I visited the Museum of Our National Heritage on one of the worst allergy days of my adult life. I walked in one bright May afternoon a couple of Springs ago, carrying a ripped and crumpled Kleenex, sopping wet from the pollen-induced tears streaming down my cheeks from my red-rimmed eyes. The kindly nonagenarian at the desk asked if I was OK and wanted to know if there was someone she should call. "I'm OK," I sniffled, "It's just ragweed." She nodded sympathetically.
Admission was free, although I think I left a five dollar donation. The building emitted a sort of 1970s "modern" vibe, which gave me a comfy Bicentennial feeling--highly appropriate for a national heritage museum, I thought. The bathrooms were spotless and I gladly replaced my disintegrating Kleenex with several feet of Scott toilet paper.
The museum is run by the Masons and this was my first experience with anything Masonic. I was greatly impressed: Everyone was very friendly--almost spookily so--but unlike the members of a certain other organization, no one asked if I wanted to take a "free personality test" and we were free to leave at any point. (I checked.) We noted many Republican-looking senior citizens in blue blazers and modest dresses streaming in for a big-band concert. They kind of reminded me of the audience at a Lawrence Welk concert. (I know this only because my grandparents watched his TV show every Saturday night.)
The exhibitions were great: We saw news photographs from WWII and a photo series of Delta blues musicians; intricate clocks designed--I think--by a guy who used to build the Christmas displays in Filene's windows; all sort of Massachusetts-made items from colonial times to the present; hands on exhibits for kids and grown-ups who behave like kids (I appropriated a tricorn hat, which I was loath to return) and, of course, lots of educational displays about the Masons.
The bookstore was, for a small museum, one of the best I'd seen. I am always in the market for heavily discounted exhibition catalogues and I was not disappointed. For about eight bucks, I picked up a catalogue of early American tavern and inn signs, which engendered much happy bedtime reading.
Best of all, the air conditioning cleared up my allergy, but only for the duration of my visit. Once outside, my fresh-faced mien quickly disappeared and I snotted and dribbled all the way back to Boston. But at least I grabbed extra toilet paper on my way out. Classy, eh? read more