144: RINGIN’ THE BELL OF FREEDOM IN PHILADELPHIA

For most normal people, Sunday is usually a day of rest and relaxation. Those words don’t exist when my photographer and Mongo are on the road together visiting historic sites, which was the case on Sunday May 23, 2021. As exhausted as my two companions were the night before, they snapped out of their comatose state when the alarm rang at 6:00am. I was eager to get started – the Crowne Plaza hotel near Claymont, Delaware was situated about a mile from the Pennsylvania border and we were just over 20 miles south of Independence Hall in Philadelphia. As Tom and Bob loaded the Rogue, I had a gleam in my eyes and bells on my toes – and one of those bells was cracked.

The drive into Philly was easy for Tom as the weather was perfect and the traffic was fairly light. But when we arrived at the historic district of Philadelphia, it took my companions about 20 minutes to find a place to park that was within walking distance of Independence Hall. That lengthy search for parking came back to haunt my photographer and Bob several minutes later. The first site on our “must see” list was the old Pennsylvania State House, known today as Independence Hall. When the three of us got close to the historic building, however, we learned that only a limited number of tickets were being distributed for the day due to COVID restrictions. My travel mates and I waited for about 15 minutes and we made it to the front of the line where the NPS Rangers were handing out tickets; but that’s when my companions heard the bad news. The NPS ran out of tickets and there was only eight people in front of us. I was devastated by the news and I could tell Mongo was furious: “I can’t believe they handed out only 150 tickets for the whole day; that’s ridiculous. They should have different tickets and different rules for vaccinated people; rules that allow more vaccinated people into the building because they’re protected. They can let the unvaccinated idiots wait for a different time of day and let them fight for the leftover tickets. Leave it to the government to once again make things rough for those of us who had the courage to get vaccinated early on.”

Although we were extremely disappointed about missing the opportunity to go inside Independence Hall, there was a building at the end of the west wing that had made more of an impact in Presidential history. But before we were allowed to enter Independence Square and get close to the historic buildings there, the three of us had to pass a security checkpoint that seemed more rigorous than we’ve endured at airports. As a matter of fact, I almost tumbled out of my camera case from laughter when my photographer’s pants nearly fell to his knees when he was forced to remove his belt.

At precisely 9:00am, the three of us entered Congress Hall; which was the site where the first Presidential transfer of power occurred on March 4, 1797 when John Adams took the Oath of Office as our 2nd President of the United States and outgoing President George Washington peacefully relinquished the role. During our 15 minutes inside Congress Hall, we were allowed in the House Chamber on the first floor, but we couldn’t visit the upstairs Senate Chamber due to COVID restrictions. That was disappointing in one way because the Senate Chamber was where George Washington was sworn-in to office for his second term as President. It was in the House Chamber, however, where John Adams took the Oath of Office as 2nd President; which meant the “Great Experiment” of America’s democracy had passed the test. At that moment in United States history, in that room I was standing in, John Adams became the first head of state to peacefully and legally succeed to office from a living predecessor since Luis I of Spain in 1724. Sometimes we take that transition of power for granted because it’s been going on since 1797, and that’s why it was so heartbreaking for me when I watched the events unfold in Washington earlier in the year.

Construction on Congress Hall was completed in 1789 and a year later it served as the seat of the United States Congress for the next decade. That’s right, Congress Hall was the United States Capitol from December 6, 1790 until May 14, 1800 when the offices of the national government moved to Washington D.C. Several historic events occurred inside the House Chamber of Congress Hall. On December 15, 1791, Congress ratified the Bill of Rights of the U.S. Constitution in that room. Less than four years later, on March 4, 1797, John Adams was sworn-in as our 2nd President. Near the end of our time inside the House Chamber, Tom asked NPS Ranger Lauren Huckle to place me near the precise spot where Adams was inaugurated, which she did without hesitation. What I didn’t know at the time was President-elect Barack Obama and Vice President-elect Joe Biden conducted the National Governors Association meeting in that same House Chamber on December 2, 2008. During that meeting, Obama and Biden discussed the country’s financial crisis with the governors.

Finished at Congress Hall, the three of us stayed inside the barricaded area of Independence Square as Tom and Bob captured additional images of Independence Hall without going through the security process again. In my mind, that was a great idea as I didn’t think I could handle my photographer’s belt issues again. During our time on the south side of Independence Hall, I thought about some of the historical events that played-out within those brick walls, including the Congressional debates and ultimate adoption and signing of the Declaration of Independence in 1776. The United States Constitution was also debated and signed in that building as well, but it was a process that began in 1787 and ended nearly three years later. It was obvious, at least in my mind, that Congressional leaders couldn’t agree on issues in those days either.

On the north side of historic Independence Hall, which was built between 1732 and 1753, we found several Presidential-related spots where I posed for my photographer. We saw a very cool bronze statue of George Washington that stood directly in front of the building. A white marble statue of our first President, one that was dedicated on July 2, 1869, stood on the pedestal until 1910, which was when the bronze statue replaced it. There were also two plaques imbedded into the brick walkway that Tom had set me on for some pictures. The first plaque marked the spot where President-elect Abraham Lincoln stood when he raised the flag over Independence Hall on February 22, 1861. And the second plaque was where President John F. Kennedy delivered a speech in the presence of all 50 governors on July 4, 1962. While his speech was lengthy, there was one excerpt that I found pretty cool: “The theory of independence is as old as man himself, and it was not invented in this hall. But it was in this hall that the theory became a practice; that the word went out to all, in Thomas Jefferson’s phrase, that “the God who gave us life, gave us liberty at the same time.” 

