For most of Sunday morning July 26, 2020, I had some alone time in the friendly confines of my camera case. After a full week with Tom and Vicki’s grandkids, I surely wasn’t complaining; even though it seemed to take forever for us to complete the 230-mile drive to Raleigh. At roughly 1:00pm, we arrived at Mordecai Historical Park that was located about a mile north of the State Capitol Building. While Vicki stayed in the vehicle, my photographer carried me into the well-kempt park that reminded me of Dearborn’s Greenfield Village – only on a much smaller scale. After a short walk towards the back of the park, we arrived at a gray two-room building that was nestled among a small handful of other structures. When Tom carefully removed me from the camera case, I stood face-to-face with the original birthplace and boyhood home of President Andrew Johnson. While the small shack appeared to have been renovated and preserved quite well, I was stunned by the simple design of the Presidential birthplace. There were front and back doors and windows on the lower level, a window on the front and back on the second story, and a very small window on each end of the upper structure.
When Andrew Johnson was born in the small home on December 29, 1808, it stood at 123 Fayetteville Street in downtown Raleigh – which was down the street from the State Capitol Building. Over the next 212 years, the birthplace home of our 17th President had changed locations four times – ending up at Mordecai Historical Park in 1975. As I stood for photos on the window ledge, I laughed to myself when I thought about Andrew Johnson as he used that two-room house and his humble beginnings as a political asset. In other words, he wanted voters to relate to him because he was born poor, lived in a shack, and then worked hard to realize the American dream. But the fact was there were other Presidents who came into the world with less and had to work harder to make it to the top – so Johnson’s plight didn’t resonate with me. Even though I didn’t buy into Andrew Johnson’s political ploy, it was still cool to visit the actual building he was born in. During our entire visit my photographer and I were alone in the park; but were we? I had a strange feeling that we were being watched.
After I posed at President Johnson’s birthplace home for a handful of images, we stopped at the “featured” house in the park, aptly named ‘The Mordecai House’. It turned out that the impressive home was built in 1785 and was the oldest residence in Raleigh still situated on its original foundation. The home was named after Moses Mordecai, who had inherited the place from his father-in-law, and it was the centerpiece of a 5,000-acre plantation that was the largest in the county. My photographer wanted to capture an image of me standing on or near the house, but I balked at the idea because something didn’t feel right to me. For some reason, it felt as though someone, or some thing, was watching me; and I didn’t like it. A short time later, when we returned to the car, I found out why – we discovered the Mordecai House was reputed to be haunted. As a matter of fact, that historic home was featured in a season-two episode of ‘Ghost Hunters’. During that segment, the TAPS team investigated claims of paranormal activity, not only inside Mordecai House, but at the Andrew Johnson birthplace as well. Unfortunately, while TAPS began to film their activities for the show, several members of the team became sick inside the Mordecai House and the investigation was scrapped.
When we left Mordecai Historical Park, I breathed a sigh of relief as we embarked on the 1.5-mile drive to the site where the 17th President’s birthplace had originally stood in 1808. Once Vicki had our Ford Edge parked on the west side of Fayetteville Street, Tom carried me across the street where we found a three-foot tall granite marker that was within 125 feet of where Johnson’s birthplace once stood. As I stood atop the marker and posed for some photographs, the atmosphere in downtown Raleigh seemed uneasy and restless. While an invisible tension filled the air, evident displays of protest in the immediate area were abundant. From my perch, I could easily see numerous boarded-up windows on local store fronts on both sides of the street. At the same time I could see the spray-painted words of wisdom and beliefs; along with expressions of opinions and protests on nearly every flat surface within sight. To me, it was a disgrace. People have a Constitutional right to protest peacefully, but they do not have a right to damage, destroy, loot or vandalize property under the guise of protest. We had been on the road for over two weeks and we had not seen any evidence of unrest that resulted from George Floyd’s wrongful death; that is until we arrived in Raleigh.
