Ground departure from Philadelphia International Airport offers such standard choices as cabs, rail transit, private vehicles, rent cars, limousines, and helicopter. Interstate 95 going north and south moves motorists into the flow of traffic at rates of speed from a near standstill to 80 miles per hour, depending on the time of day. Trains whisk the more prudent and patient passengers into the city some 20 miles away in 45 minutes. The minute minority riding helicopters and limousines look so far removed from the rest of us, they probably float into town among fluffy clouds to gently alight at their doorsteps.

It took me about an hour to make up my mind how to depart after landing there three weeks ago. The time change from Central to Eastern is one deterrent to making a decision. The other is waking up in the provincial peace of Mertzon next door to Jimmy Harkey's rooster crowing to disembark six hours later in mobs of humanity bounding up concourses, wheels screaming on roller-board suitcases in a race against time that'd overmatch a timekeeper for an Olympic meet.

Airport facilities have undergone extensive changes. All the food services and shops were concentrated between B and C terminals instead of being in the central area. The biggest improvement, however, was a long line of white cane-bottomed rocking chairs all down one side of the terminal, reaching into enclaves overlooking the runway.

Mothers packing babies should have been the principal patrons of the rockers, and a few chairs were occupied by members of the diaper and junior league set. However, to my surprise, the so-called "road warriors," the businessmen just seen striding off the plane, intent on cell phone conversations, sat rocking quietly, retired to the sidelines, expense accounts on hold, indifferent to briefcases or telephones.

Watching this strange scene made my eyes mist. "Somebody like President Jimmy Carter must have inspired putting rocking chairs in terminals," I thought. "Mr. Carter believes in peace and decency. It's bound to be Ol' Jim's influence, as the rest of our leaders leaned more toward battleships and bombers than they did rocking chairs and relaxing."

Philadelphia was our nation's capital for the last decade of the 18th century. Two hundred years apparently are enough time to recover from the event, as I am nearly sure the city is called "The City of Brotherly Love." The reason for the uncertainty is that on the train into town a brother swiped another brother deep into his short ribs boarding the car with his umbrella tip. Had the sister acting as conductor not wedged her 200 pounds between them, all symptoms of brotherhood would have dissolved into a fight.

(Mertzon's new motto is "Bountiful Bermuda," named after our abundant weekend yard sales. In mid-July, Mertzon held 45 yard sales on a Saturday, or one sale for every 17 persons in town.)

My reservations were at the Thomas Bond house on Walnut Street in the historic district. The four-story colonial brick building was the home of Doctor Bond in 1769. He helped found the first hospital in the Americas. Must have had a big family, as eight of the 12 bedrooms were named for his children.

Mine was the Thomas Bond Jr. quarters, furnished with a big four-poster bed and heated by a marble framed fireplace converted to natural gas. Floor to ceiling bookshelves took up all one side of the fireplace. A quick audit of the books favored condensed Reader's Digest volumes 10 to one over selections going back to the 19th century. Next to the shelves facing the wall was a handsome cherrywood desk supplied with stationery and postcards. The dark wood gleamed and the gold-plated hardware completed the opulent scheme.

My imagination focused on the fake logs glowing in the fireplace. Dr. Bond was a friend of Benjamin Franklin. The brochure on the coffee table linked him to the cause for independence in 1776. As private as second floors are, I visualized Mr. Franklin and the Doctor discussing politics. The politics of rebellion and honor, not the TV stuff we have to bear up under today. If the latest biography published on Benjamin Franklin is true, they might have discussed fast buggy horses, or a few other odds and ends, like the new barmaid at the City Tavern. Keep in mind, however, this is all my supposition, so don't go blabbing it around that our founding fathers were human.

Going to dinner was the big event of the day. A driving rain turned my rain jacket into a funnel to turn water down my waistline. I loved being wet for the first time in months. Rain dripped off my nose and fogged my glasses. Once served, I sat for a long time looking through the window over coffee, watching drops splatter on the sidewalk ...

October 26, 2000