The City that Lit the World

I look upon places with eyes of love. Especially this place.

The bustling harbor on the mouth of the Acushnet. The five glimmering lighthouses and the cobblestoned hill. The underground railroad and the Liberty Bell. The gentle plot of land where my mother is laid to rest. The City that Lit the World. 

I spent most of my childhood in New Bedford’s West End, halfway between Buttonwood Park and the Whaling Museum. When I was seven years old, my family moved from a stuccoed ranch in San Diego to a grey-shingled Edwardian home with an enormous slate sink. The whole city seemed to me an old and interesting place. My parents ran an antique business on eBay, which doubtlessly contributed to this impression. I spent summer weekends helping scour the classifieds for promising garage sales and, on Thursdays, helping scope out the auction lots at Gray Barn. I remember the thrill of finding a brass key with a decorative bow priced at a quarter at one such sale and - more thrilling still - finding that it actually worked on my bedroom door. I took care when exploring the vacant grounds of the nearby Reed Estate because I knew it had been a stop on the Underground Railroad - and I was afraid of falling in. I remember the hubbub surrounding President Bill Clinton’s visit to New Bedford, after it was established as a National Historical Park. 

Well, I came to call the city home, to love the aged and gracious bones of it, the history in plain sight, lived in and living still. My New Bedford is peculiarly mine, just as every person’s experience of a place is particular to them alone. I have often tried to describe the face of the city only to find that others cannot seem to recognize it. I  hope to change that, bit by bit, tale by tale.