At roughly 9:45am, the three of us decided to pay a visit to the Liberty Bell, which was located in a pavilion located about 200 yards north of Independence Hall. When we arrived at the Liberty Bell Center, there was a line of people who were waiting to see the historic and iconic symbol of independence. Even though the line didn’t look tremendously long, I noticed a nearby sign that read: “90 minutes from this spot’. I felt sorry for Tom and Bob as they were forced to stand in the sun and heat; there was no shade to be found anywhere. When we finally got to the front of the line and were next to enter the pavilion, we discovered why the line had moved so slowly: The NPS rangers were letting only small groups of people into the building at one time to help with social distancing. While it took just over one hour to get inside, the wait was worth it. For roughly five minutes, the three of us had the Liberty Bell all to ourselves; except for a ranger who stood nearby to keep bobble heads like me from standing on it.

First called the Old State House Bell, it was commissioned in 1752 and cracked shortly after its arrival. A year later, local workmen John Pass and John Stow recast it twice and the bell was rehung in the tower of the State House. During the recasting, Pass and Stow added their names to the exterior of the bell. While the Liberty Bell did not ring on July 4, 1776 as independence was not immediately announced by Congress, it did ring four days later when the Declaration of Independence was read aloud in public for the first time on July 8th. The bell’s famous crack likely occurred when it rang in celebration of George Washington’s birthday in 1846. Shortly after that celebration, a newspaper article described the bell’s newly discovered defect: “The old Independence Bell … now hangs in the great city steeple irreparably cracked and forever dumb”. Did some newspaper reporter call the Liberty Bell a “Dumb Bell”?

When Tom held me close to the Liberty Bell for a handful of photos, I could see Independence Hall off in the distance through a window directly behind the bell. The view of the two together was cool because for years the Liberty Bell had been on display inside that historic building – which was where President John F. Kennedy was photographed in 1962 as he placed his right hand on the bell’s brim just to the left of the famous crack. At one point during our photo-op, when I was held very close to the Liberty Bell, I looked down at that same place where Kennedy had placed his hand and I thought to myself: “I wish there was some way I could touch that same exact spot.” Then out of nowhere, and perhaps it was because my photographer had read my mind, Tom gripped me tightly in his left hand and he reached out towards the bell; seconds later, my head made contact with the brim just to the left of the crack. The surface felt smooth and hard, and the bell seemed cool to the touch. I also thought I heard it ring, but that may have been just the ringing in my ears. As strange as it may seem, I felt JFK’s presence – he was there with me. But there was another presence there with me as well and it wasn’t a President – it was a National Park Service ranger and he didn’t seem too amused by our stunt because he yelled out: “Don’t touch that bell. Do you want to set off all the alarms in here? There’s security cameras everywhere!” I heard my photographer say to Mongo, but I knew it was intended for the ranger’s ears: “I don’t know what the big deal is. The last time I was here, I ran my finger all the way up her crack until I touched Pass and Stow.”

That ranger had put a damper on our final moments with the Liberty Bell, but that was okay – we had accomplished our goals. As Tom carried me out of the building, my thoughts turned to Lauren Huckle – the amazing ranger from Congress Hall. In my mind, had Lauren been standing alongside the bell instead of that crabby old guy, my camera guy likely wouldn’t have been yelled at. As a matter of fact, Lauren may have held me against the bell herself because she believed in our mission. A mission that brings history to life and pays tribute to the Presidents of the United States.

Located north of the Liberty Bell, between the bell’s pavilion and Market Street, was a site of historical importance for all Presidential enthusiasts like the three of us. It was the site where the President’s House once stood; the house where Presidents George Washington and John Adams both had lived when Philadelphia was our Nation’s Capital. It was also once owned by Robert Morris, Signer of the Declaration of Independence; and before Morris purchased the place, the infamous traitor Benedict Arnold resided in the house for about a year. But like so many other historical homes in the past, the President’s House was destroyed due to commercial expansion – it crossed paths with the wrecking ball in 1951.

When the footprint of the mansion’s old foundation was discovered along Independence Mall, an effort to bring the President’s House back to life was initiated. When the project was finished and the President’s House Site had opened to the public in 2010, it not only served as a Presidential site, but as a memorial to the enslaved people who lived there as well. And it was about time to honor them as well! One must consider the fact that 41 of the 56 Signers of the Declaration of Independence and 12 of the 45 Presidents of the United States owned enslaved people. To me, that meant that while those Signers and Presidents may have been good leaders and brave patriots, it was the enslaved people who actually shaped America with their hands and nurtured our nation from birth. We spent about ten minutes visiting the President’s House Site, which was nothing more than a reconstructed outline of a building that was built in the footprint of the original mansion.

