In Boston, following the Freedom Trail, Scott and I turn a corner and cross a brick courtyard.
“One if by land, two if by sea.” That’s probably the typical thought that runs through the average person’s head when looking up at this iconic structure steeped in American history.
My thoughts turn to my grandfather. I must have heard his anecdote about a short leave in Boston when he was in the Merchant Marine’s during World War II at least a dozen times, but as I stare at the steeple that launched Paul Revere’s midnight ride, I cannot for the life of me remember how the tale begins.
Here’s the part I imagine, but am not sure to be true. He and his buddies were on leave, and spent the night out on the town. As they returned to port, after what I imagine to be a raucous evening complete with at least one ill-advised tattoo, they turned a corner, and stood on the street that I am on now. One of them pointed and said (and my grandfather would always grandly sweep his arms during this part of the story, shoot his hand in the air, and look up), “Do you see that? That is the Old. North. Church.”
Those are the words I hear when I snap my photos. Each of those words. Punctuated. Definitive. That is how my grandfather often spoke.
The Old. North. Church.
Stories are what I remember most about grandfather. Even if I don’t remember them down to the finest detail, they’re always there in the back of my mind. And sometimes, there are little triggers in my everyday life that make me think of him.
Even when I’m on a weekend getaway in Boston.
A connection to my family where I least expected it.
Your Grandfather (“Big D”) would be proud–proud that you made it to Boston and the Old North Church, and proud that you remembered his story. Yes, he loved to tell his stories, mostly about his experiences in the US Navy during WWII. But he always ended them with these words: “But I didn’t re-enlist!”
Believe it or not, he kept a diary (which I have) of his first cruise aboard the USS Mount Vernon, a troop transport, from Boston to Halifax, around the Cape of Good Hope, into the Indian Ocean, Singapore, Australia, across the Pacific, then up the coast to San Francisco where six months of mail awaited him and the rest of the crew. I can hear him say, “I went out on the fantail, read my mail, and balled like a baby!”