These days, it seems that everyone is rushing. Rushing to get to work. Rushing to get to school. Rushing to get to practice or a game. Rushing home to eat and relax. Everyone is rushing. It seems that we glance over the little things, tiny things that don’t affect us or aren’t meaningful in anyway. Sometimes, I like to stop, let the world slow down for a few minutes and look around. Some might call it snooping, others might say it is a way for me to waste time, I, however, say it is to explore and remember. A tiny bronze plaque probably means nothing to most people because they’re so ubiquitous. I like to find out what made someone so compelled to pay for a warped piece of metal to be put on the corner of a Dunkin Donuts in the middle of historic Boston. One is bound to rediscover some lost local history or at least learn more about the world around them. It is important that we take time and pay attention to minute details for they could prove slightly compelling.

I used to live near my grandparents, and their house was built in the early seventeen hundreds so it is full of rich history. Once, I was lucky in that my grandpa decided to give me a complete tour. We went upstairs and opened the creaky door to the attic. The further I walked up the steps the heavier the air hung and the stranger the smells got. In the attic we looked through forgotten treasures. Old board games no one has heard of since the 60’s, ancient technology that was once cutting edge, and a plethora of old, mothballed clothes. My grandfather said that he wanted to show me something, and of course my curiosity got the better of me. I followed him closely, for in this part of the attic, one misstep meant one was likely to fall through some of the dangerously old boards. We made our way over to the chimney and once there my grandfather began to remove floorboards. Where it once looked like a normal part of the floor, a mysterious hole appeared. This hole is not like the kind you get when you remove regular floorboards, but rather it was built in secretly. Through the dust and other airborne particles a small flashlight revealed a brick shaft with two vertical metal bars going down inside. At the bottom was a door that led into the chimney. He explained that these rods once had rungs that have since rusted off to form a ladder and it led to a safe room where early settlers hid when the Indians raided frontier homesteads. I stood in front of him dumbfounded as he began to recount an old tale that had been passed down by generations, of the King family, the first owners of the house. As my grandfather spoke, his words became reality. Out the window I could see enraged natives on horseback at a full gallop towards the house with torches crimson like their hate for the settlers and the blood they wished to spill. As the natives advanced across the field, I turned around toward the door to see a man in the doorway dressed in typical eighteenth century farmer fashion. For a split second he looked me in the eyes and I sensed the horror and the panic, he then coolly turned and ushered his family up towards their salvation. Suddenly the whoops and hollers of an unfamiliar language were very close when suddenly the sound of glass shattering pierced the air followed by footsteps as they ran about the house looking for their quarry. Suddenly I snapped back to reality standing in the same place I had been and my grandfather opposite the tunnel from me looking at the cone of light that showed in the darkness. It seemed so real to me, the story, the people, the fear and tension almost as if it were a movie or a play, merely being acted out before my very eyes. It was chilling, alarming almost, that this little hole meant the difference between continuing life on the farm, or complete and utter destruction of those who worked so hard to make a living on the frontier.

I stood there dizzily, unable to fully process the story that had just played out before me. A loud silence had taken control of the air and we both stood there, sweating in the humidity while we stared at the wealth of history in the cone of light, which cut through the darkness. My wonderment of what could be in the attic was overwhelmed because when I asked to go up, I didn’t expect such a yarn.