As I posed for a handful of photos, I thought about George Washington who moved into the mansion on November 27, 1790 and lived there on and off until the end of his Presidency in 1797. I also thought about John Adams who had succeeded Washington. Adams lived in the mansion from March 4, 1797 until he left Philadelphia for Washington D.C. in June of 1800. But my tribute didn’t stop there – I also wanted to pay homage to the enslaved people who lived and worked at the President’s House; especially Hercules Posey, who was President Washington’s chef; and Oney Judge, who took care of Martha Washington’s needs. I admired the courage of both people; especially Oney Judge. At roughly age 20, Judge escaped from the President’s House while George and Martha were having dinner, and she lived as a fugitive slave in New Hampshire for the rest of her life. I couldn’t imagine how difficult that must’ve been. Hercules, on the other hand, escaped from Mount Vernon on Washington’s birthday in 1797 and he lived legally free in New York City for the rest of his life. On the day of his escape, I wondered if Hercules sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” like Marilyn Monroe did with JFK many years later.

Finished at the President’s House Site, my photographer and Bob decided it was time we visited the Declaration of Independence Signers who were buried nearby. I was game – after all, I had already posed at the gravesites of five Signers on the trip: Thomas Jefferson, Francis Lightfoot Lee, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Stone, and George Read. Little did I know we were about to visit seven more gravesites – all within a four or five-block walk. Their plan seemed cut-and-dried, until we arrived at the Christ Church Burial Ground at 11:35am. The gate to that historic cemetery where five of those Signers, including Benjamin Franklin, were buried was locked and it didn’t open until noon. That meant we were forced to start our Signer’s tour at Christ Church located a few blocks to the east. During our hike, during which my companions did their best to keep cool by walking in the shade of the buildings, we stopped for a few minutes to see the Betsy Ross House that we had stumbled across. The two-and-one-half-story home was built around 1740; but unfortunately, historians believed the famous flag-maker actually lived in a home adjacent to the current Betsy Ross House. It’s also believed that Ross’ actual residence was intentionally torn down in 1937 – likely by mistaken identity or misinformation.

We arrived at Christ Church at 11:50am when the congregation seemed to be leaving. Organ music filled the air as we passed several parishioners on our way into the churchyard where the Signer’s were buried. When Tom removed me from the camera case near the grave of Robert Morris, just the three of us remained inside the fenced-in burial ground that surrounded the historic church. To me, that was great – we wouldn’t have other people in our photographs of the Signer’s gravesites. It was an honor for me to stand on the tombstone of Robert Morris as he not only signed the Declaration of Independence, he had also penned his signature onto the Articles of Confederation and the U.S. Constitution as well. Morris was known as the “Financier of the Revolution” and President George Washington recruited him to be the nation’s first Treasury Secretary. However, Morris declined and suggested Alexander Hamilton was better for the position. In my mind, I couldn’t imagine a Broadway play called “Morris”. Ironically Robert Morris was unable to pay his debts later in life and after being released from debtor’s prison, the “Financier” died penniless at the age of 72 on May 8, 1806. It seemed to me that it was a good thing Robert Morris wasn’t entrusted with our nation’s finances or we might still be drinking tea around 4pm each day.

My photographer picked me up from where I stood on Robert Morris’ tombstone, and he carried me towards the south side of Christ Church. I could still hear the organ playing when Tom set me onto the headstone of James Wilson. Unlike Morris’ grave, Wilson’s granite marker was butted-up against the brick wall of the church and was nearly flush with the brick walkway. James Wilson, who earlier had penned his signature onto the Declaration of Independence, had a brilliant legal mind and played a huge role in the debates and ultimate passage of the United States Constitution. As President Washington was designating the first Chief Justice to the Supreme Court, Wilson wanted that honor. But when George selected John Jay for that position, James Wilson accepted and was confirmed as Associate Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court on September 26, 1789. In the following decade, however, Wilson made some bad investments and landed in deep debt; just like Robert Morris had. In mid-1798, Wilson suffered from a bout of malaria and while visiting a friend in Edenton, North Carolina, he died of a stroke at the age of 55 on August 21, 1798.

Just as Tom removed me from the headstone that marked James Wilson’s final resting place, the organ music that I heard coming from the open window above me had stopped. But that didn’t stop my photographer from entering the church from a nearby open door. When I stood on a couple of the pews inside historic Christ Church, the place seemed eerily silent. I didn’t see anyone else there besides my camera guy; and he’s always with me. Although we didn’t spend a lot of time inside the church for fear the doors were going to be locked, I did have the opportunity to stand on a couple of pews. As I stood there and looked around that amazing place of worship, I thought about the “Who’s Who” of American history who sat in those same pews. George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and 14 other Signers of the Declaration of Independence had worshiped within those walls. Even Betsy Ross, when she wasn’t busy sewing flags, had attended church services there as well.

After our quick visit inside, the two of us met up with Mongo on the south side of Christ Church. At that exact moment, a young guy approached the three of us and asked how we got inside the churchyard. When Bob told him our story, the youngster mentioned that he had locked all of the gates shortly after the church service when he thought everyone from the congregation had left; he said that the churchyard was closed to the general public due to COVID restrictions. I laughed to myself when I heard the kid say to my companions that we were lucky he had noticed us in the churchyard or else we may have been in there for awhile with no way to get out. That was about the time Mongo said to him: “Oh, I would’ve gotten out of here one way or another. I’ve climbed over taller fences before; but it’s usually to get into a cemetery, not to get out.”

