Paul Revere, Limestone Memories, and Clouds Over The Ocean

The next morning Emmet had to go be at work at 8, which meant leaving at 7:30. I was going to get up and go with him so I could pick up my car and tool around the city, but he said to stay at his place and sleep some more. "Nothing really goes on in Boston before 10 on a Saturday anyway," he said.

Part of me kind of found that idea exciting - I wanted to see what went on in Boston before the
city stirred for the day. Just like in the forest, where the prime time to see wildlife is in the early morning when the fog is still hanging, cities often showcase their most interesting tenants between 4 and 8 AM. But the events of the night before, although everything had worked out with the parking garage people in the end, had left a bad taste in my mouth and the thought of getting two extra hours of sleep sounded nice. Emmet got up and ready for work, then tucked me in and kissed my forehead. "Sweet dreams, babe," he said as he closed the bedroom door.

I was excited that he hadn’t seemed to mind the fact that I wouldn’t have sex with him. Usually when a guy is after one thing and it’s obvious that it won’t happen, they lose interest faster than a fruit fly. But Emmet being so sweet to me after being denied anything was a good sign in my book. It gave me a lot of fuel for the daydream machine later on in the day when I braved the streets of Boston again.

I had decided to stay another night in Boston because Emmet was supposed to get out of work at 1 in the afternoon and we were going to hang out. He was determined to show me the nicer side of Boston. "This city has a lot of assholes," he had said the night before, as we were driving out of the garage. "But for every five assholes there’s one person that’s just super nice."

I took the city’s train, the T, into downtown and walked around Boston Common for a bit. The clouds that had been lurking around in the early morning had been chased away by the sun as I climbed the stairs out of the subway station. Vendors were selling Boston souvenirs on carts around the park and it was easy to see that this was the first nice Saturday the city had enjoyed so far this year. Locals and tourists alike were fanned out throughout the grass and soaking up spring. Everyone was happy. It was a beautiful sight.

I left the Common and headed in the direction that all the tourists were going. I figured by doing so I may see something interesting, unlike all of the other places I had been so far where I wanted to stay as far away from anyone wearing a large-rimmed hat and carrying a camera. But it’s much easier to get lost in Boston than in a town with one main road, so I followed the crowd like a lemming. We walked up a narrow, brick-laden street with tall concrete and brick buildings on either side. It was a stark contrast to the sunny park, and noticeably colder.

Just a little ways up the block was a very old cemetery, with dark-gray limestone gravestones and lined with a cast iron-fence. It was square, set in a courtyard amidst three of the tall brick buildings. The fourth side was open onto the street. Two large oak trees grew near the center, shading the graves from the shadows already cascading from the buildings. A huge concrete memorial, probably 40 feet high, sat dead center in the yard, with the name "Franklin" carved about 6 feet up. A sign on the iron fence told visitors that this cemetery was the final resting place for such noteable Americans as Ben Franklin’s parents, John Hancock, and Paul Revere.

I really wanted to see Revere’s grave and pay my respects to the man without whom America may have been very different. When he alerted his fellow colonists of the impending danger of the British troops he not only saved many lives, but he was instrumental in the series of events that led to our being a free nation. I poked around the grave stones, looking for any that stood out from the multitude. Each of the stones were very dark, faded, although the carvings on them were deep and easy to make out despite their obvious age. Most of them were uniform in that they each had a half-skull bordered by vines carved on the top. It gave them an eerie look as they sat shrouded in shadow. The words and names on the stones were carved in Olde English, using f’s instead of s’s, and proved the dates, most of which were between the late 1600's and middle 1700's.

I walked the outer edges of the grove, where large monuments sat, looking for Revere’s grave. I passed John Hancock’s but didn’t see any that matched so I began to walk the inner circle.
There, close to the furthest edge of the graveyard from the street, sat a tiny tombstone with the name "Revere" carved in thin capital letters. I marveled at the size of it; it was no taller than one foot and only about 4 inches thick. Its width was surprising as well, approximately one and one half feet from end to end. Someone had set a small American flag in the packed dirt to the right of the stone and a bouquet of wilting yellow flowers wrapped in plastic was set in front. To the left of the gravemarker was a larger monument made of concrete, about 3 and a half feet high, that read, "Paul Revere", with his birth and death years, presumably erected by people who wanted more recognition for the man than was originally given.

I crouched in front of the small grave for awhile, charged by the knowledge that an American icon was a mere six feet below me. I wondered what he looked like when he was alive. So many times I think about people who are famous for one reason or another, people I admire for their work or contributions, and I have no idea what they look like. It’s an odd feeling, admiring a stranger. It gives you a sense of connection and disconnection all at once. Still, I was excited and glad that I was able to see Paul Revere’s grave. I whispered, "Thank you", brushed the soil off my knees, and continued following the crowd of camera-carriers and "I (heart) Boston" t-shirt wearers.

