Once the alarm rang and my companions got packed for the day, Vicki headed to the lobby of the Hyatt Place hotel in Poughkeepsie for some breakfast. But it was Sunday July 12, 2020 and due to the COVID-19 pandemic, the normal hotel breakfasts were reduced to a cold pre-packaged muffin and a wrapped piece of fruit. I thought for sure that my photographer’s wife would return with a container of cottage cheese in her hand, which would’ve been ironic as we were about to embark on a 14-mile drive to Franklin D. Roosevelt’s retirement home known as Top Cottage. Instead, she settled for a banana walnut muffin that was likely baked before the virus made its way from China.
With Vicki behind the wheel of our Ford Edge, we began our trek north just after 7:30am. From an opening in the camera case, I noticed that once we made it through Poughkeepsie, the landscape became very scenic. Hills and trees were abundant; but not quite like they were near Top Cottage. When we arrived at the site, there was a chain across the entrance, and we saw a sign that stated ‘Authorized Vehicles Only’; but that sign didn’t mention anything about pedestrians. Once Vicki had our vehicle safely parked off to the side of the road, which seemed a bit soft due to the overnight rain, the three of us headed onto FDR’s property that he bought in 1937. One of the fascinating facts about the property was its location – it was roughly five miles due east of FDR’s home ‘Springwood’ and the cottage stood atop a 500-foot ridge known locally as Dutchess Hill where Roosevelt played as a young child. In my resin-filled mind, I imagined that if I built a getaway or retirement home, it would be further away than only five miles from my regular house.
The early morning stillness was serene; the chirps of a few birds broke the deafening silence. As the gray fieldstone building came into view, it was evident that the three of us were the only ones there. Under normal conditions there would be workers preparing the cottage for the daily throng of tourists, but the ‘bug’ had kept Top Cottage closed to visitors for the near future.
Top Cottage was built during FDR’s second term, and he designed it as a retirement home to accommodate his need for wheelchair accessibility. As a matter of fact, Roosevelt was the only sitting President to design his own home besides Jefferson. But an unprecedented third term put a kink into FDR’s retirement plans and his death early into his fourth term kept him from retiring. As a matter of fact, Franklin never spent a night in his cottage. He did, however, hosts guests at his place – including a hot dog cookout for King George VI and Queen Elizabeth in 1939. During World War II, Winston Churchill visited FDR at Top Cottage where they discussed the atomic bomb. Tom carried me all around the handsome, yet simple, cottage and photographed me at a handful of locations. The highlight of my personal tour was when my photographer placed me in the precise spot where FDR was photographed sitting in his wheelchair in February 1941. That was the only time that Roosevelt ever posed for a published photo seated in his wheelchair.
Even though our stay at Top Cottage lasted a little over 30 minutes, there wasn’t a single moment that my thoughts weren’t centered on Franklin Roosevelt or his best friend Fala. I was sad when Tom carried me back to the Edge, but I knew in my heart that we were lucky that we had the place to ourselves. My photographer and I were able to take our time with our photos and I could pose anywhere without the fear that someone would walk into our images. “The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself – and someone walking into our photos.”
At roughly 9:00am, Vicki drove our SUV north out of the Hyde Park area. For over 50 miles we followed Highway 9 until we arrived at the sleepy village of Kinderhook, which in the Dutch settler’s native language meant “Children’s Corner”. But we didn’t make the stop in Kinderhook to see a bunch of kids. Instead, we came once again to pay our respects to President Martin Van Buren, whose body laid buried in Kinderhook Cemetery that was located just a couple of miles northwest of town. During our first visit to the cemetery three years earlier, we endured a heavy rainstorm as we walked into the graveyard. And although it was overcast for our return tour of Kinderhook, my companions believed the rain would hold off during our entire stay.
My photographer’s wife parked the Edge along the road next to the cemetery. From an opening in the camera case, I could easily see the 15-foot tall granite obelisk that marked the grave of Van Buren. After Tom had carried me the short distance to MVB’s tomb, he placed me onto the obelisk for a handful of posed images. As I stood there thinking about our eighth President, I thought I heard a voice quietly say something in a foreign language. Was it Dutch? Perhaps – after all, Dutch was Martin Van Buren’s primary language. The man’s voice said: “Sta niet op mijn graf, idioot.” I had no idea what that meant until Tom used his phone as a translator, which was when my photographer discovered the voice had uttered the words: “Don’t stand on my grave, you moron.”
Three years and four days had passed since I last stood on Martin Van Buren’s gravesite in Kinderhook Cemetery. Even though I had been there before, in my mind it still seemed like the very first time – and trust me, I never grow tired of visiting Presidential gravesites.
