A Tale I've Never Told Anyone . . .

 . . . out of fear they would think I had lost my grip on reality, and perhaps I had. But now, three decades have passed -- and lots of folks who know me already suspect I've lost it. So it's time to tell. 

(Actually, this post is from a talk I gave to fellow-members of the Olympic Club the week of April 17th.)

In the Spring of 1990, just this time of year, a consulting assignment for Sonesta Hotels took me to Philadelphia. I was staying at their Rittenhouse Sonesta.  That night I awoke about 4:00 in the morning. Thick fog was coming off the Schuylkill and Delaware Rivers, giving downtown Philly a mysterious, ghostly aspect. As so often when working on a problem, I couldn’t sleep so I pulled on my warm-ups and sneakers and went out for a walk. I headed East on Market St, around City Hall and swung over toward Independence Hall on Walnut.

There, as I approached Washington Square along the park in front of Independence Hall, I could make out in the fog a figure slouched on a bench, a sleeping bum, I supposed. (We didn’t use “homeless” in those days.) As I got closer, I could see it was an elderly man, longish grey hair hanging down from beneath a shapeless fur hat -- not asleep as I had first thought, but awake, alert and looking about owlishly through big glasses. And then, coming closer, I saw he was wearing knee britches and a westkit!

Dr. Franklin, I presume I said thinking myself quite clever – taking him to be a reinactor or a tour guide in costume awaiting the early tourist.

From here on, I am quoting from notes I made later that morning to capture the conversation.

Yes … yes. Do I know you, sir? he replied.

No, but most Americans would recognize you, sir I continued the charade.

What day is this? he said with some urgency. What year?

Well, ah, it’s April 17^th, and 1990.

Oh my word! It’s happened again.

What? What has happened again?

The last time, he replied, was April 17^th, 1890. April 17th, you see, is the day I died in 1790. And like now, in 1890, I awoke on a park bench in the Tuileries, in beloved Paris. . . Oh, I so loved Paris.

And I’m told, the Parisian lovelies as well.

Oh yes  --  and how they fussed over me. It was glorious. . . the most stylish, charming women in the world.  

But it was then that I learned of how their revolution turned ugly after The Declaration of the Rights of Man and King Louis was trundled from Versailles to Paris that Fall. I died the next Spring. . . . The Declaration was a fine document: Thomas, Thomas Jefferson, and Lafayette collaborated on that. But I learned that morning in Paris that it all had come apart and ended in tyranny.

Yes, revolutions often seem . . .

But what of ours? he interrupted. What has happened to ours? It was right there – pointing across – right there in the Pennsylvania State House that so much took place.

We’re still free. We now call it Independence Hall.

Really? Well, yes, that’s where the Declaration was done, in ’76. But our more important work was in ’87; you should call it Constitution Hall . . .. When I came out of the State House that final afternoon, a woman came up to me and  . . .

And she asked I interrupted “What have you given us” and you said “A Republic, Madam, if you can keep it.”

No! No – that’s not what I said. I said, “a Republic, madam; see that you keep it.” And have you? Kept it I mean?

Well . . .we call ourselves a democratic republic. But you Founding Fathers left us such a mess to sort . . .

What was that?! Founding Fathers? That’s what you call us? Oh my word! . . . Founding Fathers . . . well it does sound rather grand, doesn’t it? Founding Fathers . . . hm. My word . . ..

Well, whatever, you left us quite a muddle to sort out. Lots of idealism: one man, one vote and all that. But women: no vote. Indians: no vote. Only male property owners could vote. Mechanics and artisans: no.  Small states, the same number of Senators as large. Slaves counted partly in, partly out.

You brought us into being through a series of compromises, sometimes contradictory ones, and left it up to us to straighten it all out. And that Electoral College – that’s the biggest mess of all.

But you say you are a Republic – a democratic Republic, whatever is that?

Well, despite your deep distrust of democracy we have expanded the franchise so that every citizen can vote. Even Indians, who have a sort of dual citizenship between their tribal nation and the United States of America, they have the vote, too. Even women.

And how has democracy worked out? Has the mob taken over?

It’s been up and down. Sometimes the people have been very wise and reasoned; other times, overcome by emotion and very foolish. And we're not a fair democracy, not an equitable one. 

