The Liberty Bell: Just the Two of Us

Well, I did it again, said I'd talk about one thing and neglected it for another. Yesterday's post was supposed to be about Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, but reading over it, I'm darned if I can find any reference to a bell. What is it they say about good intentions? 

I suppose, without realizing it, the omission was intentional. Independence Hall was the main attraction and my primary reason for driving downtown in the first place. I really didn't think about seeing the Liberty Bell, despite all the times I've watched National Treasure (2004). It simply didn't cross my examination-addled mind.

That's the thing about medical boards exams, if I've never mentioned it before. They're exhausting. Whether they test your command of first year science material, second year disease processes, or physical exam skills, by the time you've finished, you've got every reason to be justifiably weary. Whoever first described them as "marathons" was exactly right. They feel like 26 hard-fought miles whose successful completion depend as much on adequate sleep, nutrition, and psychological preparation, as upon whatever study and skills review you may have done. Which helps explain why I couldn't entertain seeing both Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell at the same time; by then my brain had seriously limited space and Independence Hall won the toss.

The moment I saw the Liberty Bell, however, thanks to the comment of a passing stranger, was more than a surprise, though definitely all of that. The last thing I expected was that it might be even remotely accessible. Especially considering how my efforts to position myself on the Independence Hall side of Chestnut Street for a closer shot of Washington's statue were quickly suppressed by a guard whose face clearly stated, "Don't Tread On Me." Spending the night in the Philadelphia hoosegow didn't seem like the best way to pad my resume, so I retreated across the street like Washington's forces fleeing New York ahead of the British. 

Oddly enough, where the Liberty Bell was concerned, there were no guards to be found. Then again, the glass enclosure surrounding it isn't the sort of thing a graffiti artist with a piece of chalk could insult, whereas the brick facade of Independence Hall isn't quite so resilient. But I liked that, their absence, I mean. It gave me a chance to stand a mere few feet away from it, nose pressed against the glass like a Dickens character, just me and the Liberty Bell, just the two of us. Maybe it comes from all those days spent wandering the meadows among the trees as a kid, the sense that inanimate objects aren't soulless, but to me, it felt like I was in the presence of something sacred. 

The Liberty Bell hangs in solitude, as though nothing else is quite worthy of its company, and the structure in which it is housed could easily be a glass cathedral. Maybe my theological background is coming out and someone else might view all of this quite differently, and that's fair to say. Still, there's something about the Liberty Bell that made me feel it ought to be shown reverence. It was the only thing I wanted a photo of myself alongside that afternoon. The unnamed tourist, the one who drew my attention to it, was my photographer.

The memorial itself is a city block long and the President's House or it's framework, lies at the far end. Walking back toward Independence Hall, I had to stop and gaze at the Bell again, truly feeling loathe to leave. The hour was getting late and I needed to, but I didn't want to. I can't explain it, but there's a beneficence, or better yet, a holiness about the Liberty Bell. Not the fearful, overpowering mystery of a burning bush, more like the gentle, suffer the little children to come unto me, sort of holiness. A holiness born of vulnerability, one the Liberty Bell was foundered with and that became evident when it rang. But even now, when it appears silent, it is not silent.

Draw near. Closer. Closer still and listen. Listen as I did. Can't you hear it whisper? 



(Photo copyright 2013 by the author.)   

Independence Hall, Itching for a Fight

 
Like most kids raised outside of New England, I suppose my earliest tour guide through Colonial America was Walt Disney. Televised reruns of classic films like Johnny Tremain (1957) and the animated Ben and Me (1953) coupled with my imagination to turn me into an idealistic young member of the Sons of Liberty or Benjamin Franklin's collegial churchmouse, depending on the moment. By the time college rolled round, I was a prime candidate for a major in history and when 1776 (1972) was released, I fell in love. With the movie, that is. There was a girl at the time, but that's another story and love wasn't destined to be the key player in our plot line.