As lunchtime neared for my two companions, Tom and Vicki decided to venture back into town and purchase their lunch from a place they had dined at before. The small sandwich shop was called Broad Street Bagel Co. and it was located less than a mile from the cemetery. Once we were there, it appeared the place was busy as we were forced to park down the street and walk back to the eatery. Although everyone in the bagel place sported face coverings, there was no way that my companions planned on eating inside. Instead, Tom suggested that they take their meal to Van Buren’s home ‘Lindenwald’ and eat at the same picnic table they used in 2017.
With Tom’s Super BLT Sandwich and Vicki’s ‘OK’ Club Sandwich safely stored in a paper bag, the three of us made the 2.7-mile journey to Martin Van Buren’s beloved home. When we arrived at the historic site, my photographer and Vicki were disappointed that the picnic table was gone. As a matter of fact, everything on the property had been closed due to the pandemic and we were the only ones in the parking lot, which was where my photographer and his wife ate lunch. After Tom devoured his BLT, he carried me along Old Post Road where he captured an image of the President’s house that was framed by one of the American linden trees that lined the front of the property. From there, he brought me closer to Lindenwald where I posed for a few images. It seemed strange that we had the place to ourselves; I had wished that we could’ve been left alone inside the house as well. Only one thought popped into my head during our time in front of Lindenwald – I envisioned myself standing on Van Buren’s toilet seat like I had done in 2017.
At roughly 12:15pm, we continued our journey north – our goal was to find a place to stay near Sarasota Springs, New York which would put us in the ideal location for our scheduled early morning tour of Grant’s Cottage. During the 50-mile drive, Tom and Vicki looked for antique shops to visit, but those shops seemed few and far between; at least on the route we took. When we got close to our destination, my photographer’s wife found a good rate at the Fairfield Inn near the city of Malta; which was roughly seven miles south of Saratoga Springs. We were in our room by 2:00pm; which was perfect timing for my companions to watch the Quaker State 400 that was raced at Kentucky Speedway.
After Cole Custer took the checkered flag in Kentucky, my photographer and his wife grabbed a couple of Famous Bowls at KFC and brought them back to the room. Tom spent the remainder of the evening working on his NASCAR fantasy league statistics while Vicki relaxed with her phone. From my usual place near the television set, I couldn’t think of anything else but Ulysses S. Grant and the cottage where he died. I knew that my photographer had paid $100 for a private VIP tour of the cottage for the three of us and I hoped that it was money well spent. My personal goal was to stand on Grant’s deathbed, and I was confident that Tom would make that happen.
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It was Monday July 13, 2020 and the alarm on Tom’s phone rang at 6:00am. The weather was ideal – partly cloudy and no chance of rain. My photographer and his wife had the Edge packed and ready to go by 8:00am. Not wanting to be late, Tom had us on the road ten minutes later. With Vicki behind the wheel of our SUV, and me tucked away safely in my camera case on the back seat, we made the 20-mile journey to Mount McGregor in about a half-hour. Once we had arrived at the small building meant to be a “guard shack”, we waited near the closed entrance gate for our tour guide.
At precisely 9:00am, our tour guide Ben Kemp arrived. But Ben wasn’t just an ordinary tour guide – he’s the Operations Manager for Grant’s Cottage and perhaps one of the nation’s leading experts on Ulysses S. Grant. Before he would open the gate, however, Tom had to answer a handful of COVID questions; each of which had the potential of squashing our tour before it began. Since there were no red flags, even though we had a California license plate on our rented Edge, Ben led us up the mountain to the Visitor Center and Gift Shop. Inside that building, my companions watched a short video documentary about Grant’s Cottage; all the while I stood inside the camera case and worried that our touring time of an hour was wasting away. Following the video, Kemp took us for a walk along a pathway that went through a wooded area. As soon as we got to the clearing, Tom carefully removed me from the camera case for our first photos of the day; but he quickly realized that something was seriously wrong. “Oh my God, no! Jefferson’s arm his gone!” Somehow my right arm broke off and it remained in the bottom of the camera case. With no time to waste and with his surgical kit stowed away in the vehicle, Tom had no choice but to capture all of the images of me sans my right arm. In my mind it was ironic because a day or two earlier I thought to myself that I would give my right arm to stand on Grant’s deathbed – that wish just might come true in a half hour. Once my photographer got over the shock of me without an arm, he held me near the monument where I had a great view of the Hudson Valley below. On July 20, 1885, President Grant had that same view when he was transported via a bath wagon from the cottage to a gazebo where the monument now stood. There, he enjoyed his last view of the valley; three days later, Grant died inside the cottage.
