“That’s for my voting public, Jack. But it’s not the song for Fenway Park when a doubleheader is about to begin.” Jack’s grandfather, Honey Fitz, looked around with a delighted smile. “So the Washington Senators are pitting their championship strength against our Boston Pilgrims—”
“No! Grandpa, you’ve just got to remember!” Joe shook his head. “It isn’t the Boston Pilgrims any more. Now it’s the Red Sox.”
“Maybe,” his grandfather replied, slightly disgruntled. “But just the same I can remember the Pilgrims.”
“You can, Grandpa?” Jack had a wink for him. “That’s three hundred years!”
“Jack, you’ve got a good sense of humor.” His grandfather looked at him seriously. “Don’t ever lose it.”
The Senators may have been the champions of the American League, but they still lost to Boston in the first game of that doubleheader on the Fourth of July in 1925. But in the second game, their Bucky Harris knocked a home run over the left field fence and Washington leaped ahead with a score of five to one.
The game ended with the Senators dividing scores with the Red Sox and with Mr. Fitzgerald taking his grandsons to the Boston dugout.
The pitcher for the Red Sox, Howard Ehmke, had a hearty welcome for the boys and their grandfather. “Howdy, Mr. Fitzgerald. Going to sing us a tune? We need to cheer up after losing that one.”
“You pitched a great game, Mr. Ehmke,” Joe Jr. said. “The Senators just got four runs.”
“And the Pilgrims came through with seven!” Grandpa Fitz added cheerily.
“Grandpa!” Jack whispered. “Remember what Joe told you. It’s not the Pilgrims now.”
“My boy,” his grandfather said, drawing himself up as tall as his short frame could reach, “my boy, when I was mayor of Boston, I used to throw out the first ball of the season. I can remember the Boston Pilgrims from those days, and the Red Sox is too newfangled for me.”
“The Pilgrims was a good name for a Boston team,” Howard Ehmke said.
“Glad somebody agrees with me, Mr. Ehmke! And now, these grandsons of mine want to have their score cards autographed if your arm isn’t too tired from all that pitching.”
“Never too tired to sign my name for you, Mr. Fitzgerald, or for your grandchildren. They look like mighty fine boys.”
The mighty fine boys were mighty tired boys at the day’s end. As he popped into bed that night, Jack wiggled his toes underneath the cool sheets and breathed a happy sigh.
The evening had been just as exciting as the earlier events of the day. The whole sky over Boston had been aglow with red, green, and purple clouds. Out of the inky blackness, a series of patriotic images had lit up the night.
The boys saw Valley Forge with its snow, bonfires, and stacked muskets. Angry patriots dumped tea in Boston Harbor. A brilliant and sparkling Uncle Sam rode in a car with revolving wheels, and the airplane display even had a pinwheel whirling around for a propeller.
At the very end, of course, there was the American flag with the Stars and Stripes appearing in full and glowing color. A barrage of bombs exploded in little bursts of light, echoing through the darkness, and the Fourth of July was over.
Rubbing his eyes sleepily, Jack yawned and murmured into his pillow, “What a great day! It had everything—a parade, a ball game, fireworks, and Grandpa!”
“MIDNIGHT RIDE OF PAUL REVERE”
ALL THAT WEEK following the Fourth of July a heat wave hung over Boston. Even at the nearby seashore in Hull, where the Kennedy family was spending the summer, the days were sticky and hot, the nights sweltering.
The July sun made the streets a broiling oven as the family drove through the sultry city on the way to Concord one day. When they finally reached the open country, a slight breeze fluttered the leaves and stirred the air.
In the elm-shaded streets of Concord town, the sunlight filtered through the foliage, making cool shadows on the green velvet grass.
“Wish we could take off our shoes and run barefoot,” Jack said. “That grass looks cool.”
“If you park the car right here, David,” Mrs. Kennedy said to the chauffeur, “we can walk over to the statue of the Minute Man. And,” she added to Jack, “I don’t see why you can’t go barefooted. Just watch for sharp stones.”
