Why no one had a better summer than this Betsy Ross reenactor

Her loose silver locks, twinkling blue eyes, and jovial smile have surely met your gaze at least one time this summer. You may have seen her likeness plastered to the side of a bus, on a billboard outside the Fashion District in Center City, or, if you’ve been lucky, you’ve seen all 4-foot-9 of her in person.

Carol Spacht, 70, has played Betsy Ross in the Philadelphia area for more than 30 years, but she’s never had a summer like this — one hosting rock concerts, strutting down red carpets with star athletes, and firing T-shirts into the sky from cannons.

Betsy’s packed summer started with a kooky idea by tourism executives and representatives from some of the marquee events. To make the 250th summer really pop, Visit PA, the state’s tourism bureau, needed to stamp each summer event with something uniquely Pennsylvania. So it called upon Spacht as Betsy and Bill Robling, as Ben Franklin, as well as other recognizable Pennsylvania characters to become the state’s summer “playmakers” — essentially, hype men (and women) to appear at each big event.

Along the way, Betsy/Carol explored new cities, tried new sports, conquered some fears, and even kindled a brief but unforgettable summer romance.

Turns out that, even after more than 250 years, there are still plenty of new experiences to pursue.

Since Betsy/Carol had a summer like no other, The Inquirer asked the Philadelphia celebrity to tell us about her top moments as the face of the United States’ 250th birthday celebration in Pennsylvania.

Where does Betsy end and Carol begin? After 30-plus years, even she couldn’t quite tell you anymore.

It began with a lighthearted scuffle at an event they called the NFL Draft at Acrisure Stadium in Pittsburgh. On the concrete banks surrounding the field, on which the men in elaborate frocks romp and tumble, I found myself engaged in heated discourse with a man who calls himself Pittsburgh Dad.

He seemed to think that only experiences in Pittsburgh were civilized.

“You put Cheez Whiz on hoagies!” Pittsburgh Dad mocked. “I’d be happy to introduce you to a Primanti’s sandwich.”

This was my first jaunt to Pittsburgh, but Dr. Franklin and I entirely disagreed with him. We explained that Philadelphia had much higher civilization. The cheese and steak combination is a wondrous one!

But, resolved to maintain an open mind, Dr. Franklin and I ventured out that eve to Primanti Brothers to indulge.

The establishment bore an aroma not dissimilar to the scent of the rations the British offered my second and third husbands in prison. Perhaps some of these provisions were past their prime.

Nevertheless, I unwrapped my meal, beef twixt bread, without prejudice. I was dismayed to find the contents pouring out all over. I was certain these victuals wouldn’t fit evenly in my mouth. Nevertheless, I attempted a bite.

Immediately, I noticed the meat was covered in small sticks of potato that appeared to have been fried. The meal tasted of nothing, save wet potato and grease — simply vile.

I must speak plainly, I am decidedly no yinzer, as the Pittsburgh folk call themselves. I believe I’ll abide by cheesesteaks as my provision of choice forevermore.

Weeks later, I ventured to Hershey, Pa. That eve, Joan Jett and the Avett Brothers would perform splendidly at Hersheypark for the America 250 PA Commonwealth Concert Series. ‘Twas a most delightful occasion and the venue smelled of chocolate! Delectable!

But my day’s peak came about hours prior, around midday, when I met a young woman named Cat Janisko. Together we were meant to capture moving portraits of ourselves enjoying the park for, as she explained to me, content for the Instagram. I had never traversed this village known as the Instagram, but being a woman of faith and deferential to my younger counterparts on these matters, I followed Ms. Janisko’s lead.

She wished to journey toward an enormous steel contrivance she called a roller coaster. I instantly bristled in apprehension.

When I looked to the top of it I glanced the fastest carriage I’d ever seen. It had no top, no horses and twirled along iron rungs. It seemed to defy all gravity. That bewigged fellow from England, Sir Isaac Newton, would have surely been confounded at the sight of it.

“No. no. no,” I stated plainly.

I felt deeply elderly in that moment.

But then I spotted a procession of rather immobile horses encircling a festooned pole. ‘Twas known as a carousel, I learned. That seemed fitting, and so we embarked.