My curiosity gets to the better of me more than I would like to acknowledge and it sometimes made me wander. Theirs was much like any other basement, cool and dry, mostly holding old boxes of seasonal decorations and forgotten memories. I would go down there from time to time to grab miscellaneous items for my grandparents or do other simple chores. In the summertime, it was especially nice to feel the cool, dry air and take my time to avoid the hot mugginess that awaited me above. Once I went down with my grandfather to help him with some boxes and I noticed the oddly shaped extension of the main chimney. The main chimney in the house continues down into the center basement where it is shaped much like a large hollow pear with a flat bottom and small hole on one side towards the bottom of the large shaft. The area in front of the chimney is spacious and somewhat separated from the rest of the room. I asked my grandfather why it looked so odd knowing that there had to be some sort of interesting story to accompany such an odd addition. He leaned against the cold stone and explained that it was used by cattle drivers. As he spoke a cowboy walked down the steps with his fellow drivers holding a couple large cuts of red meat. One of them complained that a head of beef had fallen sick in the Berkshires as he started a fire in the oven while the others poked fun at him saying “There won’t be enough cattle to turn a profit when we get to Boston.” Then it was like a time lapse, the world sped along turning hours into seconds and I watched them laugh, eat, sleep. Then, in the morning, after they had gathered their things, they thanked the homeowners for their hospitality and gave them one of the smaller cattle that was less likely to survive the trip. I stood in a hypnotic state just staring, staring at the living history that unfolded before my eyes. BANG! I almost suffered a heart attack when my grandpa accidentally knocked over a box, sending its’ contents flying across the hard floor. I returned to reality with my heart about to beat out of my chest, but was it because I was startled, or because I just saw cowboys spend the night in my grandparents’ basement? What had seemed like six hours was actually closer to six seconds. Almost immediately the trance like state in which I had stood was broken, but I still felt it affects.

I would venture down to the basement many times. Once, my wandering eyes caught sight of an odd shadow in the corner of the basement. I walked over to find, at about waist height, a hole in the stonework that did not appear to end, but rather continued into the darkness. The house itself is on a slight hill and a few hundred yards away from the road. However, there are two ancient lights that flank the mouth of the driveway near the mailbox. As it turns out, these lights and this hole are connected in their origins. This time it was my grandmother who explained the hole and the lights by the road were a part of “The Underground Railroad.” When one of the two lights were lit, this signified that it was safe for the fugitives to enter the house; when both were lit, it was a warning that the area was dangerous. I got extremely excited at this revelation. I was tired of watching or reading history; I wanted to be a part of it. I quickly grabbed a flashlight as I ran down the stairs and dove head first into the darkness, which proved to be a poorly thought out move. I immediately became snarled in a mass of spider webs and struggle to remove them quickly in the confined space. I became free and turned on the flashlight to guide me through the stone labyrinth. The sound of my denim jeans scraping against ancient stone echoed eerily as I crawled on my hands and knees following the bouncing circle of light that showed me where I was headed. Not far in I came to a turn in the tunnel and if my bearings were correct, this turn meant that I was directly under the kitchen sink. I continued and a few yards after the turn was a wall. The tunnel went straight up, but the stones in wall on one side had been cut to provide hand and foot holds to climb. I placed the light in my mouth and after a few sweaty feet of climbing I got to the top, but there was stone there too. I was puzzled, how can this be? There should be a way to get out. I stopped for a moment and realized there was the faintest movement of air in the tunnel. I put my hand against the top edges of the stone square and felt a gentle puff of air. Some unknown force in my head made mush on one corner of the ceiling and it immediately gave way to reveal a blinding light. I reached the top and when my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that the “ceiling” had been a large cement plant holder containing roses in the corner of the front garden. I turned and realized that the tunnel truly had gone from the basement, under the dining room, turned under the kitchen, and ended in the garden. I had picked roses for my mother for Mother’s Day the year before and never knew that just a few feet below, there was a secret tunnel that helped escaping slaves reach freedom. I plopped down in the garden; grey from a lovely combination of dust and cobwebs and tired from the exhaustive experience I had just carried out. My grandmother immediately ran outside to berate me for getting my clothes so dirty and pushing over her roses, but I was still reeling from the adventure I had just moments before.

These small pieces of history had been looked over, forgotten, and neglected. Had my curiosity not gotten the better of me like it too often does, I might have just ignored these strange things and moved on with my life. However, I had the gall to ask a few questions and learned just how invaluable their house is. I am purely amazed that such history is under one roof and at my personal disposal. It takes just a few moments and a curious mind to turn a dull afternoon into an adventure.