Historic Memories
We were enjoying a day in Historic Philadelphia with our fifteen-year-old grandson, Phillip. We had visited The Declaration House where Thomas Jefferson penned his masterpiece. We watched a movie about the Birth of Freedom at the Constitution Center. We took photos in front of the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. While waiting to tour the rooms where Independence was declared, I overheard a conversation between a mother and her teenage daughter.
“This is so boring. Why did you make me come here,” groaned daughter.
“I thought you might learn something, “ replied Mom.
“I won’t learn anything because I won’t remember any of this,” said the teen.
As I listened, I thought about our day with Phillip. He had listened patiently to the guides and his grandparents as we related American historical facts. Perhaps he wouldn’t remember any of it. But while touring, we had also related our memories of our times in these places.
We each recalled visiting Philadelphia with our school classes when the Liberty Bell was still housed in Independence Hall. We had stuck our fingers in the crack. We toured the Federal Mint and watched real money being made. We threw pennies on Ben Franklin’s grave for good luck.
I recalled a trip with my California cousins. We bought soft pretzels and toured Betsy Ross’s house. We visited the site of Ben Franklin’s house and printing shop.
All thirteen of us stood at the base the statue of John Barry with the famous clocktower of Independence Hall looming over us. We were hot and tired but happy.
Many years later, my fiancé and I traveled into the city to buy our engagement ring. We wandered into Independence Square and asked someone to take a photo of us with the clocktower behind us to mark this historic day. We toured holding hands and grinning shyly at one another. We return every year to recreate our happy day.
We made many memories at Independence Hall. Once, I ranted about the lack of a plaque for John Adams, the Atlas of Independence, on the site as my son and husband drifted slowly away pretending they didn’t know me. My daughter fainted during the tour when she was eight. Three-year-old Phillip had a bout of illness when we visited again with those same California cousins. We crowded around the same statue to recreate memories of our childhood days.
This trip, Phillip listened attentively to the tour guides who spoke of American history and to his grandparents who shared family history. He might not recall all the stories of history but we hope he will remember the stories of our lives. The teen who complained to her mother might remember something too — the mother who loved her enough to share a meaningful day with her.
Before we left, we threw pennies on Ben Franklin’s grave for good luck — the good luck of sharing family memories and love.
