Here it is – Ben Franklin’s excavated privy pit. The picture’s a bit cloudy since this bit of history is encased in a concrete and plexiglas case, a deterrent against theft or vandalism, I suppose. Just so you know, this is not the exact spot where Ben did his business. That took place on a seat in a water closet at a higher level in the house. A dump pipe ran from the water closet to the privy pit. In his home Ben had all the comforts of home, including indoor plumbing.
Which leads me to an open and frank discussion of the traveling malady I am presently experiencing. No, it’s not Montezuma’s revenge. It’s the Dorothy Syndrome, a phrase some swanky psychologist has probably nabbed already. This is the premiere Dorothy, as in the Wizard of Oz Dorothy. As in “There’s no place like home” which is how I am feeling on this third day trapped in the Philadelphia Airport Hilton. In some strange way, the hotel resembles the enchanted forest, and if I’m not watching, the artificial trees will hurl plastic fruit at me if I loiter too long in the lobby.
Tomorrow will be better, once we’re back to the Bed & Breakfast in South Phillie. We have two more days to explore the city and elbow past the Philadelphia Marathon crowds. But Monday, when we pack our bags and take a taxi to the airport, the malady will be in full swing again. I hope i don’t embarrass Hiram too much in the middle of the terminal when I stop, close my eyes and click the heels of my brown leather clogs every hundred feet. I’ll keep the volume low as I chant “There’s no place like home” and “Take the turkey out of the freezer when you get there.”
As soon as the turkey’s thawing, I’ll ask Hiram to sketch out our home’s plumbing and septic system. We’ll mail it to the national park system in case they ever needs the information for a historical display. It’s the kind of authentic documentation that makes history come alive for school children. Or makes them to lob artificial fruit at the display.
Suddenly, concrete and plexiglas make a whole lot of sense.