While Vicki waited for us in the locked car, my photographer carried me along the sidewalk towards the State Capitol Building. From an opening in the camera case, I could easily see the damage-covered windows that scarred the store fronts along Fayetteville Street; a site that quite frankly made my resin-covered skin crawl. Were we in the Middle East? After all, images from those war-torn countries are shown all the time on the nightly news and those images came to life for me on that downtown street in Raleigh, North Carolina. Destruction, like the remnants that were in front of me, isn’t supposed to happen in the United States; especially when it’s carried out by Americans.
The scene didn’t get any better when we arrived at the Capitol, either. While I couldn’t see any damage to the building, that was likely because the entire perimeter around the Capitol was blockaded and the police presence in the area was as thick as mosquitos. The two of us continued our walk to the eastern front of the Capitol where Tom held me over the temporary security fence for some photos. In the distance, I could see the impressive bronze statue that paid homage to the three Presidents from North Carolina – James K. Polk, Andrew Jackson, and Andrew Johnson. I would’ve loved to have posed on that statue for a picture with the Capitol behind me as a backdrop, but that wasn’t going to happen on that day; all thanks to the people who thought it was their “right” to destroy their own city.
I was happy when we got back to the car and Vicki drove us out of town. From the potential ghosts at Mordecai Historical Park to the civil unrest and carnage that was evident throughout downtown Raleigh, we couldn’t leave the North Carolina capital fast enough. Someday we will hopefully return to that beautiful southern city, but our short stay in Raleigh made me wonder what we would run into during our next stop in Charlotte.
After about an hour into our journey westward, Tom discovered that we were headed past Siler City. Since my photographer had heard that city’s name mentioned a few times on ‘The Andy Griffith Show’, he quickly searched the internet on his phone and discovered that Frances Bavier had lived, died, and was buried in Siler City. Then, as luck would have it, our route to Charlotte took us directly past Oakwood Cemetery that was located on the northwest side of town. When Vicki drove the Edge into the burial ground, it didn’t take long for Tom to find the grave of the loveable “Aunt Bee”; which was located a short distance from the cemetery’s main roadway.
Although Frances Bavier was a New York City girl and appeared on the Broadway stage as well as numerous films and television shows, her most famous role was Beatrice Taylor, the aunt to Sheriff Andy Taylor on ‘The Andy Griffith Show’. Bavier was the only original cast member to appear in all eight seasons of the original show, as well as the spin-off Mayberry RFD for its two-year run. When Aunt Bee retired from show business, she bought a house in Siler City and lived there until she died on December 6, 1989. When Tom carried me to the five-foot tall granite marker, it was evident that fans of ‘The Andy Griffith Show’ had recently visited Bavier’s final resting place as there were a handful of unopened pickle jars carefully placed along the base of her grave. The pickles were a symbolic gesture from one of the most iconic episodes of the show called “The Pickle Story” and featured Aunt Bee’s terrible homemade pickles that Barney called “Kerosene Cucumbers”.
Back inside the Edge, Tom quickly went to work and found the street address of the home where Frances Bavier lived in Siler City. It turned out the three-story brick home was located on Elk Street about two miles south of the cemetery. The home was built for a doctor in 1953 and was purchased by Bavier as her retirement home in 1972. Aunt Bee lived there the rest of her life. Since it was a private residence, Tom walked along the shoulder of Elk Street as he snapped a handful of images of Bavier’s beloved home. My photographer didn’t place me on the porch, nor did he attempt to venture onto the property; but that was only because it wasn’t a Presidential residence. Aunt Bee may have been the Queen of Mayberry, but she wasn’t a President, which kept me and my camera guy off that porch.
We bid farewell to Aunt Bee and Siler City and once again we resumed our journey towards Charlotte. During the time my photographer and I were “doing our thing” in front of Frances Bavier’s house, Vicki made reservations for the night at the SpringHills Suites – which was almost in the shadow of Charlotte Motor Speedway. At one point, during the 100-mile drive, we stopped at an antique shop called the Blue Horseshoe in Ramseur, North Carolina where Tom found a couple of oil cans for his co-worker Larry Huffman. Finally, at about 6:15pm, we made it to the hotel where my companions planned on staying two nights. As soon as they had our gear transferred from the Edge and into our room, Tom placed me alongside the television set where I watched them set out on foot to the Texas Roadhouse located next door. Once they returned, my photographer and his wife devoured their salads and fresh rolls faster than a hobo can eat a hotdog.
