"Listen, my children, and you shall hear . . . ."

Stand Your Ground, by Don Troiani

Monday is Patriots' Day, which probably doesn't mean much to you unless you live in Massachusetts or Maine (where it is a state holiday) or you're running in the Boston Marathon. But as a New Englander, it means a lot to me. Always has, in fact.

One Patriots' Day some 40 years ago, my fiancée, Liz, and I got up long before dawn and hit the road, bound for Lexington, Mass. We were headed to the annual reenactment of the battle that occurred there on April 19, 1775, after Paul Revere and other riders had warned that British troops were on the march. History buff that I am, I had volunteered to cover the event for The Providence Journal in Rhode Island, which I was working for at the time.

It was a raw, damp morning. We were none too comfortable standing near Lexington Green, waiting with perhaps 200 other hardy souls for the British regulars to march into view. A line of latter-day minutemen stood nervously on the green as the redcoats approached.

The reenactor who portrayed British Major John Pitcairn, his voice filled with rage, shouted at the colonials. "Disperse, ye rebels! Disperse!" Moments later, a shot rang out from some unknown quarter. And the rest, as they say, is history.

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, by Grant Wood

On April 18, 1775, the night before the battles of Lexington and Concord, Paul Revere set out to raise the alarm. Maine native Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is credited with immortalizing Paul Revere in Paul Revere's Ride, which he wrote in 1860 after visiting the Old North Church in Boston. The Maine Historical Society notes that "the basic premise of Longfellow's poem is historically accurate, but Paul Revere's role is exaggerated." Revere was not the only rider that night, "nor did he make it all the way to Concord." Revere was captured and then released (without his horse) in Lexington, "where he had stopped to warn Samuel Adams and John Hancock of the impending attack."

Paul Revere's Ride, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--

One if by land, and two if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

The Somerset, British man-of-war;

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon like a prison bar,

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street

Wanders and watches, with eager ears,

Till in the silence around him he hears

The muster of men at the barrack door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

And the measured tread of the grenadiers,

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

To the belfry chamber overhead,

And startled the pigeons from their perch

On the sombre rafters, that round him made

Masses and moving shapes of shade,--

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

In their night encampment on the hill,

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,

The watchful night-wind, as it went

Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread

Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

On a shadowy something far away,

Where the river widens to meet the bay,--

A line of black that bends and floats

On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse's side,

Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,

And turned and tightened his saddle girth;

But mostly he watched with eager search

The belfry tower of the Old North Church,

As it rose above the graves on the hill,

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders that skirt its edge,

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer's dog,

And felt the damp of the river fog,

That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,

When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,

Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

Blowing over the meadow brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read

How the British Regulars fired and fled,---

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farmyard wall,

Chasing the redcoats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Under the trees at the turn of the road,

And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm,---

A cry of defiance, and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo for evermore!

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

The USS Constitution: a most fortunate ship

USS Constitution in her home port of Boston, October 2010

It was 206 years ago this month that Congress declared war on the United Kingdom, marking the start of the War of 1812.

What followed was a conflict that fails to stir the blood when we look back on it, even though the war gave us what later became our national anthem. Maybe our indifference stems from the fact that this inconclusive war had plenty of low points, including a British invasion of Washington, D.C., and three failed American assaults on Canada.

As historian Don Hickey told the Christian Science Monitor on the war's 200th anniversary in 2012: “It's forgotten because the causes don't resonate much today. We went to war to force the British to give up the removal of seamen from our ships and restrictions on our trade with Europe. Nowadays, nobody goes to war to uphold maritime rights. And to confuse the issue of causes, we invaded Canada.”

Yet the War of 1812 had its inspiring moments, thanks in large part to the accomplishments of the U.S. Navy, on Lake Erie and at sea. And there was no greater player in that drama than the USS Constitution, “Old Ironsides,” a Boston-based frigate that is now the world’s oldest commissioned naval vessel still afloat.