We retraced our steps back to Christ Church Burial Ground where we found the gates open. I was stunned to learn that there was a five-dollar per person admission fee to enter the historic cemetery. What stunned me even more was my cheap photographer and his thriftier friend handed over the money without thinking twice about it. I was fortunate – there was no charge for bobble heads. One by one, Tom carried me around to the gravesites of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence. First, we visited the final resting place of Dr. Benjamin Rush – who at the time seemed to be on the cutting edge of some new types of medical procedures, such as bloodletting and the use of mercury as a cure. Not very successful with those procedures, Rush turned to mental health; he became known as the “Father of American Psychiatry”. It was also Dr. Rush who helped reconcile the friendship between Thomas Jefferson and John Adams and he encouraged the pair to resume writing to each other. When Benjamin Rush died of typhoid fever at the age of 67 on April 19, 1813, Jefferson wrote to Adams: “Another of our friends of seventy-six is gone, my dear Sir, another of the co-signers of the Independence of our country. And a better man than Rush could not have left us, more benevolent, more learned, of finer genius, or more honest”. I suppose Jefferson didn’t realize that Rush likely helped kill George Washington and Benjamin Franklin by bleeding them to death.

Tom swept me up from Rush’s tombstone and carried me a short distance to the final resting place of Signer Francis Hopkinson, a delegate who represented New Jersey in 1776. What I had heard about Hopkinson, he seemed to be very creative as he designed the first Continental paper money as well as two early versions of the American flag. Frankie also became an accomplished harpsichord player and was credited with being the first American-born composer to commit a composition to paper. But two years after President George Washington appointed Hopkinson as a judge in a U.S. District Court, he died suddenly at the age of 53 on May 9, 1791 from a stroke. When Tom placed me on the ground at Hopkinson’s grave, I noticed there were two headstones – one seemed more modern and the other looked as though it had been there since 1791. As I paid my personal tribute and respects to Francis Hopkinson at his gravesite, I thought to myself: “I wonder if Benjamin Rush had bled him to death as well?”

Not too far from Hopkinson’s grave were two side-by-side markers that were dedicated to Declaration of Independence Signer’s Joseph Hewes and George Ross. Both famous patriots died within four months of each other at the ages of 49 and were buried somewhere in the Christ Church Burial Ground. Unbelievable as it may sound, their exact gravesites were lost to time and two cenotaphs were erected in their honor. George Ross, a Pennsylvania lawyer by trade, was the first of the pair to die on July 14, 1779 – he suffered from gout. While he was the last Pennsylvania delegate to sign the Declaration, his main “claim to fame” was being the uncle of John Ross who married Betsy Griscom in 1773; which gave her the famous married name Betsy Ross. Joseph Hewes was a North Carolina delegate to the Continental Congress, but during debates about independence, he was on the fence due to his pacifist nature from being a Quaker. When the rubber met the cobblestone road at Independence Hall, Hewes finally yelled out in disgust “It is done and I will abide by it” and voted in favor of independence. His contribution to our military, primarily the Navy, was second to none in those early days as Secretary of the Naval Affairs Committee. He made such a difference, as a matter of fact, that John Adams said of Hewes: “Hewes laid the foundation, the cornerstone, of the American Navy”. But like George Ross before him, Joseph Hewes suddenly fell ill and died at the age of 49 on November 10, 1779. I wondered if Joseph Hewes had asked Dr. Benjamin Rush to make a house call.

My photographer had saved the best for last. And when it came to the next Signer of the Declaration of Independence, his reputation, dedication, and contribution to our nation rivaled any President of the United States. As a matter of fact, when I thought about this Signer’s talents, it reminded me a lot of Thomas Jefferson – with the exception of Jefferson’s three political positions. Benjamin Franklin was a writer, scientist, inventor, statesman, diplomat, printer, publisher, and political philosopher. He was also the first U.S. Postmaster General. When the Declaration was being signed, John Hancock mentioned that all of the Signers needed to hang together, at which Franklin replied: “Yes, we must, indeed, all hang together, or most assuredly we shall all hang separately.” Benjamin Franklin should’ve been our first President, but at the time of the inauguration in 1789, he was already 83 years old and was too old to successfully lead our nation. As a matter of fact, Franklin died of pleurisy on April 17, 1790, only one year after Washington took office. When Tom placed me onto Benjamin Franklin’s headstone at Christ Church Burial Ground, I considered it a true honor to stand on one of the “Holy Grails” of historical graves. From my position on the flat marble marker, I saw what had been etched into the stone: ‘Benjamin And Deborah Franklin 1790’. But that wasn’t what the wise old philosopher had wanted inscribed on his final resting place. At the age of 22, Franklin wrote his own epitaph: “The Body of B. Franklin Printer; Like the Cover of an old Book, Its Contents torn out, And stript of its Lettering and Gilding, Lies here, Food for Worms. But the Work shall not be wholly lost: For it will, as he believ’d, appear once more, In a new & more perfect Edition, Corrected and Amended By the Author”. Now that was cool!