“And don’t leave your shoes somewhere, Jack!” As the oldest boy, Joe Jr. took his responsibilities seriously. “Eunice, get down off that running board. You know better than to play on the car. Mother, we really shouldn’t bring a four-year-old on an outing like this. Eunice is just too young.”
“Four years old is not a bit too young to start learning history. I can remember your Grandpa and Grandma Fitzgerald bringing me out here to Concord when I was younger than Eunice.” The memories brought a smile to Mrs. Kennedy’s lips. “What wonderful history lessons!”
“Grandpa taught you history?” Jack asked.
“Yes. In a way. Of course, we didn’t have any classrooms. Nor any textbooks. We didn’t need them. Every famous spot within fifty miles of Boston was our classroom. Instead of opening a book, we just opened the doors to history—Old North Church, Bunker Hill, Faneuil Hall, Plymouth Rock, Lexington—”
“Makes the past seem alive,” Joe said.
“Reminds me of a game we play at Dexter.” Jack’s bare toes wiggled the spongy moss.
“No! No football today. Not in your good clothes.” Mrs. Kennedy spoke firmly.
“I didn’t say anything about football, Mother. It’s just a game we play in history class. One fellow thinks of a slogan or a place or a person. Then the other guy matches up a name.”
“What a definition!” Joe Jr. gave a snort of disgust. “Better explain the game with an example or nobody will understand it.”
“Well—” Jack thought a moment. “For instance, if you say ‘One if by land, two if by sea,’ what does that remind you of?”
“ ‘Paul Revere’s Ride’!” Kathleen said promptly.
“Old North Church and the belfry where they hung the signal lantern,” Joe replied.
“Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” Mrs. Kennedy said. As the eyebrows shot up, questioning her answer, she explained her choice. “Longfellow wrote the poem. The one that says:
‘Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.’ ”
“I understand your game now, Jack. Can we use dates, too?” Kathleen asked.
“Don’t see why not as long as they match up to a person or a place.”
“Okay. What does this date remind you of?” she questioned. “April nineteenth!”
“That’s easy,” Rosemary answered happily. “It’s Uncle Tom’s birthday.”
Mrs. Kennedy smiled. “You’re quite right, Rosemary,” she said. “But Uncle Tom was born on Patriots’ Day, you know. That’s the date Kick wants.” Kick was Kathleen’s nickname.
“If Uncle Tom was born on Patriots’ Day,” Jack said, “no wonder he’s a history buff.”
“The day he was born, back in 1895, your grandfather Fitzgerald had to make a Patriots’ Day speech in Acton. I think he was running for the United States Congress that year. When he finished his speech, your grandpa announced the birth of a new baby boy—Thomas Acton,” Mrs. Kennedy said.
“The people in Acton must have been pleased to have Grandpa name his son after the town. Why did he do that?” Joe asked.
“Mainly because your grandmother Fitzgerald was born in Acton. But you know how much your grandfather enjoys history. Acton was important in the American Revolution. The entire powder supply of the Continental Army was stored there. Not only that, but an Acton man led the Minute Men at Concord.”
“And here we all are right now in Concord, where the Minute Men fought!” Jack was enjoying every minute of this excursion.
Just ahead of Jack and the others a bridge spanned the Concord River. It was a concrete replica of the famous bridge where the Colonials stopped the British. At the far end of the bridge, the Mi
nute Man greeted them. Standing proud and tall, the soldier was a farmer dressed in homespun and carrying his musket ready at his side. The statue was so real and lifelike that Jack almost expected it to speak, to tell what happened on that day in 1775.
At the base of the statue were carved several lines from “The Concord Hymn,” the poem that Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in memory of the skirmish.
“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.”
Beyond the bridge, the family followed a footpath across the adjoining field to the Old Manse, the home of Emerson. The dark gray house with its gambrel roof had been built before the Revolution by Emerson’s grandfather. From an upstairs window, his grandmother had watched the battle on the bridge.