You give the elite the larger voice?

No. It is an overweighting toward the small states, the rural over the urban. You founders gave us that in the Senate and the electoral college. 

And slaves?

The same south vs north issue you and Madison and Jefferson, Washington and Hamilton wrestled with – a slave/plantation economy vs. manufacturing and mercantilism. It finally came to a head in an outright, bloody, horrendous civil war.

Oh dear!

The north prevailed. We emancipated the slaves and outlawed slavery. The slaves and their offspring became citizens, too, with a right to vote.

Oh, good for you! But a civil war – oh my.

That was 125 years ago, and we still haven’t completely healed.

What do you call yourselves? Pennsylvanians? Americans?

Well, both, yes. But I’m not a Pennsylvanian; I live in Seattle, Seattle, Washington.

Where is that?

All the way across the continent, on the Pacific Ocean. Seattle is a city named after an Indian chieftain and Washington is a state, named after George.

I saw him bristle at my irreverent familiarity. What happened to the General? And how many states are there?

Fifty, all the way across the continent. Well, President Washington was re-elected in ’92 but chose not to run in ’96. He retired to Mt. Vernon, urging us not to elect Executives over and over again, and warning us to avoid entanglements with foreign nations. We’ve done the one but not the other.

He was a stuffy old sod, but very wise. Who succeeded him?

John Adams.

Oh my word! Now there was an argumentative soul; he could argue St.Peter out of the Pearly gates. A lawyer through and through. I hope you’ve learned how to get along without lawyers. The only person who could out-argue John was Abagail.  John was wise, but oh so stubborn! He made himself hard to like. And who succeeded him?

Your Thomas, Thomas Jefferson.

Ah, so bright but what a collection of contradictions! A lover of the idea of revolution and of the common man but at the same time, a lover of privilege and riches. He hated slavery yet owed his wealth to slavery, wealth he frittered away. And like I, a lover of France. And a lover in another way we don’t talk about in polite society. And so curious – I liked watching him think.

You shared that curiosity: music, science, nature, lightening and electricity and magnetism, how to foster cooperation and community . . .

Electricity! Such a mystery!

Well, you showed us the way. We have learned how to make it, to transport it, to store it. It powers the world. These street lights you see . . .

Yes, I’ve been curious about them. They don’t seem to have any flame.

No, they’re electrical, bottled lightening if you will. And you showed us how to protect ourselves from electricity. Your lightening rod is used throughout the world to protect buildings and reduce fires. And your volunteer fire department – they exist in every town and village; in the bigger cities, full-time, paid professionals --  firemen we call them.

Dawn was coming; more and more cars began to pass on Walnut and Sixth and up on Market. He had been watching them.

These carriages I see: what propels them? Where are the horses?

They’re called auto-mobiles, self-movers. I launched into development of the steam engine, cylinders and pistons, the internal combustion engine, the sharing of information across the world among tinkerers and mechanics. The role of printers like him to disseminate discoveries.

He listened, politely but increasingly bored.

How do you know so much about me?

Oh, all of us do. Most American would recognize you in an instant. We all know some of your aphorisms: “A penny saved is a penny earned”,

I didn’t say it quite that way he growled.

“A fool and his money is soon parted.” Your picture is even on our money – on the largest denomination currency we have.

I pulled out of my wallet a $100 bill. He took it and studied it a moment.

We call that a “Benjamin”.

My word! That’s too much . . . A Benjamin! . . . he turned it over . . .And there’s the Statehouse . . . In God We Trust – well, some I suppose more than others of us. But we all put our trust in industry and science.

That was on Washington and Hamilton's first coinage, in ’92. Our motto on coinage now is more universal: E Pluribus Unum.

Nice; from many, one. How many are you now?

Over 300 million.

He shook his head in wonder. We sat looking at one another, and at Independence Hall.

Daylight was dawning. And Dr. Franklin seemed to be thinning, as if becoming gossamer. The Benjamin dropped from his hand.

He smiled . . . and slowly faded from sight.

Was I dreaming? Had I been asleep on this bench? I must have been dreaming. But there on the ground lay the $100 bill. I have kept it all this time -- for the day I would finally dare tell this tale.

And today, -- its day has come.