The three of us spent a little over a half-hour inside the Christ Church Burial Ground as we paid tribute to the five Signers of the Declaration of Independence who were buried there. There’s nowhere in the country that can boast having that many Declaration signatories interred in one cemetery; although Boston’s Granary Burying Ground has three Signers – John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and Robert Treat Paine; not to mention Paul Revere and the five victims of the Boston Massacre.

As we walked back towards the Liberty Bell Center, I took a quick peek through the iron fence at Franklin’s grave, which was visible from the sidewalk. It was hard to describe the feeling of pride I had when I stood on the marble surface of that tombstone. It truly rivalled JFK, Lincoln, FDR and John Adams for the “wow factor”.

Located roughly one block west of the President’s House Site was a house site that was also Presidential; and played a huge role in our nation’s independence. At the corner of Market and North 7th Street we found a narrow three-story brick home that was built in 1975. The reconstructed house was built in the footprint of the original Jacob Graff, Jr. home that stood on the site 200 years earlier until it was demolished in 1883. The Graff House, or the Declaration House as it was called when I visited, was where Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence in 1776. The Continental Congress appointed the “Committee of Five” that consisted of Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Roger Sherman, and Robert Livingston to write a declaration that would break all allegiances with England. From June 11th to June 28, 1776, thirty-three-year-old Thomas Jefferson rented two second-story rooms in Graff’s house where he wrote the primary text of the declaration’s first draft; Jefferson did listen to suggestions made by the other four men when he needed to tweak the document. During our visit, the reconstructed Graff House was closed due to COVID restrictions, but as I stood near the exterior and gazed up in wonderment at the second story, I thought about the historical magic that came to life there. The part that’s unbelievable to me was the fact that Thomas Jefferson was only 33 years old when he put his famous words to parchment paper. Some folks, when they turn 33 years old, don’t know what they want to do when they grow up; and yet Jefferson was writing the most famous and historic document in American history and he did it in just 17 days.

My companions were hot and tired when we returned to the parking structure located a block or two from Independence Hall. But we weren’t finished in Philadelphia; not by a long shot. Tom and Bob caught a brief respite from the heat during our nearly three-mile drive to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, which was a stop that made me scratch my head. I wondered if we were going to spend valuable sightseeing time checking out priceless works of art. But after a ten minute wait near the southeast exterior of the museum, Tom carried me up to a 12′ 8″- tall bronze figure and placed me at the feet of the statue. It was at that moment when I realized why we were there. I looked up and immediately recognized boxer Rocky Balboa, his arms raised in triumph over his head. That statue of Sylvester Stallone’s fictional character made its film debut in the 1982 movie ‘Rocky III’ and it returned for ‘Rocky V’ in 1990. While the iconic statue had seen its share of controversy since 1982 because certain art critics didn’t feel a “movie prop” belonged in front of their prestigious museum, it finally found a home just north of the famous steps where it originally had stood in the film. As it turned out, the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s “Rocky Steps” and the famous Rocky statue are the second most beloved movie locations in the country – behind only Grand Central Station in New York City.

Once I had finished my photo-op on the statue of Rocky Balboa, Tom and Bob headed up the 72 steps in front of the art museum. Now known as the “Rocky Steps”, it’s where the underdog boxer from Philadelphia finished his training ritual in the 1976 movie ‘Rocky’. I laughed to myself because I listened to Tom as he huffed and puffed during his slow walk up the iconic steps; and when we finally arrived at the top, he had to take a moment to catch his breath. During the scene in the movie, however, Sylvester Stallone ran up the steps in roughly ten seconds; and at times, Sly scaled multiple steps in one leap. I guess there’s a lot to be said for the benefits of steroids!

My photographer set me down on a granite marker that was embedded into the art museum’s stone walkway at the top of the steps. The marker featured two footprints, which were likely made from the soles of Rocky Balboa’s shoes. For me, it was a breathtaking moment to stand where Rocky once stood as he gazed out at Philadelphia’s City Hall in the distance. Although the song ‘Gonna Fly Now’ filled my hollow resin head, I couldn’t raise my arms over my head to mimic the famous boxer. For me, it was a memorable moment to visit the Philadelphia Museum of Art where an iconic scene in the movie ‘Rocky’ was filmed. I had been to many movie sites in the past, but that one was a definite favorite of mine.

The walk back down the famous “Rocky Steps” was much easier for Tom, but the overall half-mile hike to the car was rough due to the extreme heat of the afternoon. There as no rest for the weary, however, as the three of us made the four-mile journey along the Schuylkill River until we arrived at Laurel Hill Cemetery, located in the East Falls section of Philly. My photographer had a map he intended to use to direct the three of us to the gravesites of two patriots – Thomas McKean and Charles Thomson. McKean was one of the 56 Signers of the Declaration while Thomson was the Secretary of the Continental Congress throughout its existence. As a matter of fact, Thomson signed the original Declaration, along with John Hancock, when the document was adopted on July 4, 1776. His signature was not needed on the official copy of the Declaration that was signed by the members of Congress on August 2nd and beyond. But once we made our way into the monstrous hilly and terribly confusing layout of the burial ground, Tom drove blindly around the cemetery in search of the two graves. My photographer’s map proved to be useless. After a futile twenty-minute search, we left Laurel Hill Cemetery empty-handed. I was sad that my photographer and Bob had given up their search, that usually doesn’t happen. But since it was after 2:30pm and we still had a few sites planned for the rest of the day, my companions didn’t have much choice but to wave the white flag and surrender.

