, but knew you’d want to see it.” With its somber hues and cherubic child, the cover looked like a Victorian valentine minus the hearts. Wearing a blue, lace-edged dress and white apron, a little girl tips her head close to an open book, strands of her red hair tumbling forward. Inside, each heavy, age-browned page held newspaper clippings from 1910. 

A quick perusal proved this was someone’s personal version of People Magazine. The book was plump with pictures of presidents, royalty, society weddings and travels, stage performers, scandals, and murders. Whose book was this?

My grandmother, Byeo, was eight in 1910, so, an unlikely candidate. Could it have belonged to Jessamine, her mother and my great-grandmother? Women of the time could not vote, and with options for work and activities as confining for female behavior as corsets were for one’s body, might the risqué doings of actresses, the affairs of the wealthy, and gruesome murders be a source of release for a young woman, however proper she seemed to be?   

Or maybe my father’s mother, Frances, was the book’s creator? The woman I knew as my grandmother was kind but guarded, having lost her firstborn son in an accident when he was 18 months old. Still, I’d heard stories of her youthful self, and of escapades with her best friend Sally. It was hard to believe that my reserved Gaga could have been the girl who snuck into a morgue with two young, male, hospital aides, but she told me the tale herself, adding details about an ID tag dangling from a corpse’s toe. That girl might well have been intrigued by such lurid headlines as “Charlton Woman Alive When Placed in Trunk.”

Certainly, I was intrigued. I tapped in a Google search and discovered a bounty of vintage coverage. Two fishermen out for a day’s catch pulled in a large trunk and hoped it held valuables. Instead, it contained the body of Mary Porter Charlton, murdered by her husband, stuffed in a trunk, and dumped into Italy’s Lake Como. Beyond that, five pages of articles and pictures followed the trial of 17-year-old Hattie Le Blanc, accused by Mrs. Clarence Glover of murdering her husband. Mr. Glover was handsome and young Hattie, quite lovely, so I was not surprised to learn that Hattie was acquitted and Mrs. Glover’s innocence questioned. Apparently, I shared a morbid curiosity with the book’s owner, for I Googled that story too.

The clippings collector was not solely concerned with court cases and crimes and snipped historically significant photos and headlines as well. The death of England’s King Edward VII and the succession of his son, George V; the doings of President Taft and his wife; the family vacation plans of (then) Colonel Theodore Roosevelt; and the multi-million-dollar union of Marjorie Gould and Anthony Drexel fill the pages.

The lives of women better able to call their own shots clearly held allure judging by numerous pictures of stage performers in exotic attire. It appeared that Opera singer, Geraldine Farrar, however, turned traitor to her sex as she was quoted as discouraging girls from following her path. One wonders, though, what she actually said. She may have simply spoken honestly about the challenges facing a woman striving to live beyond the dictates of a patriarchal society. Perhaps the newspaper’s editors chose to twist her words to conform to traditional values. For, bellowed in bold caps next to Farrar’s picture was the headline: “BETTER STAY HOME AND WASH DISHES THAN GO ABROAD AND SING.” 

Such messages must have fueled the fires of the Suffragists and inspired socialite Alice Roosevelt Longworth who formed a political study club under the guise of keeping in touch with her husband’s work.   

Beyond gathering images of the stars, fashions, and news of her day, the scrapbook’s owner seemed playful and ironic in her juxtaposition of pictures and headlines. Surely she was grinning in gluing grim Mrs. Gilbert in her somber garb next to actress Lora Lieb with her self-possessed pose and graceful sweep of lace and feathers. And what were her thoughts in the line-up of a “feverish tenement tot,” “Boston’s mammoth cat,” and Mrs. Astor’s engagement?  

When I encounter a column or cartoon in The Boston Globe that seems illustrative of our times, I cut it out and tuck it in my journal. All may wind up in the trash someday, or possibly, in the hands of a great-grandchild. For that person, the news and whatever issues plague me now will be resolved and lack the sting of current events. The clothing depicted will seem absurdly outdated and the hairstyles mundane, but they represent life as I know it. For me, this scrapbook has been a portal to 1910, making real the girl who flipped through newspapers and magazines, snipped out human stories, and pasted them in her book. 

 

 

 

 

Dave Wasn't Happy - America's 250th, Part II

Declaration Reading, check. Independence Debate at Faneuil Hall, check. Brief rest and shower in our hotel room, check. Next up, the big event: the Boston Pops concert on the Esplanade followed by fireworks. 