Constitution was built in Boston and launched in 1797. By the time the War of 1812 broke out, the 44-gun ship “had already won all of her engagements" in the Quasi War with France (1798-1801) and the Barbary Wars (1801-1805), according to www.history.navy.mil.

“During the War of 1812, to the surprise of both the Americans and the British, she defeated four English warships, earning each of her three captains a congressional gold medal,” the web site notes. “Upon returning to Boston from each victory at sea, the ship and her sailors were honored with parades and public adoration, and her legend grew into the national icon that ‘Old Ironsides’ remains to this day.”

The site explains that the Constitution’s victories had little impact on the course of the war because the British fleet was so large, but as Tyrone G. Martin wrote in A Most Fortunate Ship, a history of the Constitution: “What Constitution did accomplish was to uplift American morale spectacularly and, in the process, end forever the myth that the Royal Navy was invincible.”

One of Constitution’s greatest victories, and the one that earned her her nickname, occurred on Aug. 19, 1812, when the frigate, which was then outfitted with 55 guns, encountered the 44-gun HMS Guerrière off the coast of Nova Scotia.

“Closing the distance of several miles between the two warships, HMS Guerrière raised three British ensigns as an invitation to a duel,” www.history.navy.mil explains. “USS Constitution’s Capt. Isaac Hull answered with four American ensigns.”

During the 35-minute battle that followed, a sailor observed British cannonballs bouncing off the Constitution’s 25-inch oak hull. “Huzza!” he cried out. “Her sides are made of iron!” 

The Constitution’s 24-pound shots were devastating, and the British captain surrendered. Once the Guerrière’s officers and crew were removed from her, the Constitution set her ablaze.

“It is not merely that an English frigate has been taken, after, what we are free to confess, may be called a brave resistance, but that it has been taken by a new enemy, an enemy unaccustomed to such triumphs, and likely to be rendered insolent and confident by them,” the London Times wrote once news of the battle reached Britain. “Never before in the history of the world did an English frigate strike to an American.”

HMS Guerrière and the USS Constitution, a painting by Anton Otto Fischer

"I wish we could sell them another hill at the same price"

The Death of General Warren at the Battle of Bunker Hill, by John Trumbull

Today is the anniversary of the 1775 Battle of Bunker Hill in Charlestown, Massachusetts, in the early stages of the American Revolution. It marked a victory for the British, who succeeded in dislodging rebel forces from Breed’s Hill and Bunker Hill. But the victors had to mount three assaults, and they suffered very heavy losses in the process. As Gen. Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island observed: "I wish we could sell them another hill at the same price."

The following day, Abigail Adams, writing from Braintree, Massachusetts, shared her thoughts with her husband John, who was in Philadelphia as a Massachusetts delegate to the Continental Congress. The "Dr. Warren" mentioned in the letter was Joseph Warren, a leading patriot and a close friend of John and Abigail. Abigail signed herself as "Portia" because that's how her "Dearest Friend" addressed her in his letters.

Dearest Friend

Sunday June 18 1775

The Day; perhaps the decisive Day is come on which the fate of America depends. my bursting Heart must find vent at my pen. I have just heard that our dear Friend Dr. Warren is no more but fell gloriously fighting for his Country-saying better to die honourably in the field than ignominiously hang upon the Gallows. great is our Loss. He has distinguished himself in every engagement, by his courage and fortitude, by animating the Soldiers & leading them on by his own example -- a particular account of these dreadful, but I hope Glorious Days will be transmitted you, no doubt in the exactest manner.

The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong -- but the God of Israel is he that giveth strength & power unto his people. Trust in him at all times ye people pour out your hearts before him. God is a refuge for us. --Charlstown is laid in ashes. The Battle began upon our intrenchments upon Bunkers Hill, a Saturday morning about 3 oclock & has not ceased yet & tis now 3 o'clock Sabbeth afternoon.