Independence Hall is another matter. When Benjamin Gates was there, in National Treasure (2004), I was still in the throes of seeking medical school admission. It was the second of a three year process that ultimately led me to Maine and a farm on the banks of the Saco River in a town founded in 1772. But medical school is time consuming and Philadelphia miles away. It wasn't until this past week that the spin of fate's roulette wheel dropped me into place within a stone's throw of the building in which the Declaration of Independence was debated and signed.

As I wrote yesterday, I'd been in Philly for a day -- actually, two, one to settle in and get a decent night's rest, the second to repeat a medical board exam. I wasn't sure when I'd be finished, so I scheduled my flight home for late in the evening. Done at three, there was time to drive by Independence Hall, if nothing else. At least I could say I'd seen it. Well, you can guess the rest. Once I saw it, I had to find a parking space that wasn't reserved for carriages, and get as close as I could. 

A skeleton crew of park rangers or police, I never quite figured out which they were, had everything cordoned off, but it was still possible to walk along South Fifth St. and place my hand on the outside wall of Philosophical Hall, that adjoins Independence Hall on the north. Philosophical Hall is where Benjamin Franklin founded the American Philosophical Society. Immediately across the street is the Library Building, the site of the first public library in America, also founded by Franklin, whose statue adorns the facade over the entry.

I wasn't prepared for how it would feel, seeing Independence Hall for the first time. It's different from Boston and Patriot's Day or Maine and First Parish Meeting House, where the Declaration of Independence was first read aloud in this part of the Colonies. After the battles of Lexington and Concord, the war moved south. One of my neighbors, or he would have been had I lived in 1775, Lieutenant Samuel Merrill (his restored farm is Jessie Livingstone's dream house in Pink Hats), fought at Bunker Hill. I'd have been there with him, if I could. But what I mean is, there is a comfortable quality, almost an ordinariness in the best sense of the word, about the Revolutionary period up here -- it seems less formal, cozier, more familiar. It's everywhere you look. It's like visiting an old friend.

Independence Hall is surrounded by downtown Philadelphia. It's an urban environment and it was back then, too. As urban as you could get in 1776 when street sweepers cleaned up horse manure rather than cans and candy wrappers. Once you get past that, there's a feeling that virtually seeps out of the cobblestones. It was as though I was part of something electric, exciting, on the brink. There's a tension in that historic square mile that hasn't dissipated one bit in three hundred years. Visit City Tavern and you're certain Jefferson and John Adams will be there, plotting Revolution over a pint. One sight leads to another and before you know it, you're reaching for your flintlock, itching for a fight. 

I liked Philadelphia. It's a young city and a friendly one. The residents drive like bats from hell on the highways, but meet them anywhere else and they're pleasant and easy to engage. It's a city, nevertheless, and Portland is big enough for me. I loved Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, but I love our homespun version up here even more. I'm sure Lt. Merrill must have felt similarly, when he left Boston behind for his farm on the banks of the Saco River.  


(Photo copyright 2013 by the author. Additional images of Independence Hall may be seen here.)

Once Upon a Rainy Afternoon

I was standing across the street from Independence Hall when I heard a woman's voice behind me, "Turn around." I obeyed, and in the dim light of the rainy, grey, late afternoon, about thirty feet away, saw a golden outline. My breath caught in my throat as I said, "Oh my God, it's the Liberty Bell." I must have looked like a child on Christmas morning when another tourist and her husband smiled and told me where I could get even closer. I hurried to the window they indicated and there it was, as though waiting for me all these years.

I'd never seen Independence Hall, either, until minutes earlier. I was in Philadelphia for a medical licensing exam and had a few hours to kill before my flight home. The day before had already turned miraculous when, while searching for a discount store to purchase a few items I needed at the last minute, I noticed the sign for Valley Forge park. I couldn't believe it. I'd wanted to go there quite badly, but it looked too far on the map and this was a business trip, or so I told myself. Yet, there it was, as though it, too, had known I was coming and had waited long enough.

