The New York City Fire Museum is in a century-old firehouse on Spring Street. Inside, there is some supremely handsome machinery: hand pumpers, steam pumpers with their heroic nickeled boilers, early internal-combustion-powered trucks whose squared-off snouts look part toy-like, part martial. And, in a room next to them is a glass case filled with dusty rubbish. Here one can see fragments of what look like plumbing fixtures, a garden trowel, broken this and rusty that. All of it is deeply, wrenchingly fascinating, because this is detritus from the World Trade Center. The trowel was used to sift through the wreckage; a riveted triangular piece of metal is a flake of skin from one of the airplanes.

What makes this miscellany hypnotic is authenticity. The piece of airplane isn’t representative of a typical airplane fragment; it is a fragment of one of the planes that brought down the towers.

When I saw this display recently, I’d just been reading William S. Pretzer’s story of the finding and preservation of the Montgomery, Alabama city bus that Rosa Parks was riding on December 1, 1955, when the driver told her to move to the back and she refused, and history began to turn on one of its massive, invisible pivots. What made me think of the bus while looking at the artifacts of a very different national turning point was that I recalled the protests when the Henry Ford Museum announced that it had acquired the bus at a cost 856 times what the previous owner had paid. A typical response: “You pay $400,000 for a crappy old bus that ‘might’ be the Rosa Parks bus—who cares?”

Henry Ford would have cared. The museum he founded everywhere reflects his deep interest in the physical connection between an object and its history. When he moved Thomas Edison’s laboratory from Menlo Park, New Jersey to his Greenfield Village outside Detroit, he made sure to bring a trainload of the soil the lab had stood on. And, when the modest frame house that Wilbur and Orville Wright grew up in came from Dayton, Ohio, Ford had the concrete knocked out from between the foundation stones and reground to bind those same stones together in Michigan.

There is a literal-mindedness about this that somehow approaches the mystical. It’s a kind of totemism, I suppose; if so, it’s one I certainly understand. When I was little and asked my father about ghosts, he told me, “I don’t believe in them, but they scare me.” I don’t believe that the spirit of a human moment can actually adhere to a relic of that moment. But the relic moves me nonetheless.

Which would you rather visit: a courthouse where Abraham Lincoln argued cases or a courthouse similar to ones in which he argued? (You can see that in Ford’s endlessly amazing village too. I mean, of course, the actual courthouse.)

I’m glad for several reasons that what I’m still having trouble calling “the Henry Ford” (a recent