Tis expected they will come out over the Neck to night, & a dreadful Battle must ensue Almighty God cover the heads of our Country men, & be a shield to our Dear Friends. how (many ha)ve fallen we know not-the constant roar of the cannon is so (distre)ssing that we can not Eat Drink or Sleep -- may we be supported and sustaind in the dreadful conflict. I shall tarry here till tis thou(ght) unsafe by my Friends, & then I have secured myself a retreat at your Brothers who has kindly offerd me part of his house. I cannot compose myself to write any further at present -- I will add more as I hear further--

Tuesday afternoon --

I have been so much agitated that I have not been able to write since Sabbeth day. When I say that ten thousand reports are passing vague & uncertain as the wind I believe I speak the Truth. I am not able to give you any authentick account of last Saturday, but you will not be destitute of intelligence -- Coll: Palmer has just sent me word that he has an opportunity of conveyance. incorrect as this scrawl will be, it shall go -- I wrote you last Saturday morning. in the afternoon I received your kind favar of the 2 june and that you sent me by Captn. Beals at the same time, --I ardently pray that you may be supported thro the arduous task you have before you. I wish I could contradict the report of the Doctors Death, but it is a lamentable Truth, -- and the tears of multitudes pay tribute to his memory -- Those favorite lines (of) Collin continually sound (in my Ears.) 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest,
By all their Countrys wishes blest?
When Spring with dew'ey fingers cold
Returns to deck their Hallowed mould
She their shall Dress a sweeter Sod
Than fancys feet has ever trod
By fairy hands their knell is rung
By forms unseen their Dirge is sung
Their Honour comes a pilgrim grey
To bless the turf that wraps their Clay
And freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping Hermit there --

I rejoice in the prospect of the plenty you inform me of, but cannot say we have the same agreable view here. The Drought is very severe, and things look but poorly.

Mr Rice & Thaxter unkle Quincy Col Quincy Mr Wibert all desire to be rememberd, so do all our family. Nabby will write by the next conveyance --

I must close, as the Deacon w(aits.) I have not pretended to be perticuliar with regard to what I have heard, because I know you will collect better intelligence -- The Spirits of the people are very good. The loss of Charlstown affects them no more than a Drop in the Bucket, --I am

Most sincerely yours


Portia                   

June 10, 1692: hysteria sends an innocent woman to her death

Bridget Bishop made history 326 years ago today. Not that she wanted to. Bishop was the first of 20 people to be executed during the Salem witchcraft trials in Massachusetts.

Contrary to popular belief, none of the victims was burned at the stake; 19 of them were hanged and the 20th - Giles Corey - was crushed to death. As Corey’s death makes clear, women were not the only victims; six men were executed as well.

Historians have offered conflicting explanations for what happened, including psychological and even biological theories, such as contaminated food. Mary Beth Norton, author of In the Devil’s Snare, argues that Salem-area residents believed they were seeing the devil at work in Indian raids on nearby settlements, so they were susceptible to viewing accusations of witchcraft as simply further evidence of satanic mischief and mayhem.

Granted, the trials occurred before the Age of Enlightenment. Superstition remained a powerful force in people’s lives in the late 17th century. Reason had yet to assume the prominence it acquired in the 1700s.

Still, in the grand sweep of history, 1692 wasn’t really all that long ago. These people did not live in the Dark Ages. They should have known better, and they did, eventually. But not until the damage had been done.

Samuel Sewall, a judge at the trials, later apologized for his role in them, and Massachusetts came to realize - quickly but not quickly enough - that a horrible travesty had occurred.

Patriot James Otis Jr.: no taxation without representation

Only the most ardent history buffs have any idea who James Otis Jr. was, and that's a shame. This forgotten patriot was an impassioned and outspoken champion of American liberty years before the opening salvos of the American Revolution.

Born on Cape Cod in 1725, Otis graduated from Harvard College, studied law, began practicing in Plymouth, Mass., and later moved to Boston, "where he quickly made a name for himself as one of the city's most brilliant lawyers," according to the Mass Moments web site. 

