It was Monday May 24, 2021 and the alarm clock on Tom’s phone went off at precisely 6:00am. A few minutes later, Mongo returned to our room at the Hampton after he had finished his morning run around the Princeton University campus; but Bob said he had a problem – it seemed as though he was suffering from an adverse reaction to the hamburger he ate the night before. In my mind, I figured that wasn’t going to end well; especially since we had four full days left on our trip and we were over 600 miles from home. There were no butts about it, Mongo was a trooper – he said he wasn’t about to let a little raw burger stop the trip and was willing to wipe the annals of history clean to rectify the issue. From my spot next to the TV where I had watched a documentary about asteroids while Tom got ready for the day, I felt the need to lighten the moment. I changed my mind, however, as it’s never wise to crack a pun at someone suffering from the yoo-hoo flu – it could stain one’s relationship.
Finally, we were on the road westward – Tom was behind the wheel and Mongo rode shartgun. Thirty minutes later we arrived at Washington Crossing State Park, which was located on the eastern shore of the Delaware River. Ten months earlier, my photographer and I, along with Tom’s wife Vicki, had visited the historic spot where General Washington and his troops crossed the Delaware River on Christmas Night 1776. On that trip, we stayed on the Pennsylvania side only as Tom thought there was more to see there. When my companions and I arrived on the New Jersey side of the river at 8:15am, there was no doubt Tom was right.
The three of us spent about a half hour along the New Jersey side of the Delaware as we gazed across the river to the spot where General Washington and his troops began their harrowing boat ride across the dark, ice-filled waters on December 25, 1776. As I stood there, I could see in my mind’s eye numerous Durham cargo boats filled with troops crossing the frigid waters; while other flat-bottom ferries transported the Americans’ cannons and horses. The entire midnight crossing that was hatched by 44-year old General George Washington was intended as a surprise attack on about 1,400 Hessian troops located in and around Trenton, New Jersey. Once all of Washington’s troops had successfully made it into New Jersey, it took them roughly four hours to march to the outskirts of Trenton where the battle began. During that fight between the Continental Army and the Hessians, future fifth President James Monroe, who had crossed the Delaware with Washington, suffered a severed artery in the battle and nearly died.
When it was time for the three of us to cross the Delaware, we didn’t travel via Durham boats. Instead, Tom drove across the extremely narrow Washington Crossing Bridge; a short trip where I thought my photographer would either scrape the side of the bridge or hit oncoming traffic – or maybe both. I laughed to myself when I thought that Washington and his troops should’ve used that bridge instead of the boats, but once we arrived in Pennsylvania and I stopped shaking from that “three minutes of terror”, I truly believed their nighttime voyage through the icy waters was a safer option.
Inside Pennsylvania’s Washington Crossing State Park, I posed for a few photos at the same granite monument I had stood on in 2020. From my position on top of the four-foot-tall monument, I could easily see the spot where I had stood in New Jersey; mainly because the river was less than 300 yards wide at the point where Washington had crossed. While the Visitor Center hadn’t opened yet and the other buildings in the park were still closed as well, I took the opportunity to stand near the exterior of McConkey’s Ferry Inn – which was built in 1790 and stood in the footprint of the original 1776 building. On Christmas Day of ’76, General George Washington sat inside the McConkey’s Ferry building while he penned a letter to Colonel John Cadwalader. Washington’s letter stated in part: “I am determined as the night is favorable to cross the river…”
While that night may have been favorable for Washington to cross the river, I nearly fell out of the camera case when I heard we had to make another trip over that same river on our journey towards Easton, Pennsylvania. I was confused as to why we had to go east over that narrow bridge into New Jersey when our intended destination was to the northwest in Pennsylvania, but our ‘Siri’ generated GPS figured it would save us five minutes of travel time. The only thought that popped into my resin head was: “That darn Siri has made some bad decisions and has been ‘off her game’ for most of the trip.” My photographer got lucky – there was no oncoming traffic on the bridge. We had made it safely into New Jersey then on to Easton; we arrived just as the clock struck 10:30am.