The park was closed, naturally, because of the governmental shut down. The Tea Party members of Congress, ironically named for those who sought liberty of conscience rather than the freedom to impose their views of conscience on others, weren't aware I'd be in Philadelphia, I'm sure. But Valley Forge had other ideas because Washington Memorial Chapel, dedicated to George Washington and located immediately across the street from Valley Forge, was open. 

I turned my rental car into the parking lot so quickly I'd have been a road hazard to anyone unfortunate enough to be following close behind. The church, an active Episcopal parish, is built in the classic English Gothic style with a bell tower drawing the eye skyward. Cannon -- period artillery pieces, some field, some naval, but all of them veterans that bombarded the British -- guard both sides of the entrance and line the grounds to the west and north.  

Inside is a lovely nave with stained glass on four sides. But it's not ornate, as you might expect, and the only statue is one of a young Washington on the side of the bell tower. It has the feel, however, of a castle, but since I've never been in a real one, it's really how I imagine it to be. I encountered a parishioner near the altar who answered my questions and listened, indulgently, as I described the turn of events leading me there. And that's how it seemed, as though my presence was no accident, even if it was.

Behind the church is a log cabin replete with walk-in fireplace that serves as a gift shop. At first, I thought I could be happy with a large mug bearing the image of winter 1777, but then I noticed the brass cannon. A British six-pound field gun, the staple of the Continental Army. Solid brass, about ten inches long and four high, I could see it sitting in my study, alongside smaller versions from the battlefield of Saratoga, Ft. Ticonderoga, and Maine's Ft. Knox, named for Henry Knox, who directed cannon fire against the advancing British at Bunker Hill. I left with the mug and the cannon.

Valley Forge is beautiful this time of year and probably more so at Christmas. The Christmas of 1777 was different. Wind blowing off the Delaware River, snow mixed with icy rain, Valley Forge was anything but beautiful to the sick and starving, ill-clad Continental Army, nearing total collapse. On a good day with mild traffic, you can drive the 43.5 miles from Valley Forge to Trenton in less than an hour. Marching the same distance, feet wrapped in rags, must have been agony. If you haven't seen The Crossing (2000), with Jeff Daniels as Washington, I'd encourage you to see it. Even members of the Continental Congress were unaware how close was defeat that bitterly cold Christmas morning.

I can easily identify with George C. Scott's character in the 1977 film, Patton, standing among the ruins of ancient Carthage and recounting how it was when the Romans conquered the city. Not that I believe in reincarnation, I don't mean that; it's just that history has always been a living thing for me and visiting those places where the course of human events was profoundly altered, I can't help but feel as though I was there, if only for a while, once upon a rainy afternoon.

Tomorrow, Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell.     

(Photo copyright by the author, 2013. Additional images of Valley Forge may be found here.) 

Behind the Scenes with Dr. Bob Z and John Livingstone

 
I love a good backstory. More than deleted scenes, it tells the tale behind the scenes, the storyline that may or may not find its way into print or onto film. Backstory means getting a glimpse of the life J.K. Rowling imagined, but didn't fully reveal, for Harry Potter between his final duel with Voldemort and the end of the story, 17 years later. Similarly, I've been taking a long look at the conversation between Dr. Bob Z. and Jessie's father, John Livingstone, on the occasion of John's birthday, in Pink Hats 20: Untarnished and In Uncharted Territory, and I'd like to tell a bit of their backstory.

Let's start with the basics of what we already know about them. John has been widowed and raised three children, putting them through medical and veterinary school, on his own. At 72, he operates a full-time, large-animal veterinary clinic along with his son and serves part-time as an unpaid pastoral minister in his late wife's church. Bob is 62, divorced, and his father is dead. A former opthalmologist, he eventually changed direction, completed a second residency in pediatrics, and has a busy practice in Portland. This isn't your typical confab between a young man starting out and an older, established parent of the bride-to-be. Our characters are grown men who have experienced some of the worst and best life has to offer.