It had been centuries since I’d last mounted a steed, so my approach was less than dignified, but Ms. Janisko kindly offered a hand and together we rode, laughed, held a hearty discourse, and took pleasure in our budding fellowship.

Upon my return to Pittsburgh, I was advised to make for a promontory of sorts at a fork in the Ohio River — the yinzers called it Point State Park. That eve the rain was coming down with much force.

A company of musicians known as Third Eye Blind and a gentleman of song by the title of Nelly were meant to entertain the patriots that eve, the final performance in the America 250 PA Commonwealth Concert Series. I was tasked with introducing the fine performers.

I knew not of these songsters save that Mr. Nelly often remarked on being duly overheated in his jolly ditty “Hot in Herre.”

I stepped upon the stage and was rightly engulfed in lights of red and blue. I had no notion candles could shine in such hues.

Upon scaling the stage and taking my position in the center, I unfurled my small blue writing book and addressed the crowd.

“Tonight, I have been given the honor to help to celebrate the legacy of the country right here in Pittsburgh,” I bellowed, concluding with a rowdy “Huzzah!”

Being this was the last performance of the series, I beseeched the audience to “give me another huzzah!”

They obliged most graciously.

Back in my homestead of Philadelphia, I was presented with a most pleasing opportunity to fire a weapon from the grounds of Citizens Bank Park after the Philadelphia Phillies rightfully bested the Pittsburgh Pirates.

Mere moments before Dr. Franklin and I were meant to take the field, we were handed each a weapon and asked to engage in a few practice shots.

In my prime, I fashioned many a musket cartridge for our fine patriot men on the battlefields of the Revolutionary War. But this munition was decidedly softer and likely to inflict far fewer casualties.

The infantrymen with the Philadelphia Phillies presented me the cannon, but feared the “kickback” would be too much for my slight frame, they said. Pish posh, I decreed. After more than 250 years, I am rather sturdy.

I grasped the barrel of the weapon, drew a lever to pressurize the chamber, and pulled the trigger. The ammunition shot to the wall.

“Wow!” I exclaimed.

Not even a needle and thread could be so tantalizing.

I took to one corner of the field, Dr. Franklin to another, and Phil and Phillis, the Philadelphia Phillies’ homegrown militia members, took to the other corners.

I aimed my weapon high, but my munitions only reached the stadium’s second tier. Dr. Franklin reached the third but kindly refrained from boasting.

Soon after this, I again encountered Phil and Phillis, the Phillies’ twin mascots. I confided in the pair that my munitions only traveled to the second tier. They kindly shared a coveted privity. The longer a marksman pressurizes the chamber, the higher the munitions travel. To return the kindness, I gave the pair a few pointers on their curtseys.

That same eve, I delighted in another new venture that I’d long awaited. Dr. Franklin and I were asked to dance beside the Phillie Phanatic on a section of the battlefield they call the dugout.

The Phillies infantrymen escorted Dr. Franklin and me through a tunnel and onto the field. We took our stations on either side of the Phanatic as a ditty known as “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.” by the fellow John Mellencamp graced our ears.

Suddenly, the Phanatic was holding some sort of large blue fiddle and strumming its strings. He handed it to Dr. Franklin who tried to play it with his teeth. It seemed to me most insensitive of him to boast a full set of teeth when our esteemed George Washington had so few, but I digress.

Soon, the Phanatic handed me the fiddle. I tried to play it rightly but found the instrument rather cumbersome, so I stood it upright and spun it round. It was nearly as tall as I am!

“Go Betsy,” a kind fellow in the audience hollered.

I pray no one informed the meeting of my transgression — Quakers aren’t meant to dance — but, oh, ‘twas such a delight!

During a series of events in Philadelphia that I’m told was called MLB All-Star Week — something regarding a stick and a ball — ‘tis of no consequence to me — I chanced upon a few young ladies, each one clutching the ends of two ropes.

I approached the fine young women from Philly Girls Jump, a group whose effort is to spark kinship among girls through sport.

“May I please try,” I inquired.

Upon my first attempt at this game they called “double Dutch” I stepped into the turning ropes and immediately became entangled. Pity. ’Twas quite unbecoming.