From my position inside the camera case, I was stunned when I heard Tom mention to Mongo that we were headed to the White House. We were nearly 150 miles from Joe Biden’s current residence, which made me wonder if my photographer wasn’t delusional from the heat. But when our drive ended after just three miles and we were in the Germantown section of Philadelphia, I discovered our intended target that Tom spoke about was a place called The Germantown White House; which was built in 1752 by David Deshler.

During the Yellow Fever Epidemic of 1793, President George Washington needed to vacate the city of Philadelphia and he moved six miles outside of town to Deshler’s house, which was by then owned by Isaac Franks, to the “pure and healthy air” of the rural village. Washington resided in the Franks’ house for a few weeks in late November 1793. More than 4,000 Philadelphians died as the disease ravaged the Nation’s Capital. George must’ve liked his stay in Germantown as he returned to the home for a vacation in September and October 1794. While there, he met four times with members of his cabinet – Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson, Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton, Attorney General Edmund Randolph, and Secretary of War Henry Knox. As Tom carried me up close to the two-story Deshler-Morris House, I knew right away that it wasn’t open to visitors; primarily because the shutters of the first floor windows were closed and the front door was locked tight. My photographer thought it may have been due to the pandemic, but it may have been closed due to lack of visitors. If the latter was the case, then that’s a shame. After all, the Germantown White House is the oldest surviving Presidential residence in our country and maybe a new light should be shed on its existence.

Except for not getting inside Independence Hall, the City of Brotherly Love had been great to the three of us. As a matter of fact, my companions and I truly felt that love in Germantown when one of the local gentlemen took it upon himself to give us an impromptu “history lesson” about some of the inhabitants who had lived in that Presidential home. That’s right – the guy talked for roughly ten minutes about Hercules Posey, the enslaved cook owned by President Washington, and our self-appointed tour guide proudly pointed out Hercules’ image on the information board near the house. I thought it was a shame that the board mentioned George and Martha, as well as their grandchildren Eleanor Parke Custis and George Washington Custis by name, but it made no mention of Hercules whatsoever. The sign did let visitors know the household was “served by enslaved persons and servants, both hired and indentured”. But there was no reason, at least in my mind, that Hercules Posey’s name was omitted from that informational display.

Our visit to the Germantown White House was amazing, even though we couldn’t get inside. Just thinking about Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, Hercules Posey, and Oney Judge as they walked the halls of that historic home sent resin-based shivers up my stainless-steel spine. As Tom drove the Rogue away from that historic Presidential home, we were a little over 30 miles from another residence of a President – the Grant House in Burlington, New Jersey. Our route took us back into Philadelphia before we headed north along the Delaware River; luckily for all of us, the Sunday afternoon traffic was light, and we had no problem whatsoever getting across the river and into Burlington by 4:15pm.

After our vehicle was parked down the narrow one-way street in the quaint and quiet neighborhood north of downtown Burlington, Tom carried me up to the gray wooden picket fence that surround the Grant House. The two-story home was built around 1856 and General Grant used the place as a safe-haven for his family during the Civil War. On the morning of April 14, 1865, President Lincoln had invited Grant and his wife Julia to attend a play at Ford’s Theater with him and the First Lady. The General knew his wife despised Mary Todd Lincoln and he politely declined the invitation; stating they were headed to Burlington to visit their children. By the time their train had arrived in Philadelphia late that night, Grant learned of the attack on Lincoln. By the morning of April 15th, the General was given the grim news that the President had been assassinated. It’s been said that Ulysses S. Grant stood on the second-floor balcony of that Burlington house and announced to his neighbors that President Lincoln was dead. Shortly after the announcement, Grant caught a train back to Washington. From my position in front of the historic home, I looked up at the balcony and envisioned Grant as he stood there and delivered the shocking and solemn news to anyone within earshot. At that moment, I had wondered if General Grant felt guilty for turning down the President’s invitation. Perhaps Grant thought he may have been able to stop Booth before he fired the fatal shot.

During the ten minutes that we spent near the exterior of the historic Grant House, I had wanted my photographer to “Pull a Mongo” where he’d walk up onto the front porch and knock on the door. Maybe the owners would’ve answered and maybe not; but I was disappointed Tom didn’t even try. I truly believed that had the Grant House owners heard our story and learned of our quest to pay homage to the Presidents, they would’ve invited us in without hesitation. As we headed back to the Rogue, I thought to myself: “I guess we will never know.”

