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 250th birthday?”
