Revolutionary Rock Stars

It was a late August morning in Boston, steamy and damp with persistent drizzle. I knew the general location of my first stop. But rounding the corner, I hadn't expected it to be so close. Just down the street from my hotel, about a block, across from the next intersection, I could see the marble entry and trees along an iron fence. Realizing what my eyes were registering made me stop in surprise. Even in the rain it resonated as a sacred place.

For decades, since I was in my teens, I had heard of this piece of land, the final resting place of many of the men and women recognized as instigators of revolution. The Granary Burying Ground. How many times had I read that title, and spied it on an old map, wishing I could see it for myself? Too many times to count. 

I approached the Egyptian style archway, mentally noting its echo of a time period that was more contemporary. It looked out of place knowing the age of the gravestones inside the gate. People were coming and going, through the imposing arch, despite the drizzle. Once inside, the multitude of carved stones took my breath away. I stood next to an unsuspecting tour guide, half listening to his speech, while clicking away with my camera. I knew enough not to be rude and try to get a freebie tour without paying, so I moved along. After all, I didn't need a tour guide to tell me about this place.

Ironically, or fatefully, I turned in the exact direction I needed to go. I only walked a little ways along the right front path, and there they were, under an old tree. One stone to mark them all. Despite their deaths occurring in 1770, I knew them all by name, my history equivalent of the Beatles: Samuel, Crispus, Patrick, James, and Samuel. 

The "victims" of the Boston Massacre have earned quotation marks from historians because of the questionable nature in which they died. Were they victims standing up for freedom's cause? Were they rabble, stirring up trouble and getting rowdy at any chance? I tend to think of them as victims of circumstance. Forces they could not see creating a perfect storm of resentment and hostility. At the very least, they were resisting a military presence in their city, and they did not expect to die that night. 

After years of reading trial transcripts, autopsy reports, and commemorative orations, I figured I was the only one who would be excited about finding their grave in this most famous of burial sites. But I was wrong. As I stood in the drizzle, and just silently took in the scene, the pebbles lined up on top of the stone brought tears. Physical evidence that others remember their story and mark the visit with a solemn placement of stone. 

I turned to move on and encountered THE Samuel Adams. A rounded, carved stone placed there by the SAR, also covered in small stones of remembrance. It was not grand nor ostentatious, but it was solid, like the personality it memorialized. 

The path continued on, and so did I...taking in the artistry of each stone. Time had worn the iconography and some of the letters, but the solemn purpose remained. For those buried in the majority of these graves, death was viewed as something of a stalker, always ready to pounce on the next victim. Each stone contained imagery that served as something of a 17th century PSA, reminding visitors that life was fleeting.

As I roamed, I came across other men of note: Paul Revere, John Hancock, James Otis, Robert Treat Paine, William Molineux, Christopher Snider....and others....men and women who got this party started! Most with only humble stones to mark their existence - except for Mr. Hancock, of course. (1896 replacement stone is quite large.) As the humble nature of the stones reminded me of the fundamental principles our freedom was founded upon, I realized my gratitude grew...inspiring me to share their story at every opportunity.

In a glimmer of hope, I noticed, among the dead, there was a pulse of life. Tour guides in colorful dress entertained tourists with the vibrant stories of those who inhabit the Granary. It is the power of the story that connects us to each other, despite the passage of time. I was pleased to see the story used to bring the dead back to life as the Granary maintained a memorial that was not just stone, but life renewed with each child that came through the gates to learn about our past. Reminding us all that while life may be fleeting, our stories keep living, as long as we tell them. 

Our Cincinnati Union Terminal

Some places on planet earth have the ability to transport the living back through time as they envelope us in waves of sensory memory. With a look, a touch, a reflection of light off of a surface, we physically sense time. Not just seconds or minutes on a clock, but the emotions and heavy presence of life that came before us. The lives that built our present still resonate in the structural echos.

When the Museum Center asked "why" we love this museum, my mind immediately passed over dozens of scenes from more than one lifetime. With the building's construction in 1928-33, I saw my great grandfather, Clyde Daniels. Family tradition has always proudly remembered him as not only a railroad employee, but one that was employed and on-site when the building opened. 

His son Charles followed in his footsteps, working at the terminal, monitoring and maintaining train cars for over 25 years. When the flood waters of 1937 rose steadily, it was Charles that was in the lower levels that night (Black Sunday), witnessing the flood waters come up through the sewer system as the lights began to fail in this part of the city. His call to authorities began mobilization in his area.

"I was a young man of twenty five years of age and was employed by the Cincinnati Union Terminal Company and a First Sergeant of Company C 147th Infantry Ohio National Guard....On Friday night, the water started to back up onto Freeman Avenue near the ball park and around the Union Terminal. All activity stopped at the Mail Building at the Terminal and I was left there to watch the property. I was in the basement of the office and just outside of the door the lid blew off the sewer and water started to bubble up into the street. I called the Master Mechanic and suggested he get some people to start moving the material up stairs. He laughed at me and said I was just being excited. Soon the water got so deep I went upstairs on the first floor. I went to the water fountain for a drink and there was no water. I tried to use the telephone and it was dead. Then the rising water in the basement hit the generators and the lights went out. I then started down the platform toward the Coach Yard. When I reached the end of the platform I could see that the water was several feet deep. So I turned around and went toward the passenger station. I was able to get to the station and stayed there until my time to quit at 7AM. The water by this time had backed up in front of the Terminal and it was necessary for a high bed truck to take us out. I was told not to report to work that night." Charles C. Daniels, Sr. 1985

I saw the many travelers, especially in wartime. My grandfather and his brother would have been among the many men who had to say goodbye to their families as they were called to serve their country. I saw the women in the USO, providing comforts of home to weary soldiers. I saw tearful partings and reunions. It was under these colorful arches of the semi-dome that many said final goodbyes. 

