My last morning in Massachusetts – Thursday, July 28
We had one last stop to make – the home of John Adams in Quincy, Massachusetts – so that meant we drove north a few miles from Plymouth after we partook of a healthy breakfast at Dunkin Donuts (I’m telling you – they are everywhere in Boston). Yet, Boston traffic struck again, and even though Braintree and Quincy are the last two stops on the red line, traffic in the area looked like downtown all over again. As we slowly crept along, Marc let out a “What in the world?!?!” All of a sudden, a car dashed past us on the right, which meant they dashed past us in the breakdown lane.
“What are they doing? Do you think there is an emergency?” I asked.
“Here come some more,” Marc answered. And sure enough, three or four cars passed by as if we were standing still in the left lane as they drove smoothly through the breakdown lane.
“Won’t they get in trouble for that?” Jordan asked.
“I would think so. Maybe they are just getting off on the next exit,” I guessed.
But then, they didn’t. They just passed us on the right and then weaved back into traffic. We were totally perplexed until we saw a sign that said, “Traffic allowed in breakdown lane, M-F, 6 am – 10 am.”
Oh, OK. Must be a way for them to try to alleviate Boston traffic. Scared us, though.
We drove into the town center of Quincy, Massachusetts, and had to park in a parking garage to go to the visitors center for the Adams National Historic Park. We were sure the houses themselves would be somewhere off in the country, off to themselves, and the visitors center just the starting place for the tour. Well, we were half correct. The tour starts at the visitors center, but all three of the houses we toured that used to belong to the Adams family were parked in the middle of Quincy, and it looks as if they just built the town around these three homes. We learned that an Adams lived in and owned the three houses into the 20th century, and then they still owned the homes as museums until they turned the homes over to the National Park system in the 1940s. The Adams family insisted that the park system keep the homes true to how the family left them, too. So, we were treated to an authentic look at the oldest Presidential home place in America.
Now, for my bias on John Adams. I love him. Yes, I love Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson, too, and yes, they three were often political enemies, but John and Abigail Adams had such a special relationship with each other and such a special place in the founding of America, that I can’t help but revere and admire them both. I find so much of myself in both of them. John was outspoken and sometimes abrasive when he truly believed in something, and he didn’t do well playing the political games that Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin had mastered. John Adams was honest and straight forward, and often, people didn’t know how to take that. If he held a belief, he held it tenaciously, and he truly believed in the potential of our new country. Abigail was a tireless worker, someone who argued for the abolition of slavery, rights for women, and education for all. They wrote each other passionate love letters that also informed each other of important events in the Revolution while they sometimes debated deep philosophical issues. How could I not love them?
Our first park ranger, Rick, was a classic John Adams-type personality: direct, straight forward, with a dry wit. He filled us with interesting facts about John and Abigail, but little that I didn’t know already from David McCullough’s biography. He was clearly bothered by one woman who tried to sneak around the tour (and who looked like she was taking forbidden photos) and by another woman who joined the tour late and then wandered into another room as he was talking. In fact, as we left John’s birthplace house and our guide had already started toward John’s family house with Abigail, the first woman took out her phone to take photos. Now, I am a rebel, but I am not a rebel who might damage important historical artifacts just to get a shot of my own. Total disrespect, and I was no more happy with those women than our guide was.
In the house John and Abigail shared (which was just a few feet away from his birthplace), our guide talked about the Adams family stance against slavery. He made a comment about the battles John Quincy Adams had with his slave-holding vice president, John C. Calhoun, from South Carolina. When Rick made a reference to our being from South Carolina because he saw our USC attire, I had to make a disclaimer.
“John C. Calhoun is associated with Clemson University, not the University of South Carolina. We want to disassociate ourselves from both because we are Gamecocks.” Rick smiled wryly, but I don’t think the rest of the tourists understood.