While the view that Grant had from Mount McGregor was spectacular, he couldn’t fully enjoy the splendor; he was in severe pain and dying from throat cancer. As I gazed out at the Hudson Valley from the same spot that Grant once stood, I empathized with the President – it was as though I could feel his pain. While there was no way that I could compare his cancer to my missing right arm, I found it ironic that the two of us had health problems while standing near the same spot. Although Gorilla Glue would no doubt cure my dilemma in the next day or two, Grant died just three days after he took his final view of the valley.
Once again led by Ben, the four of us retraced our path out of the wooded area and towards the building that we had travelled to see – The Grant Cottage. Built in 1872 and owned by NYC banker Joseph William Drexel, the dying former President accepted an offer from his friend to stay at his cottage and finish the memoirs that he had begun to write. Ulysses and his family moved out of New York City and into Drexel’s Adirondack Mountain cottage on June 16, 1885. With inspiration from his friend Mark Twain, Grant spent the final six weeks of his life working on his life story. At 8:08am on July 23, 1885, President Ulysses S. Grant lost his final battle. It wasn’t from foreign enemies engaged on the battlefield, but it was instead from the throat cancer that cut him down in the prime of his life in that cottage.
After I posed for a few photos in front of the burnt yellow building, Tom placed me onto a couple of key locations on the porch; places that Grant had been photographed in the final days of his life. The highlight for me was when I stood on a chair where Grant had sat as he read a newspaper just three days before he died. Although that chair wasn’t the authentic one used by Grant (the real chair was on display inside), I was mesmerized as I replicated the historic image of our 18th President.
When Tom carried me through the door and into the cottage, it was as though we stepped back in time. The place was a true time capsule that was set to 1885, which was thanks to Joseph Drexel who had left all the furnishings intact because he recognized the importance of his historic cabin after Grant died there. During our tour of the cottage’s interior, Ben verbally painted a portrait of what the six weeks were like when the Grant family stayed there. Our tour of the cottage began in a back room that was first used as Julia Grant’s bedroom. Julia moved to an upstairs bedroom where she had more privacy and that back room was turned into the place where Grant’s manuscript was edited for spelling and grammar issues by his sons and a stenographer. That was quite an undertaking as his book was about 1,200 pages long and contained around 300,000 words; and there was no ‘Spell Check’ in 1885.
After Ben led us through a doorway into President Grant’s bedroom, the first thing that caught my eye was there was no bed. Instead, there were two chairs positioned together face-to-face where Grant slept sitting upright to avoid choking. I posed alongside a cabinet that was filled with clothing and other items used by Grant during his stay, including a large bottle of cocaine water that was used to help alleviate his pain from the cancer.
While the President’s bedroom was cool, Ben Kemp saved the best for last; and it was a place that I had thought about for a long time – the parlor where Ulysses S. Grant had died. In his final days of his life, the President’s family placed Ulysses in a bed in the parlor where they hoped he would be more comfortable and where he could see people who had come to visit him. At precisely 8:08am on July 23, 1885, Ulysses S. Grant died at the age of 63 in the very bed that I stood next to in the parlor. At that moment, Frederick Dent Grant walked over to the fireplace mantel and stopped the clock at that exact time – the clock’s hands have never moved since. I itched to stand on that bed; after all, I had stood on the deathbeds of a handful of Presidents, including FDR just the previous year. But when Tom asked Ben for permission to carefully place me onto the bed for a photo, the Operations Manager was hesitant. He said the best he could do was hold me near the foot of the bed where my photographer could capture the image. While Kemp’s idea worked out okay, it wasn’t the same as standing there; and I was truly disappointed – even though I somewhat understood Ben’s trepidation. I was so close, yet so far away. As our tour guide carefully held me over the end of the bed, it was as though I could see Grant lying there beneath the portrait of Abraham Lincoln that hung on the wall. When the President died, America lost a hero who stood tall for those who couldn’t.
Located against the opposite wall from the bed was the historic wicker chair that Grant was photographed sitting in as he relaxed on the porch. For some reason, likely due to fear of rejection, Tom didn’t ask Ben for permission to set me on that chair. While my photographer could have snuck me onto the relic for a quick picture, he didn’t – and I believe it was out of pure respect for Ben Kemp. After I posed next to the historic piece of furniture, Ben led us to the cottage’s dining room; a room that turned out to be eerie – at least in my mind. When the manager turned on that room’s lights, we saw the huge floral displays that were in the home during the President’s funeral on August 4, 1885. It was hard to believe, but those flower arrangements have stood the test of time; they’ve remained in the cottage as a symbol of respect for Ulysses S. Grant for the past 135 years.