Given the crowds expected, the viewing areas along the Charles River opened at 4:00 with the show due to start at 7:00. “In this heat, I do not want to sit on a beach towel for three hours, waiting,” said Dave, so we aimed to take the T and arrive around 5:15. All went according to plan, and we were delighted by the short walk from the station to the Hatch Shell stage where the Pops would perform. 

As we approached a gate in the chain link fence, a man in white with a lanyard around his neck stopped us and smiled, but it was not a particularly welcoming smile. 

“Do you have tickets, or are you looking for the free seating?” he asked. It seemed he already knew our answer.  

“Free seating,” we said, smiling back. 

He pointed past a grassy slope and said, “Just follow the path.”

Well. I wouldn’t have called it a path. It was a road, heat-baked and well-traveled by hundreds of sweaty others seeking the freebie seats. For over half an hour we trudged past police cars, officers, and armed military police. The heightened security made sense, but we’d never seen so many uniforms and weapons. 

When finally we arrived at a break in the fence, we thought we’d made it. 

Not so.

We were directed to a shuffling line of hot, dispirited fellow hopefuls, naively believing they, too, had made it. Mysteriously, all were walking away from the Hatch Shell, and that line stretched beyond what I could see - surely a terrible sign. Indeed it was, for it was soon apparent that a parallel line of people, people far cheerier than those in our line, were headed toward the Hatch Shell. Yes, the line doubled back at some distant point. 

“Are you serious?” Dave muttered. He was not happy, his heavy brow even heavier, his frown-shaped mustache highlighting his displeasure. 

Have to say, I wasn’t so pleased either, but this event was big. This day was big. As much as the country‘s leaders were twisting away from the American ideals  I hold dear, these celebrations were honoring 250 years of aspiring to those ideals, and I needed to be there. 

For I felt something akin to the ire the Sons of Liberty must have felt as they gathered in taverns hammering the tables with clenched fists as they fueled each other’s frustrations over taxes, “Intolerable” laws, soldiers in their streets, and the unjust acts of an authoritarian. I wanted to commemorate their resolve and courage as they pledged their lives, fortunes, and honor to each other in the cause of Independence. Line or not, I was IN, and Dave, dear man, was willing to hang in there with me. 

So, for far too long, we trundled along, craning to spot the line’s turning point. 

Blessedly, the Esplanade skirts the Charles River and is largely shaded by trees. Pleasure boats, canoes,  kayaks, and tugboats floated and chugged out on the water, many flying the stars and stripes. Once we finally doubled back, the pace and camaraderie picked up. Despite that, Dave and I had missed lunch, and after an hour of walking, we were hungry and tired.

But wait… a mirage? Might it be…? Yes! We could see the security checkpoint ahead!

En masse, we hustled forward, the line forking into several streams as staff opened bags and pawed through contents. A woman bellowed, “NO BACKPACKS! NO EXCEPTIONS!” and we watched sympathetically as several people who had made the same, long, tiring slog, turned back – sheepish and unprotesting. The rule had been well advertised, and this city torn by the terror of Marathon bombers had earned its distrust of  backpacks at large events. 

We made it through security and passed the line of state police, brimmed caps low on brows, gray uniforms, guns holstered at hips, feet planted. They were intimidating; Boston had done everything possible to make sure this celebration was peaceful and safe. 

As we angled toward the Hatch Shell, again we were stopped. “The lawn in front of the stage is filled to capacity,” said an officer. “You can go over the bridge and find a spot along the river.”

Sigh. Whatever. 

“Maybe this is better?” I commented. It was cool, and the contrast of white boats and colorful flags against somber clouds was lovely. We found an open area beneath a tree and spread out our beach towel. I pulled Triscuits, macadamia nuts, Milano cookies, and water bottles out of the small cooler we’d brought. Not exactly the makings of a healthy, nor delicious, dinner, but at least we wouldn’t be starving. 

“This is pretty good, right?” I said. “Nice view, some shade, support for your back against the tree?” 

“Yeah,” Dave replied without conviction. 

“After we rest a bit, I’ll scope out the vendors and see what’s offered,” I said.

A breeze had picked up as the clouds moved in to pewter the water and snuff out its sunlit sparkles. The flags and banners strung from masts and halyards began to snap erratically.

“What’s the time?” I asked.

“6:27.”

“Okay. Good. The show starts in half an hour.” 

Not so fast. The voice of Jane Lynch, celebrity host for the evening, boomed over loudspeakers. “We’ve received reports of a lightning storm moving in and we have to evacuate. Please take this seriously. You must evacuate.”

“You have to be kidding.” Dave was not happy, but nobody was, and it was hard to believe after all those lines, the security, and shuffling they would actually move everyone out. How? Where to?