If Bob were thirty years younger we'd naturally expect their exchange to have a somewhat different tone as well as focus. Bob would nervously do his best to speak convincingly of his love for Jessie and describe his prospects for the future. John would patiently offer advice about life, marriage, and what he himself has learned about being a good son-in-law. But that's not the case here and the conversation has to ratchet up several notches to take this into account. Bob is a mature man and he and John are more likely to relate as peers, a subject that comes up again in A Different Drummer.  

The pace of the conversation is also different. Both are direct, get to the point, no nonsense New Englanders. John has known marriage was on his daughter's mind since visiting with Jessie several weeks earlier (Life is too Short for Playing it Safe), so he's had time to do some thinking. It would make sense for him to have talked it over with her siblings, too. We can presume he's been observing Bob throughout the festivities, noting how he, Jessie, and the rest of the family interact, and no doubt, he's formed some impressions. By the time the two of them are sitting on the front porch, I think it's safe to say, he's already got a pretty good idea whether he's going to bless their relationship. What he needs to hear are the reasons for doing so in Bob's own words.

Now, unlike a younger prospective husband, Bob has clarify why he believes he should ask for Jessie's hand. I'm reminded of medical school admissions interviews and having to explain, Why do you want to undertake something of this magnitude now? It's not exactly the kind of question you're going to get if you're 22. Though John appears to casually break the ice by saying, "So, you want to marry my oldest daughter," what he's thinking is, Sooner or later Bob's going to ask, why not make it easier on us both? Bob knows he really doesn't need to ask because asking, in itself, implies a power differential that doesn't exist between peers. He wants John's blessing, however, because he understands how important her family is to Jessie. Asking, for him, is an act of love. It's undeniable proof he means it when he says, "She's always been more important to me than I was to myself." John also knows they don't need his approval -- Jessie can make her own decisions -- but Bob's desire to seek it anyway says a great deal about the kind of man he is and the kind of man she's getting. 

There is another element these men have in common, besides Jessie, that alerts us to the possibility their conversation will take us in directions we might not imagine. Both are admittedly skeptical about religion. John deals with his doubts by actively debating with his faith. Bob is more of a theologian than he gives himself credit for, but his theology is existential; it grows out of his experience of living and loving. John's is, too, but it bears the marks of conscious reflection and that enables him to help Bob make sense of, and give expression to, the deeper implications of what he's feeling and saying.

While some relationships entail one partner secretly wishing to remake the other into a romantic ideal, Bob openly wishes he was more like Jessie. He admires her as much as he loves her. He tells John that he feels as though he's being changed as a consequence of their relationship, but he's not sure how to describe it. He feels, not "young" as we'd expect, but "new and untarnished," which is much different. John interprets Bob's experience in terms of baptism -- death and resurrection -- and points out how some relationships, such as his with Jessie's mother and now theirs, can be profoundly transforming. What Bob is describing isn't simply a metaphor; it's real and observable. In essence, he says, relationships like yours don't come along every day, but when they do, there's no mistaking them. John can see the effects in his daughter and Bob can see them in himself.

I like this conversation and I hope I'm not alone. It reflects not only Bob's appreciation for Jessie and her family, but also the quality of his experience of being a son, an often neglected aspect in romantic relationships. How well we  integrate our same-sex parent into our identity as adults has an enormous impact on the kind of spouse we're capable of becoming. Bob exemplifies someone who, despite his father's absence, maintains their relationship through memory and demonstrates its influence in the way he treats those he loves. His children won't know their paternal grandfather like they'll know John, but through their father, they'll know him just the same. 

(Creative Commons image of a front porch such as the one where John and Bob have their conversation by nanetteturner via Flickr)

Baking Bread

 
Anyone who bakes their own bread probably knows this and I'm a late comer, but King Arthur Flour has an awesome web site with some pretty incredible recipes. In particular, I'd like to offer praise for their Vermont whole wheat, oatmeal, and honey bread. If you follow the proportions, you get two one-pound loaves that beat Sara Lee by about a buck a loaf and the grocer's bakery by two. Not only that, it tastes better (sorry, Sara, nothing personal) and you've got total control over the calories, fat, and salt.

