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. 

 

 

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.

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Celebration's Postscript

What’s that sound?  It had been a late night prior, and the heavy brocade curtains in our room at Boston’s Parker House effectively muffled the outside world. But as I shook off sleep, I thought I heard… drums?

 

Omigod! Drums! “Dave! Wake up! The parade’s starting!”

 

It was 9:30 AM, the morning of the 4^th of July, and the Declaration of Independence would be read at 10:00 from the balcony of the Old State House as it was to Bostonians 245 years ago. One of our reasons for this visit to Boston was to be present for that reading. 

 

We scurried about our 7^th floor room, donning jeans and jackets, and grabbing raincoats and umbrellas, then dashed to the elevator. The doors opened to reveal a couple in full red, white, and blue regalia: beads, hats, and tee-shirts. Our lack of visible patriotism was ever more evident when we left the hotel and joined a similarly bedecked throng heading to the square, the trill and thump of fife and drum coaxing our footfalls into a rhythmic march. Thankfully, a city employee was distributing small flags which we gratefully accepted. 

 

After days of rain, the heavens were kind, gray and churning, but so far, dry. With a boom of muskets and pounding of drums, the various bands and corps dressed in colonial garb assembled in the square beneath the East side balcony of the three hundred years-old brick building. Small children were lifted to parents’ shoulders as people poured in from surrounding streets. Strangers smiled at strangers and inched aside to allow others to pass as everyone pressed closer to get a good view.

After this year of Covid, mask-contention, insurrection, shootings, and racial strife, it seemed hopeful and fitting to merge with the multitude for greetings from Boston’s Black mayor, Kim Janey, and Black baritone Dana Whiteside’s magnificent rendition of “God Bless America.” Still, as we jostled cheerfully below the balcony, I couldn’t escape troubling images of other happy celebrants - at a concert in Las Vegas or a night club in Orlando - and headlines, crosshairs, and targets. While no shots rang out, this year’s reading seemed to hold added weight, as I pondered recent events and the country’s opposing factions. How might their interpretations differ in listening to the Declaration’s justifications for separation from a government seen as grievously flawed? 

 

In the Founders’ list of accusations against King George, I heard reflected Trump’s disregard for American traditions, laws, and public health: to me, grounds for impeachment, conviction, and removal. Conversely, those who stormed the Capitol on January 6^th claiming the revolutionary fervor of 1776 might point to some of the same statements as validation for their assault. 

 

The pandemic and January’s uprising were awakenings: we are not immune to the plagues and issues that challenged our ancestors. They are ever-emerging, and ours to address. Never have the people of the past seemed more real. 

 

During a 2019 visit to Boston’s Faneuil Hall, Dave and I participated in a reenactment of a debate over the Fugitive Slave Law and 1854 arrest of Anthony Burns. Burns had escaped slavery and lived in Boston as a free man for two years, but a probate judge bowed to the federal law and Burns was returned to his owner in Virginia. Bostonians erupted at this outcome, and one Amos Adams Lawrence remarked, “[W]e went to bed one night old fashioned, conservative, Compromise Union Whigs & waked up stark mad Abolitionists."

 

For the reenactment, index cards bearing the names and assertions of those who’d attended the 1854 meeting were distributed to people who wished to take part. Slavery was abolished in 1865, but the injustices and discrimination of recent years infused the readings of the men, women, and children of all ages and colors who volunteered with an outrage as urgent in 2019 – and 2021 - as when Andrew Burns was led away in chains. The fury we gave those borrowed words was driven also by a sense of responsibility to those confined to the balcony in 1854. At that time, most of us would have been silenced: only white, male property owners had the right to speak.  

 

 

Truth is objective, but the reporting of history is not. It has depended on who held the pen, who knew how to write, who was allowed an education, and whose opinions and input were given credence. How many know the story of Anthony Burns? Or the names of suffragists Lisa Stone and Carrie Chapman Catt? Until recently, the horror of the Tulsa Massacre was largely suppressed, and the current uproar over Critical Race Theory demonstrates the resistance that remains to teaching America’s failings as well as our achievements.  