Cops, Military Police, and event officials strode down the footpaths urging people along. Coolers were hastily packed, blankets folded, children corralled. Orders were barked over loudspeakers. “Head to the overpass of Storrow Drive or the garage for the Common! Hurry!”

Dave and I had no idea where those locations were and had no energy to find them. We joined the surge of thousands departing the Esplanade, but our tired feet demanded we not go far. For a time, we sat on a stone wall just outside the entrance until a wild rush of wind and sheets of rain sent us scampering to shelter beneath our umbrella and between a Porsche and a brick building. Plastic cups clattered along the pavement as we fought to steady our umbrella and keep it from scratching the hood of the Porsche. 

Suddenly, the car’s owner, perhaps equally concerned about that possibility, appeared from a nearby doorway. Ignoring his hat as it spun off his head, he bent against the wind and struggled to open the car door. Without a glance in our direction, he slipped into the front seat and drove away.

Rain dripped down our backs as we peeked from under our umbrella, marveling at the rebellious souls who had not evacuated and remained on the far side of the fence, huddled under a tree. The storm moved quickly though, and word spread that we could re-enter the grounds.

“I’m done,” said Dave. “No way I’m going through those lines again.” For that was the reality. No one had stamped hands or distributed bracelets as proof of passage through security. I understood his point. 

However… “You can go if you want, but the concert is one of the reasons we came to Boston. I’m staying.”  

Dave would never abandon his woman, so he came along, but he was not happy. 

And why would he be? We had to retrace our steps through that long, double line, the ground now muddy and puddled. We had to pass through security and trudge to our sodden spot beneath the tree. We were wet and hungry, and the Triscuits and Milanos were damp and crumbling. Fast food offerings of fried dough, fried chicken, tacos, and donuts held no appeal. 

Neither did Jane Lynch’s strained comedic intro as she welcomed Mayor Wu and Governor Healy. Dave groaned. We’d expected swelling orchestral pieces, not banter reminiscent of a New Year’s Eve line-up. 

By this time, I had to find a port-o-potty, so I left my husband with his aching back, wet clothes, disappointment, and hunger to find the facilities. 

I found a bank of 10 toilets or more, but the queue was long - big surprise – and did not seem to budge. Word came down that only two units were open, still, the wait was pleasant enough as I chatted with a young guy who had just moved to Boston to live with his girlfriend. Meanwhile, beyond the chain link fence, I could see hordes of people, still arriving. Over an hour ago, before we evacuated, a cop told me he estimated attendees at that time to be about 400,000.

After peeing, my return to Dave was a revelation. No longer could one stroll easily along the path for it was jammed with people sitting on the asphalt, a more comfortable choice than the muddy ground. Even the riverbank was full despite the shaggy, wet grass. Once I found my husband, we resolved to move closer to the entrance to facilitate an easier exit when the time came. Again, we packed up our meager supplies and picked our way around puddles and people. 

As we neared the entrance, it beckoned to Dave. He was sick of the crowd, the damp, the hunger, and the annoying patter that filtered to us from the loudspeakers. He was more than ready to escape. His face was a grim mask, and a cloud of aggravation billowed around him and encircled me.

Is it possible to shield oneself from a loved one’s mood? If so, I have not that skill. Our daughter Casey, who is more mature and confident than I will ever be, says she has learned to slip on an “emotional condom” when she needs to. It’s quite an image, worth a try.

“Let’s go. I’m done,” he snapped.

We had words. An angry exchange during which I wound up hissing, somewhat manipulatively, “Fine. Fine! Let’s leave then!” And I stomped away, off to the entrance without looking back. I assumed Dave would follow.

He did not. 

I stopped to ask a friendly cop if there were any exits where we could get ahead of the crowd. I told him my husband was tired, wet, hungry and definitely not happy. The cop laughed and said, “You just described me!” He also said, “There’s no quick way out.”

Sigh. Fine. Casey says “Fine” often means “Feelings Inside Not Expressed,” but I was ready to tromp back to Dave and do some expressing. 

When I joined him, he’d found a spot under a lamppost with a limited view of the river and sky and was no happier than when I’d left him. I said, “I want to enjoy this! You’ve been a grump ever since we got here!”

“I can’t help how I feel,” he said. “You shouldn’t let my mood affect you.”

“Really? Do you honestly think it wouldn’t affect you if I were acting the way you are?” 

Dave, who is empathetic and kind, was quiet for a moment and conceded my point. It also helped that next to us, a tiny child of three or so was perched on her father’s shoulders, chattering and excited to be up late for the fireworks. 