Now, KA says to use maple sugar but I've substituted 1/4 cup of maple syrup and it comes out fine. Maple sugar's expensive and relatively hard to come by, so substitution is the order of the day. They also call for cinnamon, which is a nice addition. but I held off this week and used only maple syrup plus 1/2 teaspoon of Frontier Natural Products maple extract and it came out wonderfully sweet and tasty. I'd love to try a maple essence but thus far all I've been able to find is orange, but add that to chocolate chip cookies and you'll die happy.

I can also give five stars to their Classic Apple Crisp recipe, having made that this past week, as well. With both big apple trees going postal, I've had to be a little more creative than the usual apples and peanut butter.  

This isn't an especially literary piece; I just thought I'd pass along my good fortune for anyone else who loves the aroma of home-baked bread in the kitchen. 


(Creative commons image of King Arthur Flour types by gabster_ro via Flickr)

Like Apples off the Tree

 
I was reading an older post this morning, in which I mentioned hearing the sound of apples falling onto the garage roof from the Black Oxford tree that stands next to it. They've been doing it again lately, dropping like fist-sized bombs and sending my youngest dog running for the window to see what or who's threatening his territory. He's a sensitive little guy, though little is not the best word to use, I suppose. He's almost the height of the big dog, a 90 pound yellow Lab, but half his weight and twice his nerve. I won't say he's fearless, but he does his best to act like it. 

I have four apple trees growing on this parcel of heaven, fifteen or so miles west of the Maine coast. All of them are ancient varieties, the offspring of seeds brought to the Colonies by European immigrants, as are most native Maine apples. You can go to commercial orchards and pick ancients as well as the familiar red and golden delicious and Macintosh. How these four came to be planted here, I have no idea, but I'd wager the largest, the Black Oxford, has been around at least a hundred years, from the diameter of its trunk.

The next largest is a Moses Wood, named for a Winthrop, Maine, farmer who was an early grafter of the tree, and the others are either Summer Sweet or Winter Sweet -- I don't know for sure what they are, to tell the truth -- and produce yellowish-green fruit that are better for cooking than eating from the tree. The Oxfords are a winter apple and really need a frost to bring out the flavor. The Moses Wood, if I've identified it correctly, that is, has had a difficult few years, but it bounced back this month as though trying to make up for lost time. It's been so prolific, I've had to give bags of tangy-sweet apples to my neighbors before they went bad. The apples, not my neighbors.

The little yellow trees are full this year, too, but the fruit are so small that by the time they're pealed, there's little left but the core. They're better for throwing, anyway, or so I imagine a younger version of myself thinking and then doing, trying to see how far he could launch them down the long grassy slope that leads to the hayfield. Much to the delight of the deer that have been feeding there in the evenings.

My tenant, Freddy the Porcupine, who lives under the barn. has taken to munching apples in front of the garage at night. Most mornings I'll find the evidence of his nocturnal snacking inches from the door -- a half-chewed apple -- as though he feels he should leave it for me to finish. I guess it's his way of paying rent. Two years ago, when he moved in, he had the habit of snoozing in the flowerbeds, snuggled up against the house in the afternoon sun. I saw him the other night and he's no more afraid of me now than he was then.

I've been like the little apple trees, it seems, for a long time. Ideas a plenty but none juicy enough to write about. Now, I feel more like the Moses Wood, if not prolific, at least more productive. Pink Hats has been on my mind and like Freddy's apple, "someone" needs to finish it off. Reading over the chapters, a couple of things have caught my attention. We've never really gotten a glimpse of Jessie's inner process, how she got to the place in her life where marrying Bob and becoming an adoptive mother straight off was doable. I've been working on that as well as a post about the conversation between Bob and her father in Untarnished and in Uncharted Territory. I hope, like apples off the tree, they're worth sitting down and biting into. In the meantime, have a wonderful Labor Day weekend.


