Some time last year, while visiting Dan and Lori, I came across an old “friend”, in the form of a book, I had read some twenty years ago. It was now “boxed” with a red ribbon attached as a page marker, in keeping with its now “classical” status. A book with a ribbon marker always reminds me of the “missal” we use to see on the altar at mass. So a book that has that attachment must be a classic, no? In any event, I had enjoyed the book in the early seventies and asked Dan if I could borrow it. He agreed.
The book is “The Miracle at Philadelphia”, the story of the Constitutional Convention of 1787 from May to September, written by Catherine Drinker Bowen. She was a historian at Bryn Mawr College, and incidentally from a family that could trace its line back to the 1780’s.As it says in the blurb in the book,” the locale was her birth place, where the Drinker family had been prominent since the eighteenth century.” She mentions only one in the book.
“Elizabeth Drinker of Philadelphia, considered an authority in physic, noted that she had cured a very bad sty with a rotten apple, and child’s deeply bruised foot with cataplasms of cow dung” (!) (p.l63).
This example shows in a small way what this book is, i.e., a “story”, not a documentary or just a report of the debates in the convention. It takes you to Philadelphia in 1787 and the gathering in Independence Hall in the secluded and closed chamber where delegates from 12 states meet, but adds the flavor of the climate, the customs, the things that were going on in the country and the world that impacted on these delegates. Congress, meeting still in New York City, sent the delegates there. They were sent to shore up, correct, or reform the then “Articles of Confederation” that were falling apart. The Articles were not working. A rebellion in Massachusetts, Shay’s Rebellion, was the catalyst that sent a clear message that states acting as independent countries, with their own money, custom charges at the borders, etc. etc. was leading to a Second Revolution or worse, they would become the victims of “outside influences” such as France or Spain etc., etc. So the Convention was called.
The book is a story, not a rehash of the Federalist Papers of Madison and Adams, but the human side of this “miracle”. Things like, the heat and humidity, no windows allowed open due to the secrecy, their living arrangements, the taverns they met in after hours and on the weekends, the mud and the dust of the streets (?), the quarrels between big states and small ones, the Yankees vs. the Virginians and other Southern gentlemen. It made the miracle a reality with its telling. It made one appreciate even more just what those men did there under G. Washington that summer of ’87.
It’s easy to say: “They created a new form of government” but the reality of the event strikes you even more when you see the struggles they have to so create. No system had existed prior thereto that elected two houses of legislatures. Not even the Greek States had such devices. Europe gave no help with it hereditary princely kingdoms, existing by force and descent. What authority would the states be willing to give to their new legislatures? Already, as we noted above, they acted like independent countries…issuing money and controlling their borders. In fact things were crumbling now that the 11 years since the Declaration and the four since the end of the war. It began to appear that the Revolution was the “glue” that kept the Federation together and without it, it was falling apart. Rhode Island was in such disarray that it did not send any delegates: New York appeared opposed to any reform that diminished the big states or control by the cultured and landowning citizens. A. Hamilton was a strong advocate of the English system with a President for life (a King?), and a House of noble personages (Lords?). His two companions were opposed to remaining at the convention after the Virginia Proposals were made the agenda…those proposals were for a far more “democratic” union then Hamilton’s ideas of a United Country.
But, my enthusiasm on rereading has led me to digress about the effect finding the book at Danny’s. It was like going back to a house you once lived in. It appears basically the same but the furniture and arrangements inside are different. So with my old friend from 1970 or so, this book. My time away had been spent in participating in this miracle in a small fashion in the city of the convention, Philadelphia. My interest in Thomas Jefferson led me to see some new furniture in the old house. My experience with the politics made some of that furniture very comfortable to look at and understand. All of these experiences made me nod yes, oh, yes, to statements like:
“Not the least surprising characteristic of the Federal Convention was that, contrary to the tradition of political assemblies, it let itself be swayed by men of thought and historical perspective.”
The author notes very well how seemingly inconsequential events, like a break in the Philly heat, affect the course of history.
“Perhaps the delegates would never have reached agreement, had not the heat broken. By Monday, July sixteenth, Philadelphia was cool after a month of torment: on Friday, a breeze had come in from the northwest. Over the weekend, members could rest and enjoy themselves, sleep comfortably in their narrow chambers at the lodging houses along Market Street or Second Street hill above the river. Even the mosquitoes were quiescent, though on the streets at noon the horseflies droned and darted.”
