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little procession.”
    R had assembled with the dozen or so other members of the official party in Clymer’s large second-floor office. These were the people who would speak or otherwise participate, either in the first event here at BFU or the second one at Christ Church Burial Ground. There were coffee, tea, and juices and trays of Danish, doughnuts, and low-fat muffins for everyone. It had the feel to R of a platform party robing at a college commencement.
    A major difference, of course, was the fact that only one person was the object of this attention. Wally was present in the form of a mug-sized “Benjamin Franklin” Wedgwood sugar bowl that was filled with his ashes.
    They were carried downstairs and out to the platform by Clara Hopkins for the ceremony.
    â€œIn keeping with the beliefs of the man we honor here today, we will open this service with a minute of silent prayer,” said Clymer, the master of ceremonies for the occasion. Neither Ben nor Wally were churchgoers or believers in much of anything religious, but since BFU had begun its life with the support of many important Quakers of Philadelphia, R and his fellow planners had deemed a Friends’ moment of silence an appropriate way to begin.
    A small group from the BFU band—in blue jeans and similar clothes rather than uniforms—blared out “Seventy-six Trombones” from Meredith Willson’s
The Music Man.
R could not recall ever having been present when Wally listened to any kind of music. Neither could anyone else on the planning committee. Somebody suggested playing a song from
1776
but R had quickly scotched that idea. So the Willson song was chosen, mostly in the hope that its Pied Piper effect would inspire mourners at the green to join the procession. The idea of trying to add some glass-made music to the band, in honor of Ben’s invention of the armonica, was scrubbed when neither suitable instruments nor players could be located.
    Only the participants on the platform had seats. The mourners below had to stand. This was done for space reasons—the green was small—and also to faciliate the seven-block march afterward to Christ Church Burial Ground.
    R could tell from their reactions that “Seventy-six Trombones” was not a well-known piece of music among the students. But there were several familiar BFU and professional historian faces—including that of Rebecca Lee, unfortunately, as well as those of John Gwinnett, Joe Hooper, and Sonya Lyman—out there in the crowd. He avoided eye contact with Rebecca, but he smiled and nodded at several others while the band played.
    Samantha had left a message at the hotel that she was not coming today because she could not risk letting “my Hancock work get cold.” It was just as well. R had to get to work immediately and intensely on those Eastville museum papers. There would be no time to play or even to make up once again with Samantha—if either party even wanted to. Goodbye, Samantha?
    Clymer had given the four speakers strict instructions to be brief, to speak three minutes or less. Remember, he said, that everybody out there has to stand, and we want everyone to hang in for the procession and the second event.
    Philadelphia Mayor George Rodney, the first speaker, immediately broke the rules. He talked for almost five minutes, barely mentioning Wally or Ben except to express the hope that the coming Franklin Tricentennial would bring millions of “fresh pilgrims to our mecca of U.S. and Benjamin Franklin history.” Then he went off on the need for Philadelphians to come together to fix their public schools. It was the mayor’s albatross and obsession.
    Tom Middleton, who spoke next, came in right at three minutes. He was a president emeritus of the university and the man who had brought Wally to BFU from Yale. They were never close friends but they had had a healthy, respectful relationship that helped them survive