The lights in the room were turned off at 9:00pm. I knew my companions were tired – we began the morning in the Outer Banks and ended the day nearly 400 miles away in Charlotte. As I stood throughout the night in the dark room, I thought about the creepy feeling I had at Mordecai Historical Park in Raleigh. There was no doubt in my mind that we were being watched. I only wished I knew by whom or by what.
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Like clockwork, Tom’s alarm rang at precisely 6:00am on Monday July 27, 2020. It was a day that I had looked forward to for a long time as we were scheduled to visit the birthplaces of two Presidents – Andrew Jackson and James K. Polk; both sites were located near the North Carolina – South Carolina border. But since we were in the hometown of NASCAR racing, my photographer and his wife had a couple of race sites they wanted to visit first, including a stop at Charlotte Motor Speedway.
Our first stop of the day after leaving SpringHill Suites was to Hendrick Motorsports, which was located less than a mile from the hotel. I could tell that my companions were excited for the visit as I heard them discuss the possibility of meeting Jimmie Johnson or Chase Elliott while we were at the Hendrick’s compound. However, once we made our way down Papa Joe Hendrick Boulevard and the entry gate came into view, we quickly realized that our visit would be short-lived. A small white sign with red lettering, which was situated off to the right side of the entry gate, said it all: “Our campus is temporarily closed to the public. Thank you.” The dang virus had bit us in the butt once again.
Dejected, but not ready to give up on NASCAR for the day, Vicki drove the Edge along Burton Smith Boulevard where we passed the zMAX dragstrip and The Dirt Track. When Charlotte Motor Speedway came into view, it was an impressive site. The grandstands majestically rose up over the empty parking lot as we drove into an area near the front entrance. Once we were parked, the three of us headed along a flag-lined courtyard that featured a Hollywood type “footprints and signatures in the concrete” sidewalk. After Tom placed me in the concrete footprints of Rusty Wallace where I posed for a photo, we made our way to the front entrance ticket booth where once again we got the bad news: The racetrack was closed to the public due to the virus. Tom and Vicki searched for an open gate, similar to the one they had found at Dover International Speedway, but his time they struck out. There was no way in to see the track and no one was around to ask for possible permission to enter.
With all of the gates locked and seemingly no way to see the track, my photographer and his wife still refused to give up. Vicki navigated our vehicle around a smaller road that hugged the exterior of the track until we saw a spot that gave us a limited view of the track. Still not satisfied with what they saw, Vicki continued along the roadway until we stumbled upon what seemed to be an open gate. Since no one else was in sight, the three of us walked through the gate and up to the SAFER Barrier at the side of the track. We were in. While we couldn’t stand on the track like we had done in Dover, we still had a great view of the backstretch and the main grandstands on the other side of the track. As luck would have it, Tom found an opening in the steel reinforced protective fencing at trackside, and he placed me onto the SAFER barrier where I posed for a few images. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Once again, we had snuck into a NASCAR racetrack and my photographer’s wife was just fine with that “illegal” activity.
At 10:00am our NASCAR experience was finished, at least for the time being, and it was time to head for the border; and I wasn’t talking about a stop at Taco Bell. Over the years, I’ve visited the birthplace sites of almost every President; but on that day, it would take two stops to visit both birth sites of Andrew Jackson. That’s right, no one knows for one hundred percent certainty at which site, or which state for that matter, our 7th President was actually born.
After stopping at a few antique shops during the 45-mile drive to Jackson’s North Carolina birthplace site, our route took us into South Carolina before we headed down a narrow and remote paved road back into North Carolina. When we crossed the border into South Carolina, it marked the 37th state that I had visited, although that “visit” lasted for about five minutes. Vicki slowly navigated our Edge down the narrow road that was surrounded by dense forest on both sides until we arrived at the site around 1:30pm. My photographer’s wife stayed in the air conditioned vehicle while Tom carried me to the granite marker that was erected in 1910. The silence was deafening and it seemed as though we were a million miles from any civilization. I laughed to myself when Tom told his wife as we left the car that he hoped not to cross paths with Sasquatch.