We meandered down narrow streets and past immense churches of all kinds. Lutheran, Congregationalist, Catholic. Each had opened their doors for visitors and passers-by, and I wandered into the Congregationalist one. It was white inside, and lined with red velvet booths. I had never seen pews arranged into booths rather than all facing the altar before. It reminded me of a train car and I wondered if this was an aspect of the Congregationalist service - emphasis on the people around you rather than uni-directional worship. It seemed a welcome change from the usual fare, assuming you agreed with everything the people in your booth had to say. Knowing me, I wouldn’t have lasted six minutes in one with someone who is homophobic, but I would have liked to attend a service there anyway. My schedule impeded joining them the next morning, however, so I simply moved on.

I passed Old City Hall, where a bronze statue of a donkey sits in the courtyard, representing the liberal majority view of the city. It is life size, and I really wanted somebody to take a picture of me on it - I knew it would make my grandma so proud, photographic evidence of her Democrat granddaughter - but I was feeling unusually shy for some reason. I couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone around me. Perhaps it was lingering nervousness from the night before - it’s been a long time since I’ve had to slap a guy for being too forward and I’d forgotten how unsettling it can be.
I kept walking and found a shopping district. There was a street festival going on and I made my way slowly past the booths and carts of roasted nuts, smiling at babies, taking pictures, and trying to erase the image of the Pakistani security guard from my mind. A man dressed as a clown was making intricate balloon animals and he paused to let me take a picture. He was a salt-of-the-earth type, an older gentleman with unfortunate teeth but twinkling blue eyes. I noticed his thick Boston accent as he talked to the children watching, although he said nothing to me. He wore no make-up or red nose despite the silly, brightly-colored outfit and red afro-wig, and people walking by giggled at the sight.

I popped into a couple of shops because I am a total chick and couldn’t resist the soft pink and green tops on the mannequins in the windows. I didn’t buy them, but I did pick up a new wifebeater for $3.00. Am I the only one that finds that name a bit unsettling? I love the shirt but I think a new moniker is in order, don’t you?

I knew I was close to Fanueil Hall, which Emmet had pointed out and recommended the night before. I asked a policeman where to find it and soon I was headed in the right direction, passing about 42 Dunkin Donuts on the way.

Dunkin Donuts got its start in Massachusetts and it is obvious. I truly believe that the whole of the city of Boston would crumble were it not for the 7,000 Dunkin Donuts that hold up the buildings and anchor the neighborhoods. Their sheer numbers are like that of Starbucks in New York or Ben and Jerry’s in Vermont - you can stand at the window of one shop and see the same shop across the street and down the block a little ways. You can wave to customers in one shop from the other. In the movie "Best in Show" they used that situation as a joke but it is absolutely possible. And that scares me. Don't get me wrong, I loves me some Dunkin Donuts. But I don't like overkill, even if it is yummy donut overkill.

Luckily, there are only two Dunkin Donuts in Fanueil Hall. The rest of the place is made up of stores selling funky things, bars, restaurants, and carts selling everything from Boston memorabilia to jewelry. I putzed around and around and around waiting for the clock to hit 1. Emmet hadn’t called and I couldn’t get through to him. Walking around alone, I pictured getting together with him later on in the day - picking a flower pot in the park to meet at, catching sight of him as he walked towards me, jumping up from my seat and running to him, him picking me up in a bear hug with a kiss, placing me back on the ground, grabbing my hand and twirling me around as he did so. Then we would walk arm-in-arm while he showed me all his favorite parts of the city. Let it never be said that I don’t have an active imagination.

I wanted to pick up a little something for Emmet, a gift of some sort and I racked my brain trying to think of the perfect thing. I had noticed a turntable and a record collection in his room that morning as he was getting ready for work - guys, turntables and record collections are a sure way to impress the ladies, trust me, as long as the records are cool, like James Taylor and Janis Joplin albums (which Emmet had) - and I told him how awesome it was that he had them. He admitted that he couldn’t play any of them because his turntable needed a new needle.

Walking around thinking up gift ideas, I figured it would be great, a sure way into his heart, to pick up a turntable needle. I decided on a gift certificate to a store that sold them instead, since I had no idea what kind he needed, but for the life of me I couldn’t find any. I asked around and learned that finding that kind of store would have meant taking the train to some town just outside the city and I was not about to leave my comfort zone, small though it was. I got him a Bart Simpson bookmark instead, for two reasons: 1) I had noticed a bunch of Simpsons figurines on a shelf in his room, and 2) I had also seen a book splayed open on his dresser to mark a page, the spine cracked almost into a full circle. This way he wouldn’t have to ruin his books.
It’s silly, I know, but I was very grateful for his late-night rescue tactics and excited to meet someone who had pretty much every quality I looked for in a guy.

I didn’t hear from Emmet until 5 o’clock, however, and I was tired from walking around all day on little sleep. We decided that I would pick up my car and meet him back at his house and then decide what to do from there. I got the car FOR FREE, after parking it in the garage for over 24 hours! Digash, bless his heart, had left a note with the teller instructing her to let me pass with no charge. The bill came to about $60, which she voided and raised the metal arm, letting me through. That Digash, what a guy!