Finished inside, we returned to the porch where Ben concluded his oration about the history of the cottage. During that time, Tom took additional images of me standing where the Grant’s had posed for a family photo. Our tour of the U.S. Grant Cottage State Historic Site officially ended at roughly 10:40am. What was slated to be an hour-long tour nearly doubled, but that was due to the passion that Ben Kemp exemplified; and maybe, just maybe, Kemp could sense my photographer’s zeal for the cottage as well. One thing that I will never forget was when Ben described Grant writing his memoirs – he said it was a “race against time”. As I envisioned Grant sitting on the porch as he jotted down notes for his book, a good feeling came over my resin-filled body. The President won that race and now he’s forever immortalized in time at the place where he spent his final days with his family – at peace with his life and with his death.
As we made our way back down Mount McGregor, I stood inside my padded camera case and thought about our tour of Grant’s Cottage. I’ve met a lot of tour guides during my seven years of travelling to Presidential sites and Ben Kemp stands out as one of the finest. He took his time, he had great stories, and it was obvious that his time at that cottage was more than just a job to Ben – it was a passion. Perhaps the only other tour guide that could rival Ben Kemp’s ardor was Andrew Phillips, the curator of the Woodrow Wilson birthplace in Staunton, Virginia. One thing that put Andrew just slightly ahead of Ben on my list, however, was Phillips had let me stand on some authentic historic artifacts; like the backseat of Wilson’s personal car and on the mattress in Woodrow’s baby crib. Perhaps if I ever return to Mount McGregor, Ben Kemp will let me stand on Grant’s bed.
Our next Presidential site of the day was 136 miles away in Northampton, Massachusetts and it took us nearly three hours to get there. Once we had arrived around 2:00pm, Vicki stayed in the parked car while Tom carried me to the front of a large, grey duplex located on Massasoit Street. The left side of the duplex turned out to be the rented home of President Calvin Coolidge and his wife Grace who lived in the quaint neighborhood from 1906 to 1930 during the height of Calvin’s political career. As a matter of fact, the Coolidge’s paid $40 per month rent and were tenants of the duplex when they lived in the White House. Tom held me as I posed for a handful of photos taken from the sidewalk, and at one point he set me down on the home’s walkway where we knew that Coolidge had walked many times. Once he had captured the “low hanging fruit” images, Tom thought about walking up onto the porch to place me where Coolidge once sat. Not only was there a ladder and buckets of paint in the same location, but the owner came out of the home as well to see what we were up to. I laughed to myself at that moment and thought: “That guy is wise to our antics – he seemed to sense that we were about to walk up onto his porch. Has he been reading Tom’s blog?”
During our short walk back to the Edge where Vicki waited for us, I thought the Coolidge home was unusual for a long-term Presidential residence. Calvin Coolidge did not own the home, and it was a duplex – it had to have been a nightmare for the Secret Service when he returned home from the White House. It was obvious that the Coolidge’s also felt uncomfortable with the lack of privacy as well. A little over a year later, they purchased a more-secluded home that was located only 1.6 miles from their duplex; which was where we were headed to next.
Calvin Coolidge purchased the home he called The Beeches for $45,000 and moved into their 16-room estate in May 1930. As Vicki drove the short distance across town to the private home, I figured that my photographer was a bit nervous; after all, he had planned on sneaking onto the property for his pictures and Mongo wasn’t with us. Once we were in the area, Tom had his wife park about a block away from the private drive that led to The Beeches. When my photographer left the vehicle, he said to Vicki: “If I get arrested, I’ll call you. Please come and bail me out.” She quickly replied: “You better not get arrested or you’ll be sitting in jail for awhile.”
From our parked Edge, my photographer carried me in his hand to the end of Hampton Terrace where we saw a sign that stated: “Stop – Private Way – The Beeches”. We went past that sign and up to the large stone and iron fence that protected the property; from there, I could see a portion of the large home through the trees. After Tom snapped an image of me as I stood on the barrier, I heard him say under his breath: “I wish Mongo was here – he could share a jail cell with me if we got arrested.” We slowly made our way to the open gate where at first Tom hesitated to go in. In my mind, it was “sh*t or get off the pot” time for my photographer. Tom methodically walked along the outer ring of the large circular driveway until we were directly in front of the house. Without hesitation, he quickly held me up and took a series of images; I was surprised that he took the time to put my mask on and take it back off for additional photos. During our time in front of the house, I thought about Calvin Coolidge as he spent the final three years of his life there. At the age of 60, the 30th President died at The Beeches of a heart attack on January 5, 1933.