There’s no doubt that Andrew Jackson was born on March 15, 1767 in the Waxhaw region, or as the White House officially listed it as “a backwoods settlement in the Carolinas.” Jackson’s exact birthplace is unclear because of a lack of knowledge of his mother Elizabeth’s actions immediately following her husband’s funeral. The area was so remote that the border between North and South Carolina had not been officially surveyed. The marker that I was placed on was where George McCamie’s cabin once stood, and it’s believed that Elizabeth Jackson had possibly stopped there on her way back home to give birth to her son. The monument that marked the McCamie cabin site was about five feet tall, including its base that was fashioned from boulders taken from the original McCamie cabin’s fireplace chimney. As I stood on the marker, I was angry because vandals had chiseled Jackson’s name from the front of the monument, making it nearly illegible. I’m not a huge Jackson fan because of his treatment of the Native Americans during his Presidency, but that was no reason to desecrate the monument. Tom photographed the marker from various angles, but just as our photo-shoot was coming to a close, a thunderous crash broke the stillness of the area. The event, which lasted only a few seconds, shook the ground so violently and was so loud that Vicki rolled her window down and asked what the disturbance was. My photographer replied: “I think Sasquatch just pushed over a large tree – it tried to scare us into leaving. It worked; let’s get out of here!”
Tom snatched me from my perch on the monument and he quickly scampered to the running vehicle where his wife anxiously awaited our return. Okay, maybe “quickly” wasn’t the accurate word to describe my rotund photographer’s speed. Tom actually lumbered the 40 yards to where the vehicle was parked, and he moved so slowly I figured we were goners if “Squatch” emerged from the woods. Behind the wheel, Vicki slowly retraced our path out of the birth site area; all the while my photographer kept his window down as he tried to see or hear what had scared the heck out of us. Perhaps we were lucky that his window was down as I may have soiled my breeches when we had our possible Sasquatch encounter.
We crossed into South Carolina for the second time within a 30-minute span and before I could say “skid mark” we were headed into Andrew Jackson State Park. The 360-acre park was established in 1952 to honor our 7th President, who arguably was born at his Uncle James Crawford’s plantation that was once located in the center of the present-day park. Once again Vicki stayed in the comfortably cooled vehicle while Tom carried me to the small three-foot tall granite marker that had been placed on the plantation birth site. As I stood in front of the marker, which was sculpted in the shape of a giant arrow head, I thought about what Jackson had written in an 1824 letter to James H. Witherspoon who lived in nearby Lancaster, South Carolina. Jackson wrote (in part): “I was born in So Carolina, as I have been told at the plantation whereon James Crawford lived about one mile from the Carolina road [crossing] of the Waxhaw Creek, left that state in 1784, was born on the 15 of march in the year of 1767”.
Was the 1824 letter from Jackson proof-positive that he was born in South Carolina? Not really. Some historians believe that Jackson may have claimed to be a South Carolinian because the state was considering nullification of the Tariff of 1824, which he opposed. On the flip side, Mrs. Sarah Lathen stated in the 1850s that her mother was a midwife at Jackson’s birth and that birth took place at the McCamie cabin in North Carolina. We must take into consideration that our 7th President’s parents owned a home near the present-day town of Mineral Springs, North Carolina and Elizabeth was trying to get home after her husband’s funeral – Andrew Sr. died from a logging accident at the age of 29 about two weeks before his son was born. Shortly after Andrew Jackson’s birth, Elizabeth sold their farm in North Carolina and moved her family to the Crawford plantation where young Andrew grew up. To me, after visiting both sites, it makes more sense that a very-pregnant Elizabeth stopped at her sister Jane Crawford’s plantation and delivered her son Andrew there; rather than riding three miles further to her sister Margaret McCamie’s smaller cabin that was located across the border. In 1765, however, that border was not well-defined and there was no telling which state either home was situated in.