Over time, Otis evolved from a loyal British subject to a scathing critic of Britain’s colonial policies. On June 21, 1768, he gave a fiery speech to his fellow provincial legislators in Boston defending an open letter that he and Samuel Adams had written denouncing the Townshend Acts.

In that speech, Otis described the British House of Commons as a collection of "button-makers, horse jockey gamesters, pensioners, pimps, and whore-masters." Although Otis may be unknown to most Americans today, his legacy lives on. It is Otis who is credited with repeatedly condemning taxation without representation as tyranny.

Otis' star shone brightly for a time, but his life soon took a tragic turn.

On September 5, 1769, "a Boston customs collector offended by something Otis had written attacked him with a sword, fracturing his skull," according to Mass Moments. Otis had already shown signs of instability, and after the assault, his sister wrote that "the future usefulness of this distinguished friend of his country was destroyed, reason was shaken from its throne."

In 1771, a court declared Otis a lunatic, and his brother was appointed as his guardian. Otis eventually moved in with a friend in Andover, Mass. In a letter to his sister, he wrote that he hoped to be killed by "a flash of lightening" when his time came. He got his wish. On May 23, 1783, as the 58-year-old Otis stood in a doorway chatting with friends, he was struck by lightning and died.

Late in life, John Adams said: "I have been young and now I am old, and I solemnly say I have never known a man whose love of country was more ardent or sincere, never one who suffered so much, never one whose service for any 10 years of his life were so important and essential to the cause of his country as those of Mr. Otis from 1760 to 1770."

Sept. 28, 1960: Ted Williams calls it quits with a homer at Fenway

The immortal Ted Williams, a temperamental left fielder who spent 21 seasons with the Boston Red Sox, retired from major-league baseball 57 years ago today with a home run in his final at bat, which occurred at Fenway Park on Sept. 28, 1960, in a game against the Baltimore Orioles. 

There weren't a lot of fans in the stands that day, but among them was a 28-year-old John Updike, who later wrote an essay entitled Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu, which The New York Times once described as “probably the most celebrated baseball essay ever.” Here’s a snippet from that essay, which appeared in the Oct. 22, 1960, issue of The New Yorker.

Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs—hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn’t tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted “We want Ted” for minutes after he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now. Gods do not answer letters.

The Northeast's deadliest storm: the Hurricane of '38

Southbridge, Mass., after the storm.

It happened 12 years before I was born. But my parents, who were living in Southbridge, Mass., at the time, remembered it well, and talked about it periodically for the rest of their lives.

Initially, no one was overly concerned about a northbound Atlantic storm in September 1938, because it was expected to blow itself out at Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. But on Sept. 21 of that year, forecasters learned how wrong they had been. That's when all hell broke loose.

As the PBS series American Experience reports on its web site, what later became known as the Great New England Hurricane of '38 "suddenly began an unexpected sprint north along the coast, surprising even the Coast Guard. No one had ever seen a storm like this; radar had not yet been invented."

The hurricane "ripped into the New England shore with enough fury to set off seismographs in Sitka, Alaska. Traveling at a shocking 60 miles per hour -- three times faster than most tropical storms -- it was astonishingly swift and powerful, with peak wind gusts up to 186 mph. The storm without a name turned into one of the most devastating storms recorded in North America. Over 600 people were killed, most by drowning. Another hundred were never found. Property damage was estimated at $400 million -- over 8,000 homes were destroyed, 6,000 boats wrecked or damaged." Rhode Island was especially hard hit, and suffered the most casualties.

The winds recorded that day dwarfed the land wind speeds in storms Irene and Sandy. "The hurricane was the death knell for many mills and factories that had barely survived the Great Depression," according to The Associated Press. "It stripped 4 million bushels of apples from orchards, killed livestock and felled millions of trees . . . . Bridges and dams were destroyed, and rail travel was halted for weeks."

