First published in the Tri Town Transcript Nov 5, 2018
By Esther C. Baird
Every year, despite feeling, as Regular Readers know, a teeny bit resentful that summer is over, I try to be a good school mom. I sign the forms and attend the teacher conferences and send out class emails about fundraisers. This energy vanishes about two weeks into the year in a pool of spilled applesauce at the bottom of the lunchbox. But Energized Esther is the one who, in early September, signed up to chaperone the 6th grade field-trip to the Freedom Trail.
Energized Esther had a little more enthusiasm than my current pre-holiday self does, but I do love the history field-trips. I grew up in Philly, so I have a lifetime of experience. A childhood of Liberty Bell, Independence Hall and Ben Franklin trips prepared me for what is now almost a second lifetime of Boston Tea Party Museums, Plimoth Plantation trips and Minute Man park days.
Thanks to all the practice, I know what matters most when traveling to our early founding days: snacks. As a driver, I always have a box of munchkins in the car plus a pile of assorted granola bars and slim jims. Of secondary importance, I know that field-trips about history are never on hot sunny days. We must suffer in the freezing cold just like our founding fathers did — with no Nest app to adjust the heat. So I bring extra coats, none of which the kids wear, but at least I am bundled. Lastly, I have a finely honed field-trip skill whereby I always know the location of the nearest Starbucks should chaperone fatigue set in. (Note: this is particularly challenging, but doable, at Plimoth Plantation!)
Equally important, but beyond my control, I know the guide better be interesting or we’re toast — hearth baked or otherwise.
This year our guide was “Dr. Mathers Byles,” a character played by the real life Mr. Soloway, a man who actually hails from England. He noted the irony for us while reminding us that his accent was more historically accurate than our current twangy one. This immediately enthralled the kids allowing him to work his time-travel magic. We traveled past Paul Revere’s gravesite and the Bloody Massacre, we avoided being run over by present day buses while reenacting olden times colonial punishments in the public gardens, all the while listening to his booming British voice that worked wonders on the kids’ attention.
“And what did Paul Revere call out that famous night?” he called out. “The redcoats are coming!” the kids replied.
“Ah,” our guide smiled back at them, “that’s often a question I trick people with. And why did he not yell ‘the British are coming’?” he continued.
“Because everyone was still British!” they yelled.
He smiled approvingly and the kids smiled back. Good guides are worth their weight in early American tea, submerged or otherwise.
But of course the high point of any 6th grade field trip to the city is not about the history, nor the buildings, nor the experience of being downtown in the hustle and bustle. I refer you back to my first point. It’s always about the… food.
We took the class to Quincy Market for lunch. It’s filled with a zillion tourists, has limited seating, and each kid wanted to order from a different vendor. It’s a chaperone nightmare and a tween-age paradise.
I issued this warning. “If you eat a lot of junk and get carsick, I am NOT pulling over! Bring a bag!” So far this has swayed exactly no kids.
They scattered, as we ran behind, and bought one of every item from every vendor. We grabbed tables like a giant Quincy Market game of musical chairs while they inhaled their food then sped off for the dessert round. My daughter handed me her pizza crust as she flew by in a sugar buzz, so I ate that while I sat on two tables at once while throwing a jacket on a third. Naturally all the eating and drinking led to a mass bathroom trip. 6th graders and public restrooms… enough said.
Their teacher was calm and laid back during it all. She’s never lost a kid, and she never will, because she knows she has a militia of moms on full fight-or-flight alert, bathing in cortisol and strung as tight as a colonial era bow.
Finally, we piled back into the cars, and headed north to home.
The history of America and Boston in three hours through the lens of a few thousand calories, and a lifetime (or two) of memories.