Suddenly, a wave of blue unfurled across the sky. What was that? Not fireworks… whoa. It was drones! Thousands of drones that drifted apart and together to form brilliant visions of a Minuteman, the Boston waterfront, a ship with crates of tea tumbling over the side, and a quill pen writing “Liberty!” Then, to the strains of the 1812 Overture - the swelling orchestral backdrop we’d hoped for - rockets shot streaks of light skyward to explode in spheres and tendrils of color. “Ooooooo! Stars!” cooed the little girl, her eyes wide and fingers firmly pressed in her ears. 

I imagined her years from now with this startling night a moment in her history. I leaned close and whispered, “When you’re grown up, do you think you’ll remember when you came to Boston for America’s 250^th birthday?” 

 

 

 

 

  

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. 

 

 

Closet Purge

For weeks, “closet purge” topped my list of to-do’s. Finally, I am ready and prepared to be ruthless. Past efforts yielded only pitiful piles destined for Goodwill when I was swayed by sentimentality and wistful hopes for weight change or a return to styles I loved. No more. This time, I will try on each piece, discard it if it doesn’t fit or hasn’t been worn in the last two years. 

Jaw set, I paw through the guestroom closet where I keep dresses and off-season clothes. I pull out all but items I wear regularly and heap them on the bed. The pile of questionable garments is substantial. 

At the back of the closet is an emerald-green, floor-length robe, a gift from Dad maybe 55 years ago. I’ve not worn it in over 40 years, but I think it’s the only garment Dad ever gave me. Still, the time has come. I fold it up and put it in the Goodwill bag. 

My, I have a lot of dresses! When did I wear them all? The evening dresses were for school benefits and Christmas parties, but what about all these fun tea-length items? Some are so eighties, with spikey, uneven, swirly skirts. Others have wild geometric patterns, and I have accumulated a surprising number of fitted black numbers with spaghetti straps. Given sunspot-speckled skin and biceps that sag rather than bulge, my spaghetti strap days  are over… but I try them on anyway. 

I stand in the hall before the mirror, an old one more speckled and aged than I am, so it’s forgiving. From the end of the hall, in dim light, with my near-sighted eyes, the lines in my face don’t show. I turn and twirl a little. Not so bad, and I do like this dress… 

I start a “maybe” pile on the floor.

Have to say, past purge regrets haunt me. A purple pantsuit with zoot suit shoulders and a belted waist. A slinky 80’s dress with fitted black torso, puffy white sleeves, and a flounced white skirt – my “Chiquita banana” dress – so unique! So fun! Too-tight Victoria Secret jeans cast off in 2007 that would have fit perfectly post-cancer in 2010. So, ruthlessness must be tempered with reflection. An imperfect fit or passé style warrants a decision not necessarily the discard pile.

I mull over the dresses I wore to Tucker and Casey’s weddings. I might not wear them again, but they hold memories of pinnacle moments, so they return to the closet. And the floral 70’s sundress I’ve hung onto for 50 years? It’s vintage for heaven’s sake! So, I keep it.

What’s this? A funereal black sheath with long gauzy sleeves and a scooped neck. It must have been my grandmother’s, or even my great-grandmother’s. How did it wind up with me? I have several of Mom’s dresses, those I can remember her wearing, so maybe this spooky dress was mixed up with them. It goes into the Goodwill bag momentarily, but I pull it out. It might be worth something, who knows? 

Still, I’m making progress. I have a small pile for the garbage, a bag for Casey, and two full bags for Goodwill. I haven’t attacked the chest full of summer clothes yet, and I know there are plenty of too-short shorts and tee-shirts too tight or too-cropped for 73-year-old Lea. Souvenir/statement shirts from Salem, Red Sox games, the Women’s March, and my new No Kings shirt from the Bruce Springsteen concert will remain. Close to a century’s parade of passing fashion, personal history, and current events hangs in my closet or fills these bags. 

Some readers might be feeling a tug of worry in recalling my hasty discard of Mom’s boots when the sole fell off during a visit to Switzerland. You might be thinking, “About that green robe your dad gave you? Beware of second thoughts.”

You’re right. Of course you are. I rifle through the Goodwill bag, reclaim the robe, and return it to the closet. 

 

 

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.

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Women Behind Us

The party game was not meant to make me feel stupid or show my ignorance, but so it happened. Dave and I were attending a large gathering in the late ‘90’s for a friend who was moving. The goal of the game - in which guests had a card with a celebrity’s name pinned to their backs – was to spark conversation. While sipping drinks and dipping into passed hors d’oeuvres, we’d ask questions about “our” person in trying to guess his or her identity. 