The third house was the larger home where John and Abigail lived after he returned from his diplomatic duties in Europe, and John Quincy Adams and his wife lived there and added an incredibly beautiful stone library for the thousands of books their family had collected. Bob, our park ranger for house number 3, obviously loved the Adams family as much as I did (or more), and he obviously loved his job, too. He enthusiastically told little-known stories about the family and the house and quizzed us periodically to see what we knew and encouraged us to ask all the questions we had. The house was filled with amazing portraits of countless characters in the founding of our country and beautiful urns and china and dishes they had collected. Bob turned off the fan in one room so we could hear the ticking of a working clock that was nearly 300 years old. I learned to appreciate John Quincy and his wife Louisa far more than I had before because I simply didn’t know much about them. Bob also pointed out two trees that stood in the garden that had been planted by John Quincy himself.
I don’t know if there has been a family more instrumental in shaping the founding of our country than the Adams family, and I would have never forgiven myself had I not taken those last two hours to visit their homes. Even in the preservation of their homes, they were thinking about the future of America. We owe them so much.
We left Quincy around 1 pm and began our trek back home, which took us into Friday. Rain and rough road work in Pennsylvania led us to bunking for the night Thursday in Chambersburg (by the way, Pennsylvania’s roads were the worst we encountered the entire trip). Marc drove the rest of the way home Friday, and we were exhausted from our busy days in Massachusetts and the long ride home. I think everyone was glad to see Gaffney, including me, but I can honestly say that I have never had a vacation like this one. I couldn’t get enough of Boston and its surrounding areas. On other trips, I have found areas to appreciate and areas that I didn’t appreciate so much, but with Boston, I loved every aspect of our trip. As I said in yesterday’s post, the more I saw, the more I wanted. The history and spirit of America erupt there, and I just couldn’t soak it all up. I needed more. Marc and I have talked about planning another trip to New England a few years in the future when we can fly up, maybe in the fall of the year. Next time, we start in Boston and travel up toward Vermont and Maine, too. Until then, my memories of Beantown will have to carry me.
We had one last stop to make – the home of John Adams in Quincy, Massachusetts – so that meant we drove north a few miles from Plymouth after we partook of a healthy breakfast at Dunkin Donuts (I’m telling you – they are everywhere in Boston). Yet, Boston traffic struck again, and even though Braintree and Quincy are the last two stops on the red line, traffic in the area looked like downtown all over again. As we slowly crept along, Marc let out a “What in the world?!?!” All of a sudden, a car dashed past us on the right, which meant they dashed past us in the breakdown lane.
“What are they doing? Do you think there is an emergency?” I asked.
“Here come some more,” Marc answered. And sure enough, three or four cars passed by as if we were standing still in the left lane as they drove smoothly through the breakdown lane.
“Won’t they get in trouble for that?” Jordan asked.
“I would think so. Maybe they are just getting off on the next exit,” I guessed.
But then, they didn’t. They just passed us on the right and then weaved back into traffic. We were totally perplexed until we saw a sign that said, “Traffic allowed in breakdown lane, M-F, 6 am – 10 am.”
Oh, OK. Must be a way for them to try to alleviate Boston traffic. Scared us, though.
We drove into the town center of Quincy, Massachusetts, and had to park in a parking garage to go to the visitors center for the Adams National Historic Park. We were sure the houses themselves would be somewhere off in the country, off to themselves, and the visitors center just the starting place for the tour. Well, we were half correct. The tour starts at the visitors center, but all three of the houses we toured that used to belong to the Adams family were parked in the middle of Quincy, and it looks as if they just built the town around these three homes. We learned that an Adams lived in and owned the three houses into the 20th century, and then they still owned the homes as museums until they turned the homes over to the National Park system in the 1940s. The Adams family insisted that the park system keep the homes true to how the family left them, too. So, we were treated to an authentic look at the oldest Presidential home place in America.
