Ben took us to Beacon Hill today. We walked beside red brick row houses along gaslit streets staring into the windows where we could, making sure not to trip on the bricks and paving stones. We gazed at the dome of the state house in the distance. “That’s real gold,” Ben told us the tour guides say. He had a mischievous grin on his face, but in spite of that, Wikipedia backs up the stories (guilded first in 1874, then again in 1969, and most recently in 1997).
Our destination was Beacon Hill Friends House, where he is the facility manager. He showed us the courtyards with fall color strewn about even though the real color of the season by east coast standards has long since passed.
He showed us the boiler and woodworking room in the basement and other dark corners. He showed us the ancient elevator. We climbed narrow stairs and walked out onto a roof deck above the kitchen where Vickie was preparing a Thanksgiving turkey and filling the room with delicious smells. He showed us the library, lined with old books.
And then on our walk home home, Ben took us to the Boston Central Library and into the reading room where we sat at oak tables under green reading lights in the quiet. And my eyes grew teary.
His grandparents would have been very proud.