pump

I remember the first time I went to Harvard, and it was by subway (locally known as the T).  The recorded voice called out the stations along the Red Line from South Station: “Downtown Crossing” where the doors open on both sides. “Park Street”, the first subway station in the US. “The next stop is: Charles/Massachusetts General Hospital.”  Suddenly we were above ground, the Charles River in view, the cupolas of Harvard's houses and schools distantly visible above the trees: we were about to cross into Cambridge, and behind, the wonderful hill over the bay that is Boston, the intellectual bastion of America, bulwark of our revolution, nursery of our best ideas.  Back underground.  “We have arrived at: Kendall/MIT.”  Closer.  “We have arrived at: Central.  The next stop is: Harvard Square.”  What a rush!  We pass the ghost station, the old Harvard station, now sealed shut, its platforms still dimly visible through the windows, then a screech as we turn a sharp corner, and the great cavern, all 1970s civic architecture, of the current Harvard Station.  The doors open, we pour out, I exit up the steps marked “To Harvard Yard.”  And there, one of the great iron gates, its inscription: “Enter To Grow In Wisdom.”  Through that gate, I could see the old Yard’s well and pump, its wooden handle there to grab and work up and down, to feel that I was there and that this Harvard, this great well, its centuries-old pump still working, was mine.  That is how Harvard greeted me.