When we left Andrew Jackson State Park at roughly 2:15pm, we travelled north perpendicular to the border for about 15 minutes before we crossed back into North Carolina where we wound up at the President James K. Polk State Historic Site in Pineville a short time later. Our 11th President, James K. Polk, was born at that Pineville site on November 2, 1795 and lived in the family’s cabin for eleven years before the Polk’s moved to Columbia, Tennessee. A short distance onto the property, which was situated on 21 of the original 150 acres owned by Samuel Polk, we came upon a large stone pyramid that stood off to the side of the park’s main roadway. That pyramid marked the location where Polk’s birth cabin once stood; the original building collapsed to the ground in disrepair around 1900.
I posed for some images near that pyramid before Tom carried me further onto the property where we saw three buildings – the main house, a kitchen, and the barn. The main cabin, which represented the one where the future President was born, was built in the early 1800s and was relocated to the site in 1964 when the Polk property was opened as a state historic site. There was also a Visitor Center and Museum on the property, but both were closed due to the pandemic. I was honored to pose with the replica birth cabin; not only because it likely looked like the real McCoy; but more importantly, Polk was one of my favorite Presidents. During our entire half-hour visit, I envisioned the young Polk playing with his siblings, riding horses, and doing his daily chores on the family farm. When he lived there, James had no way of knowing that someday he would expand the nation more than any other President as the country extended from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific for the first time in history during Polk’s administration.
I was sad when we left the Polk birth site in Pineville behind. It wasn’t because I had to say goodbye to James K. Polk, it was because there were no other Presidential sites scheduled for a while. While I stood solemnly silent in my camera case, Vicki was enthusiastic as she made the 10-mile drive northward to a suburb of Charlotte known as the Eagle Lake section. When we pulled into the parking lot of a stylish office building, I found out the reason for her eagerness – it was the home office for Compass Group; the company that my photographer’s wife was employed with. Although I would rather spend time at a Presidential grave or museum, I could tell that Vicki was eager to see the place where her paychecks were signed. Once we went inside, however, I had to laugh when my photographer was scolded by Mrs. Swindell, the sentry at the check-in desk, for taking a photo. As soon as Tom was reprimanded, I thought to myself: “Two months ago, he took pictures inside the White House when the President was landing on the South Lawn and not one person blinked an eye. Then today, in the armpit of the south, Tom gets scolded by an old and cranky woman for snapping a photo inside an insignificant office building; one that surely doesn’t contain the codes to national security.” All I could do was shake my head; but then again, my head usually does that anyway.
From the Compass building, we headed roughly 30 miles in the direction where the needle of the compass points straight up – in other words, magnetic north. My photographer and his wife had their sights set on seeing the home of superstar NASCAR driver Kyle Busch, which Tom knew was in the gated community of Norman Estates that was situated on the western shore of Lake Norman near Denver, North Carolina. My photographer also knew that he might be able to play “paparazzi” and snap an image of Kyle’s place through the fence and between the trees.
Around 4:40pm, Vicki drove past the gated entrance to Norman Estates and she pulled the Edge into a parking lot at a lake access area near Beatty’s Ford Park. When I heard my photographer and his wife mention the park by name, I thought they said: “Betty Ford’s Park”; I was ready to see the former First Lady’s place. But when Vanna added an ‘A’ into Betty, that quickly curbed my enthusiasm. Once Tom had captured a few images of Lake Norman from Beatty’s Ford Park, he walked to the end of Unity Church Road that stopped a hundred feet or so from the security fence that surrounded Norman Estates. From an opening in the camera case, I could see signs all along the iron fence that stated: ‘WARNING – 24 HOUR VIDEO SURVEILLANCE IN USE. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED’. Since the fence was roughly seven feet high and my photographer was not agile enough to scale anything over one-foot in height, I had no fear of going to jail. Tom used his zoom lens to bring Kyle’s home into view through the trees, but those images were poor at best. As I watched him struggle to see “The Candyman’s” mansion, I thought to myself: “I don’t know what Kyle’s political allegiance is, and it doesn’t matter. But I do know a lot of rich folks and famous people complained about Trump’s wall at the southern border, yet those same people live behind walls themselves. And why? They want to keep potentially bad people away from their homes. In my mind, what’s the difference?”