I saw my father Charles Jr. as a boy, following his father around the terminal, getting glimpses of the nooks and crannies rarely seen by the regular visitor. Years later, he applied his profession of photography to the back tracks with his father as the subject, chronicling his retirement. I saw generation after generation of parents teaching their children to talk in the far corner of the front entry as they were given a magical lesson in acoustics.

I saw the fast paced buzz of train travel in the 20th century, and the busy cabbies driving through the circular underbelly to transport new arrivals or drop of the departing passenger. 

Fast forward to the lean years of indecision and trepidation. I saw shoppers and a whole room of suits as my parents took their time, shopping and savoring the palpable remnants of the past. 

I saw rebirth. A new generation of visitors. Some train passengers, the rest time passengers as they were transported through Cincinnati's history. Children exploring and learning at every turn. My brother and I screaming and laughing in the sink hole cave exhibit. Dad taking a picture with a flash, and blinding us all. The train of twinkling lights stretching across the iconic clock each Christmas as a bright and joyful treat coming down the expressway.

I remember ice cream in the soda shop and marveling at the Rookwood tiles inside. I remember weddings, theatre, and flying over the Grand Canyon. I remember walking the plaster statues of WWII, having a bowl of Skyline in the rotunda, and being transfixed with wonder every time I see the massive murals of colorful glass that tell a story all their own: Seriously, EVERY SINGLE TIME. 

Today, we talk about uniqueness, aesthetics, and sense of place as necessary building blocks of a happy and satisfied community. How do we draw them in and make them want to live here or stay here? Give them a unique experience unlike any other, so they say. There is no more unique place in this city than the Museum Center at Union Terminal. Where else can you get a healthy dose of art, culture, history, and architectural wonder? It has no equal in the entire country, let alone in this Queen City. Union Terminal is not just a building, an Art Deco echo, filled with exhibits and theatre, it IS Cincinnati. This temple of time, this holy place, tells OUR story as no other could.

For more information, including how you can help support this American treasure in trouble, visit the Museum Center website. or @CincyMuseum on Twitter

Sepia Saturday - Family Travels

For this week's Sepia Saturday, the theme of travel or place was a welcome suggestion. When deciding which photos to post, a family pattern emerged. It turns out that one side of my family has been very travel savvy over the generations, while the other side was full of home bodies. The photo to the left is typical of my mother's side of the family. Kentucky farmers who loved posing with the cars, but hated traveling very far away. These two young men (Roy Watts and Bill Beyersdoerfer - brothers-in-law) were quite the road devils in the 1930s. They loved racing around the curving hillsides of Pendleton County Kentucky and "driving up closely to the bumper of an old couple's car to honk" their horn for a good laugh. Throughout the rest of their lives, they maintained this close relationship to each other and the roads. Roy remained addicted to taking leisurely Sunday drives, just to "go" somewhere and view his neighbors crops, while Bill complained of the slowness of "old" drivers when he was in his advanced 80s. I can imagine these two still racing the roads of heaven together as they did when first forming their friendship so long ago. The remaining images are a sampling of family travels from my father's side of the family.

The woman on the right is my great grandmother, Ruth Elizabeth Schilling Daniels. I have no idea where this is or whether these ladies went up in the plane, but Ruth was from the Ohio/Indiana areas, so that will have to be our default location for the time being.

Here is another photo from the Klondike Gold Rush collection. Someone on the Daniels/Schilling side of the family must  have been enormously adventurous to travel this great distance for the small possibility of finding gold! This mode of travel in that area is also the subject of another interesting point of trivia. These boats were often dissected once arriving at their location to provide building material for the shacks that housed the miners.

Grandpa Charles Daniels traveled extensively while serving in the military. He not only served in both the Pacific and European theatres during WWII, but took his entire family with him to live in France while he was stationed there during the Korean War. This is a view of his corner of Paris during WWII.

Grandpa Charles, celebrating the end of WWII in Marseilles, France (Front right) - would love to have tasted that bottle of French Champagne!

A piece of travel ephemera from Charles' collection - his ship assignment from 1943.

Before and after the war, Charles worked for the Cincinnati Union Terminal. Perhaps working along-side so many travelers kept his travel bug strong and active. The photos above and below were taken after his retirement from railroad work, and at a time when the fate of the Terminal was very precarious. For another Sepia Saturday post about the terminal, please see the Lincoln Park blog post.

That about wraps it up for the older travel photos. Charles and Bessie were some of our biggest travelers. They spent their retirement years travelling to Hawaii, several other states, and down the Mississippi on the Delta Queen - so many times I cannot count. In turn, their children and grandchildren have taken on the tradition of globe trotting like travel pros. Me, I'm a bit more middle of the road: have not travelled too far, but can be happy either way. I love a good trip, but enjoy being a home body as well.
Safe and happy travels everyone!
C