Now, for my bias on John Adams. I love him. Yes, I love Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson, too, and yes, they three were often political enemies, but John and Abigail Adams had such a special relationship with each other and such a special place in the founding of America, that I can’t help but revere and admire them both. I find so much of myself in both of them. John was outspoken and sometimes abrasive when he truly believed in something, and he didn’t do well playing the political games that Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin had mastered. John Adams was honest and straight forward, and often, people didn’t know how to take that. If he held a belief, he held it tenaciously, and he truly believed in the potential of our new country. Abigail was a tireless worker, someone who argued for the abolition of slavery, rights for women, and education for all. They wrote each other passionate love letters that also informed each other of important events in the Revolution while they sometimes debated deep philosophical issues. How could I not love them?
Our first park ranger, Rick, was a classic John Adams-type personality: direct, straight forward, with a dry wit. He filled us with interesting facts about John and Abigail, but little that I didn’t know already from David McCullough’s biography. He was clearly bothered by one woman who tried to sneak around the tour (and who looked like she was taking forbidden photos) and by another woman who joined the tour late and then wandered into another room as he was talking. In fact, as we left John’s birthplace house and our guide had already started toward John’s family house with Abigail, the first woman took out her phone to take photos. Now, I am a rebel, but I am not a rebel who might damage important historical artifacts just to get a shot of my own. Total disrespect, and I was no more happy with those women than our guide was.
In the house John and Abigail shared (which was just a few feet away from his birthplace), our guide talked about the Adams family stance against slavery. He made a comment about the battles John Quincy Adams had with his slave-holding vice president, John C. Calhoun, from South Carolina. When Rick made a reference to our being from South Carolina because he saw our USC attire, I had to make a disclaimer.
“John C. Calhoun is associated with Clemson University, not the University of South Carolina. We want to disassociate ourselves from both because we are Gamecocks.” Rick smiled wryly, but I don’t think the rest of the tourists understood.
The third house was the larger home where John and Abigail lived after he returned from his diplomatic duties in Europe, and John Quincy Adams and his wife lived there and added an incredibly beautiful stone library for the thousands of books their family had collected. Bob, our park ranger for house number 3, obviously loved the Adams family as much as I did (or more), and he obviously loved his job, too. He enthusiastically told little-known stories about the family and the house and quizzed us periodically to see what we knew and encouraged us to ask all the questions we had. The house was filled with amazing portraits of countless characters in the founding of our country and beautiful urns and china and dishes they had collected. Bob turned off the fan in one room so we could hear the ticking of a working clock that was nearly 300 years old. I learned to appreciate John Quincy and his wife Louisa far more than I had before because I simply didn’t know much about them. Bob also pointed out two trees that stood in the garden that had been planted by John Quincy himself.
I don’t know if there has been a family more instrumental in shaping the founding of our country than the Adams family, and I would have never forgiven myself had I not taken those last two hours to visit their homes. Even in the preservation of their homes, they were thinking about the future of America. We owe them so much.
We left Quincy around 1 pm and began our trek back home, which took us into Friday. Rain and rough road work in Pennsylvania led us to bunking for the night Thursday in Chambersburg (by the way, Pennsylvania’s roads were the worst we encountered the entire trip). Marc drove the rest of the way home Friday, and we were exhausted from our busy days in Massachusetts and the long ride home. I think everyone was glad to see Gaffney, including me, but I can honestly say that I have never had a vacation like this one. I couldn’t get enough of Boston and its surrounding areas. On other trips, I have found areas to appreciate and areas that I didn’t appreciate so much, but with Boston, I loved every aspect of our trip. As I said in yesterday’s post, the more I saw, the more I wanted. The history and spirit of America erupt there, and I just couldn’t soak it all up. I needed more. Marc and I have talked about planning another trip to New England a few years in the future when we can fly up, maybe in the fall of the year. Next time, we start in Boston and travel up toward Vermont and Maine, too. Until then, my memories of Beantown will have to carry me.
Kristie Camp 