 

On Sunday, we gathered, jubilant in celebrating 245 years of democracy and progress as clouds of confetti shot skyward in a celebratory whirl. Those once silenced now can speak. Tragedy and activism have spurred wider awareness; and in teaching the whole story, we move forward together.

 

Epilogue: 

 

After the 1854 decision, Anthony Burns spent four months in jail in Richmond, VA and was then sold to David McDaniel of North Carolina. Fortuitously, Boston abolitionists learned of Burns’ whereabouts and raised $1300 to buy and free him. Burns went on to be educated at Oberlin College and became a Baptist preacher in Ontario, Canada. In 1862, he died of tuberculosis at the age of 28.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Gadget Grief

Devices and gadgets throw me.  Upon acquiring a new anything, Dave will begin his explanation to me of how it works with, “You just have to…” and I glaze over.  I barely listen.  Is it because it’s too hard or because I don’t want to know?  The latter, I think, but why is that?  I’m not stupid, but where Dave and my kids are buoyant with the fun of figuring out the possibilities offered by a new phone or computer, I avoid new technology as if it were infectious…which, of course, it has proven to be.    In avoiding the challenges posed by clicking and dragging, I have clung to my compact gray Samsung flip-phone.  When those comfortable with innovation tell me about some clever new app, I whip out my phone and show it off, proud of its endurance.

But phones are not the issue; anything with working parts is. Driven by a desire for coffee during a recent stay with my son Tucker, his wife Lisa, and my new grandson, Paul, I took the elevator to the lobby of their building to confront the coffee machine. I know myself and expected this task, designed to be simple for anyone, to be a challenge.  I studied the lay-out of cups, lids, stirrers, coffee packets, and the machine itself.  Step-by-step directions were listed along the top of the machine and, separately, on a card to the side.  Like a fool, I read only those on the side.

As instructed, I centered the cup under the spout and, with the push of a button, a door opened.  No problem.  I selected a flavor, Boston Dark Roast, and placed the pod in the depression indicated.  I could tell it wouldn’t fit, not even close.  But I smushed it down, pressed the brew button to close the door, and no surprise, it wouldn’t close.  In fact, it was stuck.  Great. 

Sometimes you have to ask for help.  I’m not like a guy who won’t ask for directions, but in this, well, I knew I shouldn’t need help.  Still, I had no choice; I wanted that coffee.  So I peeked around the corner to enlist the doorman, a large, affable fellow in a navy uniform.

I’d had the foresight to slip the pod out of the machine before fetching my helper.  I watched him go through the steps and felt the full weight of my idiocy when he tore open the wrapper, slipped out a tea-bag like packet, placed it neatly in the depression, and pushed the button to start the brewing process. Sigh. Yes.  I’d missed that bit about the wrapper and apparently I don’t know a wrapper when I see one.   Plus, I noticed that removal of the wrapper was listed as a step on the directions on the machine, but not on the card.  Let’s blame the card.

I wish I didn’t always feel so sheepish, so stupid, when I don’t know how to do something. How much more daunting, though, when ignorance is one’s embarrassing companion while wrestling with baby supplies, when proper care of an actual baby is at stake?  My children were born in the early eighties, and at that time, strollers and carriages had not evolved much since I was their passenger.  And I cringe to think of the rigid plastic car seat with stiff brown vinyl padding in which I nestled my precious ones.  Comfort had not been considered in the design, and I wonder how safe those seats actually were.

Now, car seats and strollers are mechanical marvels, engineered for balance and safety, yet lightweight, comfy, and easy to fold.  On my most recent visit, Tucker and Lisa assured me of this ease while giving me instructions before Tucker left for work and I dropped Lisa off for an appointment.  Driving in Boston was part of this plan, something I’d undertaken only minimally before, and I tried not to obsess on the fact that I’d be loose among that city’s notoriously reckless drivers, responsible for both my children’s car and their baby. 