The clock on the Rogue’s dashboard read 4:30pm and we were finished for the day – at least according to my photographer’s agenda. When Tom wrote the itinerary a month before we left Michigan, he had scheduled us to spend that Sunday night near the area where Washington crossed the Delaware River; then we would visit that site on Monday morning . However, when Bob realized we were only 28 miles from Princeton, New Jersey and we still had four hours of daylight left, Mongo mentioned that he wouldn’t mind if we headed to the prestigious university where he could walk the campus. My photographer didn’t need to think twice about Mongo’s request, especially since he still needed to photograph the college’s historic Prospect House that we didn’t get to see in July 2017 during our last trip to Princeton.

We rolled into Princeton just after five o’clock, but instead of driving directly to the university, we began our visit at Princeton Cemetery of the Nassau Presbyterian Church instead. There were a handful of graves within the 1757 cemetery that my companions wanted to visit – President Grover Cleveland, Vice President Aaron Burr, and Signer of the Declaration of Independence John Witherspoon. When we arrived at President Cleveland’s grave, I had flashbacks from my 2017 visit – Grover’s tombstone still reminded me of a gigantic granite bowling trophy. But the big difference during that latest visit was the cemetery was infested with the Brood X cicadas; the insects were as thick as they were in Arlington National Cemetery and for the first time on the trip, I heard them making their distinctive mating call. I knew my photographer was happy to see the orange and black bugs again, but not me; especially when one of those ugly critters walked across my base while I stood on the President’s tombstone.

Grover Cleveland was our 22nd and 24th President, the only person to serve two non-consecutive terms. Cleveland called Princeton his home when he and his wife Frances left the White House in 1897, and he lived there for the rest of his life. What I found cool was the fact that Grover Cleveland was the only President to get married inside the White House and his wife was 28 years his junior. From my position on the President’s tombstone, I could see First Lady Frances Cleveland’s grave to my left and the tombstone of their daughter, Ruth Cleveland, to my right. “Baby Ruth” Cleveland died from diphtheria at the age of 12 on January 7, 1904 in Princeton. It’s been widely believed the Curtiss Candy Company renamed their Kandy Kake candy the “Baby Ruth” bar after the President’s daughter. However, the name change didn’t take place until 1921 – seventeen years after Ruth Cleveland’s death. Ironically, Yankees’ slugger Babe Ruth hit a record 54 homeruns in 1920 and was the rage of the nation. In my mind, Curtiss Candy wanted to profit from the baseball player’s name without paying him compensation.

Once Bob had photographed Grover Cleveland’s gravesite, he set out to find the graves of John Witherspoon and Aaron Burr; both of which were located close to each other in the President’s Plot of Princeton Cemetery. Tom, on the other hand, spent some additional time with the cicadas near Cleveland’s grave as he tried to trick a male by imitating a female’s clicking sound. I laughed when the cicada didn’t react whatsoever; likely because she may have been a female.

As soon as we arrived at the Presidents’ Plot, an area of the cemetery that was reserved for deceased presidents of Princeton University, my photographer set me down on the tombstone of John Witherspoon. Although Witherspoon was a clergyman and a theologian, he also had a passion for politics which landed him in the Continental Congress during the debates on independence in 1776. When a colleague objected during the debates and said the country was not yet ready for independence, Witherspoon replied: “It was not only ripe for the measure, but in danger of rotting for the want of it.” Witherspoon was the only clergyman and college president to sign the Declaration of Independence; and later, he penned his signature onto the Articles of Confederation. By 1792, the Signer suffered eye injuries and became blind. Two years later, John Witherspoon died near Princeton at the age of 71 on November 15, 1794. As a movie fan, another tidbit I found cool was Hollywood actress Reese Witherspoon is a descendant of the Signer of the Declaration of Independence. As I stood on top of Witherspoon’s granite grave marker, I noticed there were a lot of words etched into the stone; but the only words I could understand was his name – everything else seemed to be written in Latin.

From my position where I stood on Witherspoon’s tombstone, I saw a six-foot tall white granite marker that was about 50 feet away. It turned out to be where Vice President Aaron Burr was buried after his death on September 14, 1836. While Burr was not a Princeton president, his father and grandfather were; which was the reason Aaron was buried next to them in President’s Plot. When Tom set me down on Burr’s grave, a lot of bad thoughts and emotions ran through my mind – mainly because he was the scoundrel who shot and killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel on July 11, 1804. I also wasn’t fond of Aaron Burr because he was a political adversary to President Thomas Jefferson; and that never sets well with me for some reason. However, since I try to find a silver lining in every dark cloud, Vice President Burr did carry out his term as President of the Senate with fairness and judicial manner – so much so, in fact, that some of his practices for that office are still used today. As I stood on the top of Aaron Burr’s tombstone that was littered with numerous stones, rocks, bracelets, and other items left by visitors, a TV commercial that first aired in 1993 popped into my resin mind. It was the famous “Got Milk?” advertisement where a history buff tried to win $10,000 by answering a trivia question asked over the telephone: “Who shot Alexander Hamilton in that famous duel?” Unfortunately for the history buff, he had just taken a bite of a peanut butter sandwich and his correct answer “Aaron Burr” was unintelligible due to the sandwich. Just as my photographer was about to remove me from the tombstone, I answered the question just like the history buff had done in the commercial: “A-wun Buh; A-wun Buh” I didn’t win the ten grand either!

