Oral and written history records are like dust; grains disappear over time—burned, blown away, forgotten. In some cases, just enough original particles remain that, when swept together, give a foothold for stories like this one.
Stand in Concord Center, on Lexington Road, with your back to the Old Hill Burying Ground and your gaze fixed on the gold-domed First Parish building across the street. Here you are standing in the area of Concord’s first meeting house. Below your feet are grains of dust walked over centuries before by Concord residents such as Puritan John Jones, the first minister of Concord. And what happened when he left this spot became something New England history tried to bury.
When doing research, you occasionally come across a colossal mess that makes you think, “Wow! This is so inappropriate!” And you can’t wait to share it. This article is the result of one of those moments. Are you ready?
There are 34 muscles in the human hand.
You can stretch them wide to claim something or clasp them tight to hold on. It depends on what your brain commands, but sometimes, it’s not up to you; the hand of fate cuts in
and pushes you where you were never
meant to be.
In 1853, American writer Nathaniel Hawthorne crossed paths with the infamous clipper transport ship The Yorkshire. While the man and the ship led separate lives, each was entwined with the sea and their fates were destined to meet again years later in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s final hometown of Concord, Massachusetts. This is that story.
Imagine you lived in Victorian era Concord and you heard a knock on the door. Grasping the door’s handle, you open it and see a hopeful suitor standing on the granite doorstep, handing you a small bouquet with a red rose in the center and tied with a piece of lace. If you reached out with your right hand, took the bouquet, and pressed it to your heart, it meant you were saying “Yes, I accept your affections!” If you took the nosegay and held it upside down by your side it meant, “I’ll keep the flowers, but it’s a hard ‘no’ from me and you can move along.” And if you took the nosegay, admired it, and both the flower and you instantly started shriveling and disintegrating into dust, it meant you were likely a character in a Nathaniel Hawthorne story.