I got on the highway and entered North Quincy, and promptly got lost, of course. Emmet had to talk me back to his street by phone. Finally, I pulled up in front and he hugged me hello. "Did you have a fun day?" he asked.
"Yep, and I got you a little something, too!" I answered cheerily.
His Irish accent was disgustingly adorable as he said, "Oh, did you now? Oh, my, come on upstairs, I want to see!"

I followed him upstairs to his room, passing his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend on the way. They seemed nice enough during the 3.6 seconds I saw them. Then Emmet led me to his room and sat on the bed, pulling me onto his knee. "Whadja get me, whadja get me?" he teased as I opened the bag. I handed him a card first, one I had picked out with a puppy on the front. Inside it read, "Thanks for lending a hand." Underneath, I wrote, "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good. – Richard Rodgers", and signed it. It was a quote from "The Sound of Music", which he had on vinyl in his record collection. He got it right away, looking up from the card and planting a huge kiss on my cheek that made me blush. Then I handed him the bookmark, explaining why I had chosen it and apologizing for being too scared to venture out and find a turntable needle. I could tell he was touched as he told me how silly I was for apologizing.

We looked at each other blankly as we tried to decide what to do next. At this point it was about 6:45 in the evening and we were both exhausted. We laid down on the bed to think about it and ended up taking a huge nap until about 9:30. Sure, we felt guilty and lazy for wasting prime going-out time on a Saturday night, but neither one of us had slept well the night before. He works for a moving company and I had marched up and down the streets of Boston all day, so we were both a little worn around the edges.

When we woke up, it seems Emmet had gotten a fairly good rest, because he was suddenly frisky. I won’t lie, I was very tempted to give in. He was so cute and sweet, how could he possibly be anything but wonderful? It took a lot of will power but I politely declined, saying I was hungry and we should go get something to eat. He grudgingly agreed and we ended up at a place in Quincy, a small pub with TV’s on the wall. Suddenly, it was as though I had disappeared even though I was sitting across from him in the booth. The Red Sox game was going on over my head. Try as I may to make conversation or ask him a question, it was in vain. Eventually I gave up and turned my attention to my chicken breast wrap and the Wizards-Heat game on the opposite wall.

Another one bites the dust. There were clouds over the ocean of Fantasy Land that night as I realized that my disgusted side had been right all along, again. When you get right down to it, all guys are after one thing. When they don’t get it or right after they do get it, they lose interest, stop calling. This was no different.

It was the deja vu all over again when we got back to the house. The next morning he got up and left for work at the same time, I stayed in bed and slept some more, and when I got up I made the bed and left a thank-you note on his dresser. But I knew that it was silly, that I probably wouldn’t hear from him and if I did it would be minimal at best. My novelty had worn off quickly, and truth be told, it broke my heart. A week and a half later it still hurts. I had really liked this one. I had high hopes. I held out hope for the rest of the day, but by Monday it was obvious that he had put me out of his mind since I hadn’t put out.
And Emmet, if you read this... check your mailbox.

Anyhow, he went to work and I, surprisingly enough, went to church. I tried to go to a Lutheran church in the neighborhood but I couldn’t find one. I did stroll past an Episcopalian one whose mass started an hour from when I found it. That left me with an hour to kill on the streets of North Quincy so I set out to find a convinience store for some Midol and water. On the walk to find one I found something that will forever stick in my mind when I think of Quincy, Massachusetts.

Hancock Street, the main drag through the town, is lined on one side by strip malls and the other by houses and apartment complexes. The intermittent stoplights and business side of the street remind me of Rt. 1 in Laurel, just a mess of concrete and neon and wires. The house and apartment side is a bit kinder, but not by much. Still, when I was walking on the house-bearing side of the avenue, I saw a large limestone tablet, much like the ones I had seen in the cemetery the day before, except much taller and without a skull carved on it. It was set upon a concrete mount and it had the same sort of Olde English carving as the graves, although rather than years of birth or death, it read:

Bofton — 6 milef
Plymouth — 98 milef
Fouth Bofton Bridge — 3 milef

Obviously, the F’s are meant to be S’s, and it was clear that this stone had served as a mile marker when the area had been dirt roads and farms. Hancock Street, I’m guessing, served as a main thoroughfare between Boston and Plymouth in the early days of the colony, and I could not get over this starkly-contrasted piece of history sitting forgotten in the middle of a churning suburban tableau. I ran my fingers over the rough letters, wary of the natural oil on my hands and not wanting to ruin it. Although this stone had survived the harsh winters of coastal Massachusetts for nearly 400 years, 9 wars, and the choking overgrowth of the city, I still felt as though one touch could break it. With my luck it would be mine. I didn’t have my camera with me to capture the stone, backlit by the morning sun and framed by a driveway and chain link fence, but I will always carry that image in my heart - that testament to those who traversed Hancock Street in horsecarts long before Muffy and Buffy sped down it in their Beamers.