Once Tom had successfully captured his images of The Beeches, his adrenaline must’ve kicked in – he wanted to get closer to the house. I was shocked, but happy at the same time. My photographer carried me around the driveway to an area right behind a red Volvo XC60 that was parked in front of the home. I couldn’t believe how close we were to the house where Coolidge died; it was as though I could almost touch it. During our entire stay, I listened intently for the blare of police sirens, but thankfully that never happened. Tom once again snapped a few images of me without my mask, and then he took the time to place the mask back around my head for additional photos. At the moment we finished the second round of our photos, I wondered if my photographer would roll the dice and walk around to the other side of the house; but he didn’t. In my mind, I think he wanted to wait for a return trip to The Beeches with Mongo where the two of them would no doubt push the limits together.
As we walked off The Beeches property and back to the Edge where Vicki patiently waited for us, I think both of us breathed a heavy sigh of relief. We had successfully pushed the limits without hurting or disturbing anyone; and luckily, the police never had to get involved. With the last Presidential site of the day behind us, the three of us headed further east to a place where the COVID-19 virus had impacted our plans the most. During our 2017 trip through New England, Tom and Vicki visited the Elephant’s Trunk Flea Market in New Milford, Connecticut where some of Lara Spencer’s TV show ‘Flea Market Flip’ was filmed. While foraging for treasures there, my companions heard countless people talk about a larger flea market that was located in Brimfield, Massachusetts and it was also featured on Lara’s show. In his original agenda, Tom had penciled-in two days that he and his wife would search for treasures in Brimfield; while at the same time, I would keep a resin eye out for the hot Lara Spencer. But when the virus didn’t go away by Easter, like President Trump had assured, the flea market was unfortunately cancelled. Since we were within 40 miles from Brimfield, Vicki suggested that we drive there anyway and look for area antique shops that were likely more abundant than toothless fans at a NASCAR race.
At roughly 3:15pm, we rolled into Brimfield; or at least what we thought was Brimfield. We stopped at a large barn that had the words ‘Brimfield Barn’ plastered across the front. That barn was a familiar place that we had seen on ‘Flea Market Flip’, but unfortunately it was closed. Vicki drove around the area for a while, but the only place that we found open was the Brimfield Antique Center where we spent about 45 minutes browsing through. Although my companions didn’t find anything to buy at the large shop, they heard the owner say that the pandemic had decimated the local economy. She also mentioned that there were more shops open further east towards Sturbridge; which was where we headed next.
Sturbridge turned out to be a “honey hole” for antique shops and we stayed in that area until 6:00pm when most of the shops closed. Even though it was getting late in the day, Tom wanted to get closer to Northborough before we settled on a place to spend the night. Vicki worked her magic and found a Courtyard by Marriott near Westborough that was well within our budget and not too far from our first stop in the morning. At roughly 7:00pm, Tom had placed me alongside the television set in the room while he and his wife brought back dinner from the nearby Wendy’s. It wasn’t fine cuisine, but it was close to the hotel and easy to take back to the room. While my companions ate, the three of us watched ‘American Pickers’ on the television.
When dinner was over, it was time for the surgery to repair my broken right arm. “Doctor” Tom brought out the “Bobble head medical kit” and he began the procedure by applying a bead of Gorilla Glue to the stump near my right shoulder. He carefully aligned my severed arm into place, wrapped it in gauze tape, and wedged me upside-down in between the pillows until the glue dried.
For two consecutive mornings our day began by visiting Presidential cottages in New York State – FDR’s Top Cottage near Hyde Park and Grant’s Cottage near Wilton. And on both days the three of us had the places to ourselves, which made me feel like the center of attention, in other words, the big cheese. I’d like to think of myself as an American Cheese type, but one might wonder if I hadn’t become more of a Cottage Cheese style bobble head in the past two days.
Two hours had gone by since my surgery; Tom placed me back alongside the television set as he assumed the glue that held my arm intact had dried. After the lights were extinguished at around 9:45pm, I thought about the fact that there we no Presidential sites on our docket the following day. But for once, that didn’t matter; only because my photographer had planned on kicking-off the morning with breakfast at Chet’s Diner in Northborough. And why was that so special? Was it once owned by Chester Arthur? Not at all, in fact, the diner was owned by Jessica Fidrych, the daughter of Tom’s all-time favorite Detroit Tigers player Mark Fidrych who had died on Thomas Jefferson’s birthday in 2009. My photographer had hoped to meet Jessica and talk about his memories of “The Bird” from 1976. That should prove to be a very interesting, and possibly emotional, breakfast.
