When my nephew married in a little town outside of Philadelphia a few years ago, a large number of my large family gathered for the event, and then invaded the city itself.

Like true patriots, we went down to Independence National Historical Park, endured the now-requisite national security shakedown – emptying our pockets and removing our belts for Uncle Sam – and then passed without great irony into the presence of the Liberty Bell.

There the overly enthusiastic park ranger asked, in ringing tones, “What does this bell stand for?” and my nephew’s 10-year-old step-daughter shouted back, in equally enthusiastic abandon, “Freedom!” If the ghost of John Hancock was hanging around – one easily imagines famous ghosts in this city park – he surely realized he had found a voice big enough to match his prominent penmanship. Everyone else around us just chuckled.

I suppose it was partly because we were there a few days before the Fourth of July, but this was about as crowded a park as I’ve seen. A lot of the experience involved standing in line, queuing up (a rather British habit, that) and waiting your turn, but eventually we were ushered across the street and into the sacred space of Independence Hall itself.

Call me shallow, but my principal thought was, “Who did these walls?” They were painted a lusterless iron blue, but because they are the only authentic thing left in the place where the Declaration of Independence was debated (the furnishings are reproductions and/or replacements), I figured they were worthy of my consideration.

“Is this the original color?” I wondered. “Is this what they call Federal Blue?”

“Any questions?” the park ranger asked after he’d delivered his little history lesson, but I held my tongue. After visiting one of the most famous rooms in the world, where such momentous problems were hashed out at such great personal and philosophical risk, one should have a better query than, “What did Ben Franklin think about the color scheme?”

Outside again, the kids went off on a carriage ride and I did the kind of casual strolling that I often most enjoy at these historic places. Because I usually eschew tour guides, I don’t always know what I’m looking at, though I’ll read a sign if one is offered. Anyway, the fun is in imagining that I am walking in the footsteps of those spirits who came before me. Squinting – both my eyes and my mind – I went back and believed that this or that silhouette, at least, is what Jefferson glimpsed or Washington knew.

The park spreads out across several blocks around Independence Hall, and I eventually stumbled across Franklin’s grave. It was strewn with pennies, though I’m not sure why. If the gesture was supposed to be a tribute, I’d like to remind my fellow citizens that the statesman’s face is on the hundred dollar bill, not the penny, so the grave should have been strewn with C-notes. On the other hand, frugal old Franklin would have frowned on folks throwing pennies away, let alone 10,000 times that amount.

And still there was a fence around the site, just in case someone decided to take the liberty of snatching up what others had tossed aside. There’s philosophy in that, I’m sure, and it’s probably why the ghost of Franklin, standing next to me, was wearing his famously wry smile.