Jack thought of all he had read about the Revolution, about the important people and places. The words were now beginning to take on special meaning for him. The past seemed as real as the present. Myles Standish, Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Ralph Waldo Emerson weren’t just names any more. Not after he had walked the same ground where their feet walked, touched the same bricks, stood in the same house, looked at the same sky, the same sea.
As always when they were interested, the children wanted to stay longer and see more. Both boys wanted to visit Nathaniel Hawthorne’s old home, the Wayside. The girls, of course, asked to see Orchard House where Louisa May Alcott wrote Little Women. Jack explored Walden Pond and imagined Henry David Thoreau writing there in the quiet woods.
All too soon, twilight began to fall on Concord. Dusk moved down over the village from the low ridge of hills and crept along the ancient stone walls, covering the meadows and fields with a deep purple hue. Night was gathering in the quiet streets. Darkness veiled the monuments in the Square, cloaked the Old North Bridge and the Statue of the Minute Man.
From the meeting house steeple, a bell tolled the hour.
“Time to go,” Mrs. Kennedy said with great reluctance.
“Let’s come back, Mother. This is a terrific way to learn history,” Jack said.
“Of course we’ll come back,” his mother replied. “Everybody needs to know more about history. If you don’t know where you’ve been, how do you know where you’re going? We all need to know more about our country’s past.”
“Look to history for your past,” Joe said. “That’s a good slogan. What of the present?”
“For the present, look to newspapers,” his mother said. “Good newspapers, of course. And magazines like the Literary Digest. Both are fine. Responsible, accurate reporters give the best look at the present.”
“What about the future?” Jack asked.
“The future?” Mrs. Kennedy smiled, but her tone was serious. “The future is up to you.”
THIS WAY TO CHRISTMAS
THE SKY WAS the color of lead, heavy with the threat of snow. The clouds across the Charles River Basin bore the dull afterglow of an early winter sunset.
The trolley car careened along the avenue, clanging loudly when a stray dog crossed the track, when a pedestrian ventured in front.
Jack rubbed the windowpane with his mitten, pressed his nose against the frosty glass, and peered out into the twilight. Copley Square looked dingy in the dusk. The streets and buildings along the avenue all seemed to be huddled up together, waiting for the storm.
“Snow started yet?” asked his grandfather.
“Not really,” Jack replied. “I can see a few flakes circling around the streetlights.”
“Wouldn’t be Christmas Eve if we didn’t have snow,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “There’s nothing in the wide, wide world quite so beautiful as Beacon Hill after a snowfall.”
“Dad wouldn’t agree with you, Grandpa. He doesn’t like any part of Beacon Hill.”
“I expect the people on Beacon Hill trouble your father more than the place itself,” his grandfather said. “Your father wasn’t exactly happy about your coming with me for the carol singing tonight. But Christmas Eve in Boston wouldn’t be complete without caroling on Beacon Hill. It’s a great tradition and no child ought to miss it. No grown-up, either.”
By the time the boy and his grandfather stepped off the streetcar, the snow was falling swiftly and silently. The lighted shop windows cast a golden glow over the huge white flakes as they drifted down out of the sky.
A wind from the northeast started to blow. It blew gently at first, but then the sharp air slapped Jack on the cheeks and caught him by the throat.
His grandfather pulled his muffler tight. “That’s a brisk air, Jack. Haul your earmuffs down, my boy. Wish I had flaps on my derby.”
“It’s a good thing the girls didn’t come with us if it’s going to turn this cold,” Jack said. “Kick wanted to hear the carolers, but she stayed home to watch the baby so Nurse could do some last-minute shopping.”
“That baby! Now he’s had his first birthday, Bobby’s quite a boy. Last year when he was born, I wasn’t sure whether he was going to be a Christmas present or a treat for Thanksgiving!” Mr. Fitzgerald chuckled heartily.
“It was a Thanksgiving for me, all right,” Jack said. “Just to see another boy in this family made me thankful. Maybe Joe will have somebody else to scrap with besides me.”
“A little scuffle now and then doesn’t do any harm, Jack. Helps keep you in shape.”