Another story I enjoyed was a legend about Washington. He had an aura of “noble, gentle, urbanity” and, “there is an anecdote, in different versions, concerning Governor Morris and the General, that summer of 1787.Perhaps the story is mere legend, but legends can be illustrative of truth. Morris announced in company that he was afraid of no man on earth, where upon Alexander Hamilton laid a bet that Morris would not dare to greet General Washington by a slap on the back. Brash, cheerful, self-assured, Morris entered a drawing room a few evenings later and found Washington standing by the fireplace. ‘Well, General!” said Morris, laying a hand on Washington’s shoulder. The General said nothing. But at once Morris knew his mistake and was ready, he said afterwards, to sink through the floor.”
The book was published in 1966. The edition I found at Dan’s was a reissue by the “Book of Month Club: The American Past” in 1986. It has a new introduction by Henry Steele Commager, a professor of history at Amherst College; Catherine Drinker Bowen died in 1973, another of hers that I remember, and was part of the series in 1986,was “A Yankee from Olympus” a portrait of Judge Oliver Wendell Holmes and his family. I believe I have also read that one…or should have! The book, like an old friend, needs time to learn what they been up to since we last met. I’m giving it as much as it needs and will report later on the results of our reunion.
Back here two hundred and ten years later, I am happy to report the twins; Aidan and Alex are progressing very well. They even sleep once in a while!
This jotting will be it until May. We are off on the 28th of March to St. Petersburg and other such places until May 10th. I have yet to find a way to take this one-eyed monster with me and my old portable is long gone, so we will wish you all a Happy Easter and try to send a few handwritten notes as we move about.
Ron and Mary: Enjoyed our visit… specially the dividend of seeing Katherine’s pictures of the trip to Alaska… who would have believed that 10 years ago there would come a day when I would be allowed in her home much less be so cordially greeted and entertained…another miracle of a little child… in this case children… “And a child shall lead them!”
I’ve had some complaints (criticism) about the nature of my Jottings. They are no longer a newsletter. I still hope you enjoy my ramblings and would appreciate any comments with that regard…I still keep remembering Sister Therese’s comment” Oh yes I like them, but what do you do With all the paper??(!!)”…Some have offered several suggestions none of which are printable in a family (news) letter…See you soon.
Love,
Dad
MEMORIES OF ST. PATRICK’S DAY PAST AND PRESENT
Here it is St. Patrick’s Day and I forgot to go down and play the piano. At “4116” the first to play the “Wearin’ of the Green” on St. P’s day got a dollar! On second thought, it might have been just a quarter! So once again I forgot…did the same last year. Must be a sign of my age and then with inflation it hardly seems worth the effort to disturb the house for only a dollar. Besides, I bet June wouldn’t recognize the tune, being non-Irish, and would not appreciate the early morning music. She prefers country western music to wake her, and I don’t know any Irish-American country-western music! But even though I missed the tradition I don’t miss some of the others that were supposedly the way to celebrate the day. I need not labor the point of the Irish’s occupational disease – drinking and all its waves of good then bad. I did see one St. P’s day card that made me chuckle. It wished you a “Happy St. Patrick’s Day to He who drove all the snakes out of Ireland!” on the front cover. Inside was this: “Yes! And they all became lawyers in America!!” Present company was excepted when a clerk in the Register of Wills office showed the card to me. It occurred to me later, she was married to a lawyer and had been divorced…so maybe her Vision is bit distorted. But it is still a day to think of the good things Irish and, of course, that must start with their wit. The book “Angela’s Ashes” F. McCourt’s, memoir is a great example of the wit helping one survive in the most deplorable conditions. If you can see something funny when you’re starving and living amidst filth, you must classify as a “wit”…some would say with a “nit” before it, but not when it is a condition not of your doing or ability to correct…like a drunken old man who can’t keep a job.
On other St. Pat’s days I remember celebrating with a 10 mile run at Somers Point, N.J. and earlier times in Longport, from the Longport Inn. They were always sponsored in part at least; by a bar…the Irish just can’t get too far from one when it comes to celebrating. The last one I remember running was with Paul Jr. and Bill. I think Bill did around 66 minutes, and Paul and I were back there around 89-90 minutes or so.
Today’s St. P’s day, 1997, has been spent mostly at home. I say mostly because June and I took a good 40 minute walk in brisk windy air. We managed to do some food shopping with it. I also did get to play some Irish tunes. I made my sometime weekly visit to the 4th floor “Personal Care” dining room at Paul’s Run It has a piano and with the help of a “fake” book I played “Too-rao-loo-ra, Danny Boy, Little Bit of Heaven, I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen”, and a few others to the captured audience as they ate their lunch. I have three clients in the group, or I should say “former” clients but now friends. The Personal Care Section is between “Independent Living as a Resident”, and “Skilled Nursing Care”. They receive meals, have help to get to the dining room, have their quarters cleaned, and even get help in bathing if necessary. Every time I go and play, I think of a letter on tape of Father Pat’s. He sent it to our gang after we had sent him one when he was in Germany. He thanked the kids for their songs, acts, etc. and admonished them to use whatever talents they had regardless of their estimation of those talents. So I, who feel my skill, as a piano player is limited, use his encouraging words to entertain where possible. It is, of course, true that they are all in the dining room for a meal and have no escape, but I still feel some of them enjoy the attention my just being there gives them…if they don’t I do!
