Just before the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence Becky, my wife, suggested I paint an homage to the holiday. Imagining my Dad as the scribe of the Declaration, I illustrated his hand with the feather pen and inkwell he had machined from solid aluminum. I’ve exhibited the set, along with hundreds of Dad’s other art pieces, at public libraries, always to a favorable reaction. Dad modeled the pen — in actuality, a ball point type — after a real feather. The ink has dried out by now, but no wonder, given that Dad created it in 1976. I suspect he had in mind the nation’s then 200th anniversary.
I live and breathe Dad’s collection, which I’ve promoted for the past 13 years. It’s the continual discovery of hidden secrets, such as the date of 1976 on the pen/inkwell set, which convinces me I’ve been destined to do what I am doing. Like any artist, Dad was observant and mindful of the goings-on around him.
Perhaps he was thinking of his artwork when he and Mom took us children to Fourth of July fireworks at Cambridge Common, walking the short distance from home. We got there early enough to stake out a prime spot at one corner of Radcliff College, Harvard’s sister school for women. Mom and Dad worked together to hoist us atop the brick wall, taller than we were. From a street vendor, they bought us tchotchkes, such as battery-operated pinwheels that would spin neon lights. The fireworks display lasted maybe 25 minutes, after which we and hundreds of others headed toward home.
As years went by, crowds grew larger and safety became a greater concern. The festivities then relocated to the Charles River, separating Cambridge from Boston. Businessman and philanthropist David Mugar stepped up as the major sponsor, growing the celebration into what it is now: a concert by the Boston Pops, including cannon fire during Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, followed by fireworks. Mugar has passed, but each year his legacy lives on, as the show increases in scope and pyrotechnic innovation. His father was Stephen Mugar, née Mgrdichian, no relation, who in 1916 purchased and expanded the Watertown-based Star Market into a business empire.
After we kids grew up, Mom began working for a company whose headquarters stood at the river’s edge on the Cambridge side of the Longfellow Bridge. Each July 4th, the executives offered the 14th-floor cafeteria space and refreshments for fireworks viewing by employees and their families. Looking straight out the windows, we were awed by the rockets’ proximity, not having to crane our necks from ground level.
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This year, Becky and I watched Boston’s 250th celebration on television. Neighbors a block away fittingly blasted off fireworks, so we heard the booms simultaneously with those from the TV broadcast. We were dumbfounded by recognizable images floating in the sky above the Charles as part of the fireworks — a revolutionary war figure with a musket, or the Tea Party ship with crates of tea falling off. How could these images appear technologically? They weren’t holograms, but rather masses of moving dots of colored lights. Later, our son informed us that the lights were an army of synchronized drones.
The signers of the Declaration staked their lives and reputations on the future of this nascent country, basically the kernel of an idea at the time. They dared to declare this nation independent, free to become whatever it could on its own. Now, a quarter of a millennium later, those signers would be pleased with their creation, yet possibly disappointed by its shortcomings.
As Americans, we’ve moved beyond the places from which we originally hailed, but we have more to do. President Kennedy dared us to go further, beyond our nation and our home base, Earth, to the moon. There’s still more potential. The signers would be proud, as would Dad. I’ve painted him with the most powerful of all instruments: a pen.