“That’s what Dad says. And I’m all for having a little scuffle now and then. But I don’t like to fight every hour on the hour. I won’t have any shape left to keep!”
“By the look of those black-and-blue marks on your chin, you’re not doing too well!”
“Grandpa, I’m always black and blue, and where I’m not covered with bruises, I’ve got bandages!” Jack said in mock despair.
“You must have come out second best this time,” his grandfather said sympathetically.
“I always seem to come out second best!” Jack had a rueful grin. “And you know how Dad feels about anybody coming in second!”
“Cheer up, Jack!” His grandfather was comforting. “You’ll be a winner yet. Just keep on trying. Who knows? When Bobby grows up, maybe he’ll be on your side.”
The snow was falling steadily now. Miniature drifts of the dry fluffy flakes were piling up along the curbs. The city was serene and hushed under its blanket of white. Footsteps made a slight crunching sound and voices were muted on the still, quiet air.
As they passed the Hotel Touraine, Jack peered in at the huge clock in the lobby. “It’s still early, Grandpa. Would you take me by Filene’s so I could see the decorations? One of the boys at Dexter told me they have Three Wise Men that move all the way around the building and they are five stories high!”
“A very good height for a Wise Man. Filene’s is an establishment that knows how to promote the Yuletide season. Lead the way.”
All the symbols of Christmas were moving colorfully through the air around the huge old store. Santa Claus cracked his whip animatedly, and his reindeer pawed the earth through waves of brightening and dimming bulbs.
Mr. Fitzgerald looked at his grandson, whose nose was pressed against the store window.
“Got an eye peeled for that electric train?”
“In a way,” Jack said, “but not for me.”
“Who else?”
Jack grinned. “Wonder if Dad would like it.”
His grandfather chuckled. “I suppose you and Joe are too old for a train!”
Jack nodded. “I’d like a Boy Scout knife.”
“But you’re not a Boy Scout, not yet.”
“I will be as soon as I’m twelve,” Jack said.
“That’s two years or more to wait. Better pick out something you can use now in 1926. See that Flexible Flyer in the next window? Now there’s a beauty of a sled.”
Suddenly Mr. Fitzgerald doubled up with laughter. Jack looked puzzled. Mr. Fitzgerald tried to explai
n between loud guffaws.
“Every time I see a sled, it reminds me of your father taking Joe Jr. sledding. Little Joe wasn’t more than a year old. Somewhere along the way, he fell off the sled.”
“Grandpa! That’s not funny! Was he hurt?”
“Not a bit. Not a peep out of him. He was all bundled up in a coat and leggings, a thick blanket, and a buffalo robe. Now the funny part. Your father didn’t know Joe fell off. He went whistling on home with the empty sled.”
“Wow!”
“Exactly. Your mother was frantic. So was your father. They dashed out in the snow looking for the baby, trying to retrace your father’s footsteps. He couldn’t remember where he’d been.”
“That didn’t make it any easier!”
“No indeed, but at last they found little Joe plunked in a snowdrift, happy as could be, warm as toast and not a mark on him. But for a long time, nobody dared say the word sled to your father.”
Mr. Fitzgerald roared once more with delight. Jack loved to see his grandfather laugh. The boy stood still, enjoying each chuckle.
Holding his sides, Grandpa Fitz gasped for breath. “Jack, we’d best be on our way to Beacon Hill, or we’ll miss the carols.”
The atmosphere was festive and gay when they climbed up Mount Vernon Street and reached Louisburg Square. Candlelight glowed from every window of every house. The snow was drifted high against the fence of the little oval park. The statue of Columbus wore a wreath of white snowflakes.
On the steps of a bow-front house in the square stood a group of Bell Ringers. Men and women, old and young, held one bell in each hand. They rang to and fro as they sang. Perfect in their exacting art, the Bell Ringers could render any Christmas carol or hymn.
“God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” rang out over the cobblestoned streets. “Silent Night, Holy Night” echoed softly on the air. The carolers sang all the old familiar tunes, heartily and reverently, with their audience often joining them in the chorus.
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