I’d ascertained that my person was a woman, a famous woman, someone connected with the news. Someone older than me. Someone who lived in the U.S. Someone who lived in D.C. Someone connected with The Post. 

“The Post?” I said. “Um… The Connecticut Post?” Brilliant guess given the previous D.C. hint. I hope I didn’t look as vacant as I felt. 

“No. The Washington Post…?” Whomever was trying to guide me was kind but clearly incredulous that even with that hand-it-to-me hint, I had no idea who was pinned to my back. With a questioning tone as to my extraordinary obliviousness and “Duh” left unsaid but implied, the clue-giver told me the name. 

“Katherine Graham…?” 

Sigh. The name was no help. I had no idea who she was. 

That was long ago, and having just finished Katherine Graham’s autobiography, Personal History, I know her better, and I grieve in imagining what she’d think about today’s threats to the free press and Jeff Bezos’s take-over of her cherished family newspaper. 

Hers is quite a story. A woman from an affluent, activist, highly-connected family who inherited what was a local, but successful, newspaper when her husband – the president and CEO – shot himself in the room next to where she was napping. Beyond the unimaginable cruelty of that event, that scene, was the reality of the “welcome” she received in 1963, when she stepped into a leadership role previously held only by men. 

But for secretaries, she was the lone woman at every board meeting, at every business lunch, at every conference. I don’t think the term “imposter syndrome” had been coined yet, but that’s how she felt. She was shy by nature, cowed by her powerful mother, and accepting of the subordinate role society had decreed for women. No matter how much she learned or accomplished as CEO, when things went wrong, she felt it was her fault, her inadequacy. But for her father and husband, she would never have had this role; she didn’t earn it herself, after all; such was her thinking.  And the men around her, but for a few, reinforced that. 

Nonetheless, she was publisher and president of The Post from 1963-1991, through the  assassinations of JFK, his brother, Bobby, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King. Through the Civil Rights and Women’s Liberation movements. Through the escalation of the Viet Nam war, release of the Pentagon Papers, Watergate, and Nixon’s downfall. Since my newly-forged bond with Ms. Graham, Dave and I have re-watched “The Post,” “All the President’s Men,” and “Watergate,” diving deep into those tumultuous times, and suffusing our spirits with stories of people who had the courage to do the right thing.

Beyond my membership in Katherine Graham’s fan club, I have also been captivated by Suffs, a show Dave, Casey, and I saw at the Bushnell in Hartford, now streaming on PBS. Ms. Graham was not the only void in my knowledge of women warriors. I was vaguely aware of suffragists Alice Paul, Lucy Burns, Carrie Nation, Ida B. Wells, and Susan B. Anthony, but Inez Milholland Boissevain and Doris Stevens? No. I know and exalt them now, for Shaina Taub, playwright and actor, wrote her musical, Suffs, after reading Jailed for Freedom by suffragist Doris Stevens. I have re-watched the show and endlessly re-played the songs since I learned of it.

Suffragist Inez Milholland Boissevain leading the 1913 Suffragist Parade in Washington, D.C. 

Where in our textbooks were the suffragists struggles and triumph enumerated? I went to all-girls schools from K-12^thgrade; surely women’s history would have been emphasized there? 

Maybe it was. Maybe I just didn’t have the sense to be interested. Until recently, I took my rights for granted, and the limitations women had faced seemed a battle long over and settled. Not so long over, however, for had I married Dave a year earlier, I would have needed his permission and presence to get my own credit card. I churn to imagine it. How did my strong-willed mother tolerate that? Like Katherine Graham, for a time, she accepted the way things were.

Today’s women can thank Emily Card, Bella Abzug, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Stephanie Lipscomb, Jeanne Hubbard, Gloria Steinem, and Ellen Sudow – many whose names are largely forgotten – for their  work in the passage of the Equal Credit Opportunity Act in 1974. 

I was complacent for so long. Fortunate in my parents and the life I was born to. Fortunate in my times, and beholden to the women who fought for the rights I enjoy. The suffragists, civil rights activists, and feminists of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s faced the same arguments broadcast today by those who feel threatened: that granting rights to others diminishes one’s own. 

For me, worry has been a constant since 2015. Clearly, push-back follows progress. As my poster collection expands – No Kings! Melt ICE! Support the Vets! Black Lives Matter! My Body, My Choice! – I wonder what Katherine Graham would make of Donald Trump. She’d find him familiar – the rants, threats to the press, surveillance, and enemies list – but she’d be stunned that we let it happen again.