As Tucker, Lisa, and I reviewed and practiced stroller skills, buttons, straps, and inserts, maps, directions, and parking garage exits and entries, I was surprised at my relative calm.  They provided me with a card to tap the keypad to the garage and a fob for the keypad to enter the building. They also gave me the key to their apartment, but having re-entered successfully that morning after fetching my coffee, I knew I was solid there.

After Lisa fed Paul, and I re-stocked the diaper bag with wipes, diapers, and extra outfits, we were off, down the elevator and into the garage to locate the car.  Once car-side, I had a chance to practice removal of the baby and carrier from the stroller base while Lisa was with me, available for questions.  Paul was wide-eyed but quiet as I pushed buttons and tugged at his carrier, which remained firmly in place.  “Sometimes it helps to do one side at a time, sort of angle it a bit, then lift,” Lisa suggested.  Just so.

Next, into the car.  Just try to maneuver a baby carrier into a sedan, keeping the carrier level for the sake of the child while hovering awkwardly over the mount, seeking the right position, jiggling it some, jiggling a bit more, teeth clenched, lips pursed, sweat sprouting on your brow, as you crane to hear a resounding click, hoping it’s not something giving way in your back, but merely reassurance that the baby and carrier are locked safely in place.  Finally, the yearned-for sound.  Thank god.

Driving someone else’s car is always disconcerting, much less wheeling out into unfamiliar city streets, but it was mid-day and most people were at work so no one honked as we crept cautiously along.  We arrived at Lisa’s appointment without incident and parked.  I pulled on the door handle and the door was locked.  I pressed the unlock button, but no go.  I chuckled as if I didn’t feel like a total ass and tried again.  “I can’t get out,” I told Lisa. 

“Just push the unlock button,” she said.

“I did.  Didn’t work.”

But I tried again.  Click.  All set.  Oh Lord.  I pictured Paul and me, having successfully negotiated the mean streets of Boston, successfully touched the card to the key pad, successfully parked in a convenient spot in the garage, but ultimately stuck, underground, in the car, waiting for Lisa or Tucker to come home.  Grim.  We were well stocked with formula and diapers though, so if it came to that, Paul would wait in comfort.

Thankfully it didn’t come to that.  After dropping Lisa off, I re-traced my path, grateful for the maps Tucker had printed out just in case.  I turned right onto the ramp to the garage, touched the card to the key-pad, waited an anxious moment or two for the gate to rise, and silently celebrated when it did.  I found a convenient parking spot near the entrance to the building, and with my heart in my throat, pulled the handle of the car door.  Nothing.  Oh please.  I pushed the unlock button and tried again.  Yes! Glory!

I’d thought ahead, planned my strategy, and had the good sense to unlock the trunk, remove, and set up the stroller before trying to extricate the baby and the carrier from the back seat of the car. 

“Hey Sweetie.  Hey little Paul,” I cooed quietly at the sleeping child. No wonder he was snoozing; this was exhausting. 

I pulled up on the gray button to release the seat, wiggled and angled it, and transferred it smoothly to its stroller mount.  Hung the diaper bag over the stroller handle, slipped my pocketbook over my shoulder, walked to the building, touched fob to keypad and entered without drama.  Took the elevator to the eighth floor and stepped out, just around the corner to the apartment.  And then, I had a thought…a cup of coffee would be nice.  But dare I?  Shouldn’t I strut my victory march right on down the hall to the apartment?

Maybe.  But I’d earned that soothing cup of warmth.

So, I backed up the stroller and re-entered the elevator, Paul peacefully sleeping throughout.  As we descended, I mused that ignorance is forgivable, a step necessary to learning. 

Upon touch down, I waved at the doorman on the way to my nemesis, centered a cup in the machine, selected my Boston Dark Roast, tore off the wrapper, placed the pod in the depression, pushed the button, and watched the steaming black thread of coffee fill my cup.  When it was ready, I retrieved the cup, snapped on a lid, and with spine straight and proud, the baby and stroller sliding smoothly before me, marched back to the elevator.