Boston – and a New England Wedding

We had not intended to visit Boston.

Granted, the Massachusetts capital is a crucible of American history, rife with the lore of independence: Paul Revere’s midnight ride, the Boston Tea Party, Bunker Hill. Plus there are the shrines for sports fans: Boston Garden and the iconic Green Monster at Fenway Park.

Beantown simply hadn’t made it onto our bucket list.

Then our middle daughter phoned. “What are you doing on June 28th,” she enquired pragmatically, “would that be a good date for you to attend my wedding in New England?”

It was March. We were in New Zealand. So from halfway round the globe we planned a new adventure. Colette’s call came while we were on a day-tour of Marlborough’s wineries. Coincidentally the couple sipping sauvignon blanc next to us overheard the conversation:

“We’re from Bawston,” the gentleman said in a thick accent. “Book a place in the North End. You’ll love it ther’.”

And we did. The North End is perfectly situated for exploring Boston. One of the oldest neighbourhoods in the US, its narrow meandering streets are filled with restaurants, bakeries and small artisan shops – all with a boisterous Italian vibe. The smell of cappuccino and cannoli permeates the air. The North End is more reminiscent of Naples than an American city.

Although the wedding was in New Hampshire, Boston was our arrival point so it seemed apropos to explore the “Cradle of Liberty” for a few days before the June 28 nuptials.

Our Airbnb condo was tucked in a quiet backstreet, a two-minute walk from the frenzied pace of Salem Street. Paul Revere’s house (built a mere 350 years ago) was close by and the Old North Church where Mr. Revere hung lanterns to warn of the British invasion (“one if by land, two if by sea”) was just down the street; as was Bova’s Bakery – and its heavenly peanut butter cheesecake.

Florence and I usually rent accommodation equipped with a kitchen. We are not typically fond of restaurant fare. In Boston the condo dishes remained in the cupboard.

Paul Revere gazes down on FlorenceIn other large American cities – New York, Chicago, Washington – we’ve relied on the subway to see the sites. But we were so well situated in Boston that the underground was unnecessary; our feet did the travelling for us. Most of the great landmarks – including the Freedom Trail – were a short stroll from our peaceful digs.

Boston really is a remarkable place, overwhelmingly steeped in early Americana. If I were an American I’d stand up right now, salute and wave Old Glory. But as a reserved Canadian I’ll just continue on politely with my fabrications.

Prestigious Harvard University is – naturally – the oldest of is kind in the United States. Having spent twenty-seven years in the legal profession I was eager to visit Harvard’s famous Law School. With my enviable credentials I expected to be greeted with open arms by my confreres in law.

You can always tell a Harvard man… but you can’t tell him much.I vaulted up the centuries-old limestone steps – and was promptly and firmly denied entry, despite showing the beefy security guard my (expired) membership card in the American Bar Association. This was heartbreaking. I longed to peer down the sacred halls of legal academia into the musty classrooms of America’s most esteemed law school. Plus I really needed to pee. There are no public restrooms anywhere on the Harvard campus.

Goose Pond is a two-hour drive north from Boston. I navigated the rental car away from Boston Harbor and the coast. Soon we were travelling inland through a lush green corridor of beech, alder and maple trees.

I usually avoid the interstate. The slow circuitous route to one’s destination is always more revealing, rewarding. Colourful covered bridges dot New England’s byways, spanning small streams where fishermen cast flies at native trout. Distant hills roll toward a hazy horizon, tinted blue by summer’s humidity. Small bucolic towns – founded two centuries before Canada became a nation – proudly honour German, Scandinavian, Irish or Native American heritage.

New England is a continuous forest. We shall certainly return some October to enjoy the delicious deciduous change from verdant summer green to the bright red, orange and yellow hues of autumn.

As a child our second daughter had health issues. Her asthma and allergies meant for constant vigilance – and worry. But the worst fright occurred one stifling summer evening when, sick with a cold, Colette went into febrile convulsions. I ran out of the airless house onto the street waiting for an ambulance while my lovely young daughter lay seemingly lifeless in my useless arms. We learned later that these seizures are not life threatening and usually don’t result in any permanent harm. Rather, they are the young brain’s defence mechanism to the threat of high fever.

Colette overcame or outgrew these childhood maladies. With her gift for learning she has become an accomplished academic – on the verge of receiving a PhD in marine biology. So it was with great pride that I watched my daughter marry Mike Brown in the charmingly rustic setting of Goose Pond, New Hampshire.

The marriage took place al fresco in the wildflowers and granite outcroppings that form the back yard of Mike’s parent’s quaint cottage; this cathedral of the outdoors was the perfect setting for wedding nuptials. Throughout the ceremony a pair of loons called raucously, as if proclaiming avian approval and congratulations.

Time spent with young people is vastly more enjoyable than that endured in the company of old farts. The young are positive, interesting, bright, enthusiastic, funny – and polite. Their opinions are not fused with an “I dare you to contradict me” defensiveness but by wry humour and a joie de vivre. Conversations of the twenty-somethings are not consumed by complaints of taxation and enlarged prostates. Their themes invariably invoke vitality and growth.

So I was thrilled when The Blue Lemons (the band formed by Mike and his buddies) invited this old fart (ever-present ukulele in hand) to sit in at rehearsal on the morning of the wedding. I tried to educate the boys on some interesting facts regarding aching knees and a bum hip but – incomprehensibly – they insisted on playing music. We needed to practice for the reception.

The wedding went off without a hitch. Champagne bottles were popped and glasses clinked. I cooked burgers for the small gathering while the band set up on the porch.

After a couple of sets the boys invited me up – even presenting me with an honorary Blue Lemons T-shirt. Then “Gerry and the Lemonaders” rocked out across the lake. The loons called back in applause while my newly-married daughter danced barefoot in her wedding gown in the warm New England night. As she twirled I remembered back to that hot Red Deer evening almost a quarter century ago when I thought my little girl might expire in my arms.

After a few tunes, I stood up and thanked the lads for including me in the band. I had a tear in my eye. My knees were killing me.

Gerry