Before we left the cemetery for our visit at Princeton University, Mongo took a few minutes to book our hotel for the night. We got lucky as he found a good deal at the Hampton Inn, which was located about five miles east of the college. Once Tom found a parking place along Nassau Street, he and Bob went their separate ways onto the campus – they agreed to meet back at the car an hour later. While Mongo’s goal was to visit the Book Store and see a handful of scholastic buildings, Tom had one site that he needed to find – Prospect House. In 2017, we weren’t allowed to see Prospect House without obtaining a pass; which we never did. But on that late Sunday afternoon, it seemed as though the college was conducting an open house to recruit new students; which meant we had easier access to the campus. My photographer carried me south through the campus along Chancellor Way where we admired a cool-looking statue of John Witherspoon. It didn’t take long before we had made our way onto Chapel Drive where the two of us saw the entrance to Prospect Gardens; we entered the property without any issues. Before I knew it, my photographer and I were standing in front of the historic and majestic Prospect House; and I was awestruck. I wasn’t totally sure we were supposed to be standing there, but no one was around to tell us differently.

The two-story sandstone mansion known as Prospect House also featured a three-story tower at one end. The main reason for my visit was because Woodrow Wilson lived in that house from 1902 until 1910 while he served as university president at Princeton. But there was another Presidential connection; as well as a First Lady connection with the mansion. It turned out that a farmhouse once stood on the Prospect House site around the time of the Revolutionary War and George Washington visited there during and after the war. And on February 10, 1913 Grover Cleveland’s widow, Frances Cleveland, married Thomas J. Preston at Prospect House. My photographer and I stayed about ten minutes alongside the famed Prospect Gardens while I posed near the exterior of the mansion; which Tom originally thought was still the current residence of the university’s president. But it wasn’t – in 1968, the elegant home became a private clubhouse for the faculty. Private or not, Tom set me on an exterior window ledge of the mansion and I didn’t hesitate to look inside. Yes, for a moment, I was once again a Peeping Tom.

My photographer and I made it back to our vehicle 15 minutes before our one-hour time limit had expired. Mongo arrived ten minutes after us; and he was anxious to see the final site of the day – the house where Albert Einstein once lived. I figured Tom was looking forward to seeing the house as well, mainly because the safety process that he’s led for the past 15 years was called EINSTEIN. It was a short drive to the white two-story home that was located on Mercer Street in Princeton. Although Albert Einstein was never on the faculty at Princeton, he occupied an office in the University’s mathematics building in the 1930s while waiting for construction of the Institute for Advanced Study to be completed. Einstein’s wife Elsa purchased the home on July 24, 1935 and she died there a little over one year later. Albert lived in the house for the last 20 years of his life, but he did not die there. Instead, the genius mathematician passed away at Princeton Hospital on April 18, 1955 at the age of 76. Unfortunately for all of us, Einstein had requested that his house never be made a museum or turned into a tourist destination. His request was granted; the private residence was void of any historical signage and there wasn’t a house number on the building. There was, however, a sign on the front gate stating ‘Private Residence’; but that didn’t deter Mongo from walking past that gate and onto the front porch. For my photographer, he captured his images from the sidewalk as I posed with the house in the background. I thought it would’ve been cool to stand on the front steps where Albert Einstein once sat while he wore his goofy-looking fluffy slippers, but Tom was reluctant to follow Bob onto the property.

We finished our visit at Einstein’s house on Mercer Street at about 7:15pm and we returned to the Rogue that Tom had parked on a nearby side street. I figured my companions were hungry as they never stopped to eat during the entire day, but they decided to make the six-mile journey to the hotel and unpack before eating. During registration at the Hampton Inn just outside of Princeton, site manager Melissa Prayer learned of our Presidential quest and she seemed genuinely interested in some of the sites I had visited in the past. As a matter of fact, Melissa predicted that one day I would become one of the most famous bobble heads in the country and all it would take is for the right person with the right connections to hear our story. Her enthusiasm and confidence definitely put a bounce in my step and a wiggle in my neck.

After my friends had lugged their stuff into the room, the three of us headed to a place that Melissa had recommended – Tommy’s Tavern; which was only five miles or so down the road from our hotel. Even though I liked the diner’s name, I was forced to sit in the camera case and watch in disgust as Tom devoured a full rack of ribs faster than Fred Flintstone tackled brontosaurus ribs. For Mongo, he casually enjoyed his hamburger that was cooked to perfection; or at least he thought it was.

Following their meal, the three of us retuned to the Hampton Inn and Tom placed me alongside the TV set where I watched him tally his NASCAR stats for the fantasy league he leads. When my photographer finished his work at 11:15pm, the lights went out and our long, but exciting, day came to an end. For the remainder of the night I stood in the darkness and thought about what Melissa had said earlier. Was I destined for fame? Would I end up on ‘Good Morning America’ like Rick Bieth once predicted? While those thoughts were cool, fame was never my goal. I’m a simple bobble head who wants to bring history to life for the people who can’t visit the Presidential sites in person. Perhaps the “connections” that Melissa had mentioned would help provide me with a more visible platform where I can share my stories to interested people around the world. It never hurts to dream, does it?