Cranston, R.I., following the Hurricane of '38

July 2, 1776: John Adams and the prelude to independence

Is it possible to praise John Adams too much? (Short answer: no.) More than any other delegate to the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia, this cranky, principled visionary from Massachusetts tirelessly promoted American independence, which the Congress finally declared in July 1776. 

The delegates passed a resolution proclaiming independence on July 2 of that year, followed two days later by a vote on the Declaration of Independence, which formally laid out America's grievances against King George III.

In arguing that July 2, 1776, should be remembered for all time, Adams offered a remarkably accurate prediction of how we would come to celebrate Independence Day, albeit two days later:

The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.

Well, we didn’t take your advice regarding July 2, Mr. Adams, but I think you’d be pleased with how we honor what transpired two days later.

Abigail Adams urges her husband to "remember the ladies"

Abigail Adams, one of my favorite people from the annals of American history, wrote a prescient letter to her husband, John Adams, on this date in 1776.

John was in Philadelphia at that point, urging the Continental Congress to declare American independence. Abigail, meanwhile, was back home in Massachusetts, caring for the couple’s children and wondering what independence, when it came, would mean for American women. Here's part of what this remarkable woman had to say when she put pen to paper on March 31, 1776:

I long to hear that you have declared an independency. And, by the way, in the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make, I desire you would remember the ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the husbands. Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.

Abigail figured prominently in John Adams, a 2008 HBO miniseries about the man who became our second president. While Paul Giamatti did a fine job in the title role, Laura Linney (above, with Giamatti) was nothing short of brilliant as Abigail. If you haven't seen this impressive series, Linney's performance alone makes it well worth your time.

When pariahs become heroes: the case of Anne Hutchinson

Cover of a 2004 biography

The history books are full of people who were scorned in life but are now idolized in death, because time has shown that they were visionaries, geniuses or gifted artists.

Anne Hutchinson was one such. Born in England in 1591 as Anne Marbury, she and her husband, Will Hutchinson, were Puritans in the 17th-century Massachusetts Bay Colony when she ran afoul of the authorities there.

A headstrong woman in a male-dominated society (strike one), Hutchinson took to preaching at her home, initially for women, but later for men as well (strike two). When she broke with Puritan leaders on theological points (strike three) she was put on trial. A civil court voted to banish her. Then, on this date in 1638, a religious court excommunicated Hutchinson from the Puritan Church.

"You have stepped out of your place," one minister told her. "You have rather been a husband than a wife, a preacher than a hearer, and a magistrate than a subject."

A pariah in Massachusetts Bay, Hutchinson moved on, first to the much more tolerant colony of Rhode Island, where she is admired to this day as a co-founder of the town of Portsmouth, and then to New York, where she was killed by Indians in 1643.

Over time, the tide turned - even in Massachusetts.

In 1922, the state erected a statue of Hutchinson and her daughter Susanna in front of the State House in Boston. The inscription describes her as a “courageous exponent of civil liberty and religious toleration." Sixty-five years later, Gov. Michael Dukakis pardoned Hutchinson and lifted the banishment order that Gov. John Winthrop had imposed in 1637.

Anne Hutchinson statue, Boston, Massachusetts

Remembering Massachusetts, through its signs and markers

I’ve lived more than half of my life away from Massachusetts, where I was born, raised, educated and married. But three types of signs to be found there still make me as nostalgic for my home state as any mental image of Cape Cod, the Boston skyline, the Quabbin Reservoir or the Berkshire Hills.

First are the ubiquitous municipal signs that greet motorists as they enter virtually any city or town in the Bay State. These markers have a curved top resembling an open book, beneath which is the word “ENTERING." The state seal and the date on which the city or town was incorporated appear below that, followed by the name of the community in large capital letters. In our dining room, Liz and I have a small replica of the sign for Oak Bluffs, a town on Martha's Vineyard.