Once we were back in the car, Vicki retraced our route out of the Norman Estates area until we stopped at the intersection where Highway 16 crossed Unity Church Road. As she waited for traffic, a white Toyota SUV turned in front of us and headed toward Norman Estates. Almost in harmonic unison, my photographer and his wife said aloud: “The driver of that SUV looked a lot like Samantha Busch – and she was driving a Toyota.” While we’ll never know for sure if we had a Samantha Busch sighting, the odds were it was the wife of the famed driver of the Toyota Camry #18 M&Ms race car who was headed home to “Candyland”.
What was supposed to be our final stop of the day at Dale Earnhardt’s hometown of Kannapolis where my photographer wanted to see the larger-than-life statue of “The Intimidator”, Tom decided to make a “pit stop” at Scott’s Collectibles that was located roughly halfway between Kannapolis and Concord. After he finished an extensive 45-minute search for a signed die-cast racecar, Tom proudly walked out of the store with a replica car signed on the windshield by Kurt Busch. I knew in my mind that my camera guy searched high and low for a M&Ms car signed by Kyle Busch, but he couldn’t find one that met his exact specifications. He settled for Kyle’s older brother instead.
With the Kurt Busch car safely stowed away in the Edge, we made the five-mile drive into downtown Kannapolis where we arrived at Dale Earnhardt Plaza; a small park dedicated to the memory of Earnhardt. The well-landscaped park also featured a nine-foot bronze statue of the legendary driver as its centerpiece. One of the most loved NASCAR drivers in history, Dale Earnhardt was killed during the final lap of the Daytona 500 on February 18, 2001. Even though “The Man in Black” wasn’t a President, I was still honored when Tom placed me onto Dale’s crossed arms for a photo. During our 25-minute visit at the plaza, we were caught in a brief rain shower. While we didn’t get too wet from the sprinkles, we were blessed with a spectacular rainbow that emerged high above the statue of the great Dale Earnhardt.
It was a few minutes past seven o’clock when we left Kannapolis for our return trip to SpringHill Suites where the three of us had reservations for a second consecutive night. During the 14-mile drive back to the hotel, Tom mentioned to his wife that he was “hankering a Papa John’s pizza” for dinner, which they ordered from a place not too far from Charlotte Motor Speedway.
My companions relaxed for an hour or so in the room after they ate their pizza. When the lights were turned out at roughly 9:30pm, I stood near the television set where I spent some time thinking about the great day we had in and around the Charlotte area. Although I did my best to reflect on my first-ever visit to the state of South Carolina, which checked the box of having been to every state east of the Mississippi River, I couldn’t help but think of the possible Sasquatch encounter we experienced at Andrew Jackson’s remote North Carolina birth site earlier in the afternoon. Were we being watched the entire time? Was the loud crash of the falling tree a warning for us to leave? For about an hour during the night, I tried to debunk the Sasquatch theory – and although we don’t have any proof as to what it was, there were a handful of things I knew it likely wasn’t. First, the tree sounded too big for a single person to push over; plus, we didn’t hear any type of tool being used to cut the tree down. Second, there was no wind at that time, so I had to rule out the tree was blown over by a breeze. Third, maybe a large bear pushed the tree to the ground; but I didn’t hear any growling or grunting or rustling of the brush – sounds that a bear likely would make. Fourth, the Mt. Zion Baptist Church was located about a half-mile away in the direction the noise had come from, but when we had driven past the church on our way to the site, we didn’t notice any cars in the parking lot. For the noise to have been originated by the churchgoers, a handful of people would’ve had to sneak through the dense forest for a half-mile without making a sound and then push over a large tree; just to scare three tourists from Michigan. And lastly, the odds were extremely slim that a large tree would just fall over by itself while we were in the vicinity – close enough to hear the crash and feel the impact. With all of those scenarios running through my resin-filled skull, I was left with one conclusion – and that verdict came from a quote once stated by the ‘Finding Bigfoot’ star James ‘Bobo’ Fay: “Not saying it was a Squatch, but… It was a Squatch!”
