Veterans Day: It’s a quiet November holiday. One day — yet, it’s an important day, though hardly called out in newspapers. Barely noticeable. Except for maybe a handful of mattress sales ads, that is.
That is sad. The somewhat understated day holds special meaning: It honors all U.S. military veterans who have served in wartime or peacetime, originating from the 1918 World War I armistice at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, according to constitutioncenter.org.
“The war to end all wars,” as my dad referred to what the first world war was called.
I was contemplating this, recalling a produce business trip I once took with a co-worker to Philadelphia about this time of year. Besides calling on produce and foodservice distributors, we were encouraged to take an occasional detour, to take a little time to seek out some of the local sights. On this trip, we did just that.
And Philly, as we are all aware, is the epicenter of our nation’s military heroes; the very core of our nation’s history.
Our side trip was to Independence Hall. On display — out in the open with nothing but a couple of somewhat indifferent security guards nearby and a thick velvet rope draped around it — was the Liberty Bell for throngs of tourists to view.
I couldn’t believe it. On an otherwise mundane produce trip, here I was, frozen in my tracks. Mere feet away from this iconic national treasure.
I read, as I always do about such moments, about some of the Liberty Bell’s facts, such as: The bell predates the American Revolution, and it has engraved on it the Leviticus 25:10 Bible verse (“Proclaim Liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”) I read that the bell rang often during its functional lifetime between 1753 and 1846. Ringing for and marking the deaths of founding fathers Franklin, Washington, Hamilton and Jefferson. It is said to have also rang for the signing of the Constitution.
Heavy stuff, right? And it was right here, positioned before this astonished business traveler, your always-curious produce scribe from Colorado.
What most intrigued me, like many I suspect, was the well-known crack in the bell. I learned there are plenty of theories over when and how the bell was cracked. Like some, I suppose, I view the bell crack as a metaphor for our nation: imperfect but overall proud, sound and strong.
I inched ever closer amid the crowd. I noticed the security guards were yucking it up over something between themselves, distracted. And the velvet rope was draped just an arm’s length around the bell and all the history it represents.
I leaned way over, reached out my hand, and I touched the bell.
I not only touched it, but slowly, carefully traced my fingertips down, down along the cold cast gap of the Liberty Bell crack. Following the rough edge, like it was a braille message from the ages.
“Hands off the bell!” one guard hollered, as he finally noticed, approached and repeated, “Don’t touch the bell!” I held up my hands. I understood the rules. But yet …
Afterward over coffee, my co-worker kind of scolded me like I was a wayward adolescent. “What did you do that for?” he asked. “You could have gotten in real trouble for doing that, you know!”
Yeah, I know. I also knew I had no intent to damage the priceless relic, like some crackpots have tried in the past. In fact, quite the opposite. I reasoned that the bell, like so many other such symbols, belongs to us all. I also reasoned that I will likely never be standing in front of this cherished bell, much less ever get to touch it, ever again. I warmed my hands on my coffee cup and mentioned how the bell was originally known as the State House Bell. (It acquired the name of the Liberty Bell in the late 1830s when it became a symbol of the anti-slavery movement.)
So, like the dressing down I took from the security guards, I also acknowledged the concern from my co-worker. But I also held a solemn pride in my misdeed. “You’ll never meet a more patriotic soul than I,” I spoke. Call it an impulsive moment, a tiny rebellious streak, perhaps passed down from those brave revolutionary souls in 1776 who said, “We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.” As is written in the closing line of the Declaration of Independence.
Yeah, it was just a fleeting moment during a produce trip on that cold November day, but it was a memorable one that, by some primal affection, by impulse and chance, I reached out and touched an icon of American history.
Armand Lobato’s more than 50 years of experience in the produce business span a range of foodservice and retail positions. He has written a weekly retail column for two decades.