Equally distinctive are the Massachusetts Turnpike signs, with their Pilgrim hat logo. They aren't as memorable as they were back when I was a kid, though. Political correctness had yet to rear its head in that bygone era, and the signs on "the pike" were especially noteworthy in those days because each Pilgrim hat was shot through with an Indian's arrow. An updated version of the hat remains, but the arrow is long gone, which seems only fitting. After all, what we think of as the first Thanksgiving was a harvest festival jointly celebrated by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Indians.

Which brings us to the third type of sign. These are the 85-year-old historical markers that the state installed in 1930, to commemorate the 300th birthday of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

A few years back, The Boston Globe reported that the Massachusetts Bay Colony Tercentenary Commission put up some 275 of these signs, about 144 of which remain in place. With black lettering on an aluminum background and bearing the state's coat of arms, the markers are “instantly recognizable to most people in Massachusetts,” the article said. They “stand outside town greens, by cemeteries, on the sites of old battles or long-vanished mills.”

There are none of these 300th anniversary markers in my hometown of Southbridge. But several neighboring towns have, or once had, tercentenary markers, including Brimfield (2 of them), Brookfield (1), Oxford (4), Sturbridge (1), Webster (1) and West Brookfield (1), according to a catalogue of the signs that is available online. Now the signs themselves, because they are so old, have become part of the long, remarkably rich history of what is grandly known in Massachusetts as “the Commonwealth.”

You may know Maine, but that doesn't mean everyone else does

I’m always intrigued by the degree to which provincialism holds sway in American culture. And the extent to which geographic literacy suffers as a result.

My wife Liz and I live in Maine, but we were not born and raised here, so we view this wonderful place with the perspective of transplanted outsiders. Mainers take great pride in their state, as they should. Its natural beauty is breathtaking. Its people are unaffected, hardworking, tolerant, self-reliant and blessed with an abundance of common sense. Normally, its politics are forward-looking. (With the exception of our current pathetic excuse for a governor, Paul LePage, but he’s an aberration.)

Yet native-born Mainers sometimes have an exaggerated sense of their state’s reputation elsewhere in the country. They realize Maine is a gem and a popular vacation destination, but they fail to take into account how little many people know about the world beyond their own city limits or state borders. I suspect many folks west of the Mississippi and south of the Mason-Dixon line probably have a vague notion that Maine is a Canadian island somewhere in the North Atlantic where Paul Bunyan grows lobsters in an orchard and harvests them from trees when they ripen.

Which brings us to the incident that got me thinking about provincialism and geographic illiteracy.

During a short stay in our native Massachusetts last week, my wife Liz and I visited the Emily Dickinson Museum in the Amherst home of the famed poet. Liz and I were the only people on our particular tour, so we had the gregarious and very well-informed guide all to ourselves.

At the start of the tour, this pleasant, animated woman (whose name I didn’t commit to memory) asked us where we were from. Sometimes, in these situations, I explain that we’re both from Massachusetts but we now live in Maine. At other times, I do what I did in Amherst last week. I offered a one-word answer.

“Maine.”

A strange expression settled on the guide’s face. She seemed to have lost her ability to speak. I could see that she was trying mightily to say something complimentary — anything — about Maine, so she could be polite and hold up her end of the conversation.

But she drew a blank. Absolutely nothing came to mind. We stood around waiting, but to no avail.

Clearly, this articulate and well-educated woman had no familiarity with Maine, no mental image of the state, no Maine-centered tidbit or factoid or point of reference that she could draw upon, even though Maine was once part of Massachusetts and Amherst is less than 150 miles from Kittery. (That’s a Maine town on the state’s southern border, for you non-Mainers.)

The silence was a bit long, and awkward. We brought it to a close by turning our attention to Miss Dickinson. Come to think of it, she probably didn’t know a hell of a lot about Maine either, but she more than made up for that unfortunate deficiency in other ways.