But one of the young patriots came to my aid.

“Dear Betsy,” the woman whispered. “Just jump in a steady rhythm. Don’t do anything else. We will do the rest.”

So I gathered up my petticoats, draped my flag over my arm, and attempted anew.

I leaped and leaped and the ropes flew under me, around me, and on top of me. ‘Twas most joyous an excursion.

Feeling venturesome, I endeavored to hop in a circle as the ropes turned. Most emboldened, I hopped clockwise, and then counterclockwise.

A marvelous little pastime it was!

The infantrymen of the Philadelphia Phillies invoked a new task for me amid MLB All-Star Week. They inquired about my interest in singing.

I am no songstress and have deftly avoided the activity. But I was told this style of singing, known as karaoke, would involve another voice and so I felt quite less vexed by the task.

Imagine my dismay when, during a practice, the man they called a disc jockey played me my song, “Philadelphia Freedom” by the lovely bespectacled gentleman Elton John, and all I heard was rhythmic cacophony, no second voice at all.

I feared this would prove the most disastrous of calamities.

To my horror, I soon learned this would not just be a singing performance but a singing competition among some performers, athletes, and myself.

As the penultimate competitor, I steeled myself, graced the stage outside Citizens Bank Park with feigned dignity and self-assurance and addressed the spectators of the MLB All-Star Fan Zone.

“Friends, my skill shall be with sewing. My skill is not with singing,” and so I beseeched: “Everyone must sing along.”

To my sheer delight, I soon discovered they were just as unlearned of singers as I! But we muddled through joyfully.

Next, a rather large gentleman named Jordan Mailata took the stage. I’m told he tumbles and romps in strange frocks in that game of football for the Philadelphia Eagles. He sang a ditty called “Eye of the Tiger” by a musical group known as Survivor.

He performed most wondrously. (Only a few years ago, Mr. Mailata competed on a visual program known as The Masked Singer, broadcast through all 13 colonies and beyond! How marvelous!)

Certainly, ‘twas no shock that he bested the competition, including myself, and was bestowed with the winning award.

But, as soon as he grasped the crystal trophy, he gazed upon my likeness.

“I’m actually going to give this to Ms. Betsy Ross because she did something incredibly brave,” he told the crowd.

My heart warmed! Even in the depths of war, kindness does persist.

Following that triumphant turnaround on the karaoke stage, Mr. Mailata and I ventured elsewhere in the fan zone to greet some young colonists who fancy the ball and stick game.

Before the young patriots could flank Mr. Mailata, I approached him.

I was eager to refresh him of the fact we’d encountered each other once before.

When Mr. Mailata was a fresh Eagle years ago, I made a right blunder when I met him and called him a giant due to his stature. He firmly corrected me that he is no giant, he is an Eagle.

His eyes lit up as I recounted the tale. We smiled and laughed and shared a warm embrace.

‘Twas a fleeting dalliance but one I shant soon forget!

On the verdant, dewy ground of Independence Mall, I was requested to participate in a celebration of this stick and ball game.

A red carpet would stretch much yardage across the grounds and all the most skilled sportsmen would walk down. Before they went, I’d be permitted to journey down the carpet myself alongside a wild collection of enormous creatures known as mascots.

I strolled the carpet bearing a flag alongside a lovely young woman named Mo’ne Davis, who also plays the ball and stick game — how marvelous that women may partake!

We carried our flags side by side and were followed by the most outlandish collection of drummers, musicians, and acrobats bending their limbs every which way! Would it be awfully vain to say I felt like a right monarch?

I had a chance to meet all the unusual creatures, many of whom were eager to show me their stars and stripes frocks. Mr. and Mrs. Met, clad in many a spangle, requested a portrait with me, as did Raymond of the Tampa Bay Ray and Rosie Red of Cincinnati, another woman in this sporting field. Women really can do anything these days! How remarkable!

It was quite spectacular to have all eyes on me for a brief moment. I may have eluded many a history book, never having documented my greatest achievement, leaving historians to quibble for centuries, but I was pleased to find that it truly is never too late for a second act.