Sometimes I feel I’m not too far from that room myself, somewhere between independent living and skilled nursing care. One day I almost proved it. I unknowingly got off on the wrong floor, the third. I went into the dining room and did notice my friends were not there but thought they maybe were just late. I sat down at the piano and began to play (by the way the piano faces a wall and my back is to the dining room). I then noticed the piano was a “player” piano with pump-pedals to turn the music roll (before CD piano players). I thought that’s strange. I never noticed that before. So I brashly said to one of the attendants serving the lunch…”What? They put a new piano in here??” “No” can1e the response “That’s been in there for months!” Then I peered about the dining room. I didn’t recognize anyone. Neither my friends nor their usual table companions…so sheepishly I asked… “Is this the 4th floor dining room?” “No” came the response… “It’s the third floor dining room!” So as I said I’m not too far from being one of the diners, somewhere between independent living and skilled nursing care!
Over the weekend we had our annual St. Patrick’s Day dinner. It was one of the regular shore events in years past .We continue it here with some of our regulars. This year Betty and Jerry Hopkins, fellow grandparents of the (other older) twins; Dan and Marge Walsh, our fellow travelers, and bon vivants of whatever; and Bill and Bunny King our old running buddy and his long suffering spouse. The meal was as usual excellent, the chatter invigorating, and some of us even kept at it till 9:30PM! Bill had to turn in earlier since just nine days earlier he had had a double hernia operation and was still recouping. Part of the chatter had to do with the dinner’s past and how we don’t miss the easy consumption of alcoholic beverages. This brought back memories of the many March 18th holidays due to indigestion (?) and colds (?)! I just never had a hangover (ha!).
One of the memories recalled at the dinner came about my first piano. It· happened that Jerry or Betty inquired if we were taking the piano with us to Florida. We are, unless we see the need for it here, but that’s another story. Dan then piped up and said tell them about your first piano. He knew the story well since the first piano I owned was delivered to his new home in Maple Shade. He and Marge, newly weds brought a new house and the summer of 1952 I was their guest. No one was at 4116 and Mother was dying in Win’s home on Windsor Ave. I was living up to my mother’s lament “Poor Paul is going from Pillar to Post!” I never quite knew what she meant or what the saying meant…or could it have been from Pillar to Pillow?? So I was invited to stay with the newly weds. In June I ordered the new Wurlitzer spinet since I expected to be with my new landlords (rent free of course) until September when I would go back to law school and live somewhere near by. I learned that for $21 a month for three months you could have the new piano delivered to your home and then after the three months, the down payment now having been made it was “expected” you would finance the balance. It was their belief that the three-month period we be sufficient for the purchaser to not want to lose it. Little did they know about budding piano-playing lawyers! The new piano was an item in the neighborhood of new homes and newly weds. It raised an eyebrow or two as it was moved into the Walsh’s new home. The summer came. Paul went back to school. He notified the Wurlitzer Company that he decided not to keep the piano. So out went the truck and out came the piano. Once again raising eyebrows with the assertion I’m sure of some, “See, I told ya so!” Dan and Marge remember it with good humor and the fond recollection of what it added to that then bare living room.
Whenever I think of this day and the Irish I find myself recalling the recent book by T. Cahill, “How the Irish saved Civilization”, and its tribute to the Irish and St. Patrick’s great contribution to the Western world…its conserving of the Greek and Roman classics along with the Jewish and Christian works. But I particularly enjoy re-reading the introductory remarks by the author, that note:
“The word Irish is seldom coupled with the word civilization…The Irish are wild, feckless, and charming, or morose, repressed, and corrupt, but not especially civilized. If we strain to think of “Irish Civilization”, no images appear, no Fertile Crescent or Indus Valley, no brooding bust of Beethoven.” How true! Unfortunately in America the image is one of a glad-handing drinking politician or Barry Fitzgerald, the stumbling well-meaning Priest.
These are some of my memories of Paddy’s days past and present may they now become part of yours. PLMCS.
Ron and Mary,
I’m saving my report of the dual christening until the next issue. Hope to get to see you both before that!
Love,
Dad