To Boston and Beyond...to stand in the historic footsteps of both the brave and the buffoons (part 3, The Finale)

I was becoming very discriminating regarding the universally-applied fifteen dollar admission fee to cross the threshold of every self-important New England structure of random historic significance. I stormed out of a squatty lighthouse that demanded my money to extol its limited lifespan due to erosion and outdated technology. Imagine my regret when I learned later that I could have viewed Taylor Swift's house from its somewhat lofty perch as well as taken in three states at once:  Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New York. Still, a girl's gotta take a stand somewhere.

I didn't when it came to the Old North Church. I fan-girl-ed like a Swiftie as I stood in its stately shadows. I teach Longfellow's historically-inaccurate poem with glee every year, 4th graders slapping their hands on their knees in unison to maintain the cadence of the steady fall of hoofs over pavement stone and back country road. I happily gave my money to cross this threshold of history. Savannah, Lisa and I walked in and were immediately transported back in time. You HAVE TO GO. It was bright and airy and beautiful. Lisa grabbed an audio set and lost herself in the stories while I just slowly wandered and wondered over the significance and symbolism of this building. We were enthralled with the pew compartments "owned" by Boston's upper class while the upstairs gallery was available for the minorities. "When did Martin Luther nail his treatise against church indulgences to the door?" I murmured, reading about how families would decorate their stalls in an attempt of showmanship and extravagance. Apparently not much had changed since 1517. 

The stately organ was enthroned on the second level at the back of the church. I smiled at the four intricately carved wooden angels on guard around it, having just learned that a privateer, in a flash of guilt from plundering a French vessel (Remember, they provided much-needed friendship, funds, and firepower during our little altercation with England.), decided to donate these religious relics to assuage his guilt and glad-hand God. Martin Luther would not have been surprised at this at all. Hey...fun fact about our friend Martin, by the way. Did you know that he had been a monk and his wife (Yes! Gasp! His WIFE!) had been a nun? Up until now, I thought old Martin would have been pretty uptight and stodgy but now...color me interested.

Lisa and I tumbled into the compartment where Teddy Roosevelt sat when he attended a religious service at the Old North Church. Savannah and I stood in the same spot at Lafayette in 1824 as he gazed upon a bust of his friend George Washington. A bust, I might add excitedly, that was once housed in the right front alcove of the church but, during renovations, a window was discovered and then, ceremoniously restored as, presumably, the hurried exit point of the young man who bravely lit the lanterns before British regulars were dispatched to stop him. STOP IT! Why on earth had I not given more thought to that part of the story? Spies and spy communications were rampant in Boston and lit lanterns were a common tool to signal information. Of course the British would be alert for such shenanigans.

Old North Church: Surpassed expectations.

Our final day in Boston was a trip to Bunker Hill. Lisa heard "hill" and decided that an extra hour in bed in an air-conditioned hotel sounded much more interesting. She graciously encouraged us to go and bring her back a coffee when we concluded our adventure. Fortunately for Savannah and I, the early morning was a pleasant temperature and our Uber dropped us off at the base of the monument so we only had to climb stairs instead of a hill. Years of directing the 6th grade Boston research projects had already alerted me that the bulk of the fighting had occurred on nearby Breed's Hill but, standing atop the incline, looking at the steady slope extending down into Boston, it was humbling to consider the bravery of the men who fought their way up for a fleeting chance of freedom. And, what luck, a bakery was located a block away!

We concluded our New England exploration with a stop at Groton/New London...where Savannah had
moved upon graduating college to work on submarines:  The vessels, NOT the sandwich. We visited Mystic, Connecticut where Lisa enjoyed the shops and I enjoyed watching the bridge lift. We visited the little park and beach area that Savannah remembered fondly. "Dad and I parked the moving van here and ate Pad Thai," she told Lisa as I painfully remembered how the rest of that story played out with them returning home, loading up Sydney's stuff, and then driving my daughters to begin a new life, 3,000 miles away from their mother, to California. Speaking of traitors and having your heart painfully pierced, the girls later climbed the 166 steps of the Groton Monument where a healthy hatred of Benedict Arnold is inscribed deeply into stone:  "When the British, under the command of the traitor, Benedict Arnold, burnt the towns of Groton and New London." This was after the American commander had surrendered, handed over his sword, and then was swiftly, brutally, and dishonorably run through with it. 

That evening was fireworks on a 45-degree-incline overlooking the Thames River. Magical but muscularly-paralyzing. Turns out I can try defying gravity but will inevitably fail. The walk back to the vehicle was embarrassing as I shuffled painfully along like Quasimodo. I dropped the girls off at the airport early the next morning before my six hour, back-seizing, solo journey home. How I treasured re-visiting these memories of Savannah's time in Connecticut. I reflected on the path she took that would eventually lead her to Lisa and the amazing life that she has now. And how grateful I am to be a part of it. 

Beyond grateful.