(Creative Commons image of ancient apple trees by gemteck1 via Flickr)

Behind the Scenes with Dr. Neal Cross

Like many medical schools, fairly early in the first term mine presents a memorial service for families whose loved ones donated their bodies as cadavers for Gross Anatomy. While I've referenced our service in another blog post, I've never revealed how I came to be one of the student speakers for the service celebrated by my entering class, the UNE Class of 2010. 

It came about in the late evening chill of September 17, 2006. September usually acts like summer in my native Colorado, unless it gets a wild hair and decides to imitate winter with an early season snowfall, as it did in 1997, dropping 30 inches overnight. Here in Maine, there's no denying September is autumn, especially in the evening and especially near the coast. My school is within walking distance of the Atlantic Ocean and even though days are comfortably warm, when the sun goes down so goes the temperature. 

For our service, the new class is positioned on the east side of the staging area. They're really present as witnesses, but because they constitute a wall protecting the celebrants and families from intrusion, I like to think of them as Guardians of Reverence. The previous year's class, the one for whom this service is most meaningful. is seated with the family members and faculty. An honor guard, led by a piper, opens the ceremony. Clad in dark blue Yankee uniforms from the Civil War and bearing Old Glory and the state flag of Maine, they are a sight to see.

Why the Civil War and not modern uniforms? This is New England and history is honored here. Our service and the internment of ashes takes place on the rim of a cemetery on campus that dates from the 1600s. Old slate gravestones mark the names of those whose sons and daughters gathered at First Parish Meeting House that used to stand on this very spot (it has since been relocated a mile away) and listened as the Declaration of Indepedance was read aloud in 1776. I stopped once on my way home, and at the invitation of a groundskeeper, stepped inside. It is plain and simple, with white wooden pews covered with black velvet seat pillows. Along the back walls are photos of veterans dating from 1861; the smells of must and dust and time are as vivid as the afternoon sunlight that streams through old, single pane windows. In the silence, you can't help but hear, "We hold these truths to be self-evident..."

Following an introduction by the Anatomy faculty, two or three students take the podium to speak on behalf of their classmates and try to put into words what it's meant to work so intimately with the bodies of persons we've never met. There are words of thanks and appreciation that we hope become words of comfort to family members who've waited a year to see their loved ones laid to rest, here, at the end of the world.

After the service is over, people mingle and chat, the first years leave early because Gross Anatomy for them is far from over and it seems there's always an exam pending. I wandered over to Dr. Neal Cross, our professor and the director of the anatomy program, and we talked about this and that. I was struggling in anatomy, despite having done well as a premed, and he and I had discussed my situation in detail. The truth is, I was afraid my first term in medical school would be my last. Somewhere in the mix, Dr. Cross said to me, "You should be a speaker next year." 

I responded, "You really think I'll still be here?" I resisted adding, "Are you nuts?"

"You'll be here," he said, nodding, "though I may not be. In either case, I'll make sure you're on the list of student speakers." He asked me to keep it to myself, which I did, but he was contemplating accepting another faculty position elsewhere and mine proved to be his last year teaching in Maine.

I went home with a small, dim but real, glimmer of hope that helped get me through the rest of the term, despite the fact that I'd have to repeat anatomy the following summer. Dr. Cross was right. I made it to next year and the years following, all the way to graduation. I don't know what he saw in me or what he knew. I didn't ask and he didn't say. Some things, I guess, are best left where they lay, behind the scenes. 

This past weekend, Dr. Neal Cross passed away, far too young and far too soon. I'm told a motorcycle accident was partly to blame. Though we never had any contact after he moved on, I've never forgotten the faith he gave me that night and I never will.

Thanks, Neal.  


 (Photo of Dr. Neal Cross courtesy of the University of New England, all rights reserved)