When I was a kid, growing up in Massachusetts, I never questioned why Boston was called “the Hub of the Universe.” It was enough that it was the hub of mine.
I was in Boston for four days recently for a conference. It brought back many memories.
My hometown was 40 miles south of the city and 40 miles west of the Bourne Bridge, the crossing point to Cape Cod. Going in either direction made me happy, but Boston had the advantage of being a year-round destination.
We lived off Route 138, which had been the road to Boston for many years. I liked the idea that if I just went out my door and headed north, I would get to the city. This was the route my father had taken as a boy, when my grandparents took their four children to Red Sox games or Christmas shopping. I knew the journey took a lot longer in those days (the 1930s) but it did seem more romantic.
My mother grew up about 10 miles south of our town, just over the border in Rhode Island. Her family would go to Providence for recreation, or down to Newport. But although the capital of the Ocean State was much closer to my hometown, we rarely went there. Providence just couldn’t compare with Boston in my dad’s eyes. He even disdained its newspaper.
Dad brought home the tabloid-sized newspaper that is currently called the Boston Herald. Back in the 1960s, it was the Record American; it later transformed itself into the Herald American. My father was a sports fanatic, following the Boston teams for baseball, hockey, basketball and football, in that order of enthusiasm. The Record American, in his estimation, had the best sports coverage and columnists.
I began reading the newspaper at an early age. Since we did not subscribe to our town’s weekly paper, or the newspaper of our nearest city, Fall River (and certainly not the Providence Journal!), this was probably the reason I became Boston-centric. I knew everything there was to know about the Strangler, the desegregation crisis, the mayors and their triumphs and scandals, the neighborhoods, and of course, the Red Sox, Bruins, Celtics and Patriots.
We always had two annual adventures in Boston. We went to at least one Red Sox game, and to see the window displays and lights on the Common during the holidays. Once in a while we’d go to see a major movie, like “The Bible.”
Thus, all I knew of Boston, in the flesh, was downtown and the Fenway. In sixth grade, my class visited the USS Constitution, “Old Ironsides.” We saw Louis Agassiz’s glass flowers at Harvard. I had expanded my Boston horizons!
When I was a junior in high school, my parents started letting me travel to Boston without them. Considering how overprotective they could be, this was an amazing development. I guess there were two factors in my favor. The bus to Boston stopped in front of our house. And, I always went with my friend Carol, who was dependable and level-headed.
Our chief aim on our trips was to go to a bookstore and eat lunch. For the latter, we especially enjoyed the ice cream and sandwich chain called Brigham’s. There was a Brentano’s at the Prudential Center at that time, but we wanted to visit the Harvard Coop, which we had heard much about. The only problem was that we couldn’t figure out how to get to Cambridge.
We had to go via the MBTA, of course. The bus terminal was located in Park Square, downtown. We would study the T map at the nearest station (probably Arlington) and see that we needed to get the Red Line. But how did one get the Red Line from the Green Line? I guess we were too shy to ask anyone. One time we actually walked to Harvard Square. Another time we went to the point on the Green Line nearest to it—Lechmere—to see if the secret link lay there. It didn’t.
Then, one day, we passed Park Street Station. We looked at the sign which indicated that this was an access point for both the Red and Green Lines, and something clicked in our teenage brains. Almost literally, universes collided at that moment.
Carol and I, who have been friends for 48 years, were able to meet in Boston while I was down there. Of course, we had to have a bite to eat. Carol lives about 20 miles south of the city, and continues our habit of traveling in on Saturdays. These day, though, she takes the commuter rail.
I went into Boston on the Downeaster, which is something my husband Paul and I do at least once a year. This was the first time ever that I took cabs in Boston; Paul and I walk and take the T when we visit. But I had a suitcase on the way down, and, additionally, a large bag of books, courtesy of all the publishers at the conference, on the way back.
As I sank into the back seat of a taxi in front of my hotel, I said, “North Station, please.” The cabbie said, “North Station? Where is that?”
It took me a minute to get over the shock, but I was game. “Head down to the waterfront,” I said. “Take a left. There will be signs.”
It’s my Hub. I love it, and know it, well.
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