On our agenda, there were two scheduled stops in Easton; and both had something in common: George Taylor, one of the 56 Signers of the Declaration of Independence. Once my photographer guided our Rogue through the entrance gates of Easton Cemetery, which resembled a castle wall, it took only a few minutes before we arrived at the gravesite of George Taylor. As Tom carried me up to the 25-foot-tall monument that marked the final resting place of Signer George Taylor, I thought about the fact that he never voted for independence on July 4, 1776. His absence from voting wasn’t because Taylor didn’t support the cause, it was due to the fact that he didn’t become a member of the Second Continental Congress until two weeks after the Declaration was adopted. George Taylor was one of only eight foreign-born Signers and the only one to hold the position as ironmaster. As a matter of fact, Taylor helped secure Durham Furnace, an ironworks company, to supply munitions to the Continental Army. After his brief time in Congress ended after just seven months of service, George Taylor spent the remainder of his life as an ironworker in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. When he became ill, Taylor returned to Easton where he leased a house from William Parsons; he died in that house on February 23, 1781 at the age of 65 – just after he became eligible for Continental Medicare.
We left Easton Cemetery and headed directly for the home where George Taylor had died, which was about a mile away. After our arrival, Tom carried me up to the 2 1/2-story stone home that was billed as the oldest building in Easton. William Parsons’ home, which had been built on the corner of South Fourth Street and Ferry Street, was so close to the sidewalk that my photographer was forced to stand in the middle of the intersection to capture images of the entire house. It didn’t seem to bother Tom whatsoever that the two of us were in danger of being run over by traffic, but I was concerned. I didn’t want to be hit by a car and have pieces of my resin body scattered all over downtown Easton.
When we finished our photo-shoot from the middle of the street and returned to the security of the sidewalk, I was elated for two reasons. First, I survived the ordeal in the street, which at times was touch-and-go for my photographer and I. And second, it was an honor for me to stand next to the Parsons-Taylor House where the Signer of the Declaration of Independence had spent the final days of his life. In reality, George Taylor was a hard-working patriot who was in the right place at the right time – by signing the Declaration of Independence, his legacy will last forever. I wish we could’ve toured the home’s interior because I suspected George Taylor’s spirit was running amok within those stone walls. But since my photographer didn’t make advanced reservations for a tour and the doors to the house were locked tight, my Taylor-made curiosity would have to be put on hold.
When we left Easton and headed westward, I thought for sure my time with George Taylor had ended. But as it turned out, the Signer of the Declaration of Independence had built his own mansion in Catasauqua, Pennsylvania and he lived there for eight years; moving out just four months before he joined Congress in late July 1776. Twenty-five minutes after we left the Parsons-Taylor house in Easton behind, we arrived at the George Taylor House in Catasauqua; and I had to admit, the mansion was well worth the effort to get there. The two-story stone mansion was built in 1768 by Taylor, and he lived there for roughly eight years. After George sold his place to John Benezet, a patriot who had ties with Samuel Adams, the mansion ended up in the hands of David Deshler in 1782. That was the same David Deshler who also owned the Germantown White House in Philadelphia; which was President Washington’s temporary residence that I had visited the day before. There was so much history in the George Taylor House, but it was history that I wasn’t going to experience – at least from the inside. Once again my camera guy was forced to capture all of his images of me near the exterior of the home, which meant my search for ghosts was out of the question in Catasauqua.
I love it when I get the opportunity to pay tribute to any of the 56 Signers of the Declaration of Independence, but my main passion was still dedicated to the Presidents of the United States. In 1857, when James Buchanan was elected as our 15th President, he was the only person born in Pennsylvania to hold our nation’s highest office. Buchanan held that distinction for 164 years until January 20, 2021. That was the day when a man with the same initials, who was also born in the Keystone State, was given the keys to the White House. Just four months and four days after Joe Biden took office, the three of us were headed to his birthplace in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Although Biden had lived in Wilmington, Delaware since 1953, our current President was born in Scranton, and he lived in the coal producing city for the first ten years of his life.
We began our five-site Biden tour of Scranton at 1:00pm when we stopped across the street from Yeshiva Beth Moshe School, which was a private Jewish undergraduate school that appeared to be in the process of being renovated. The four-story brick building, which stood on a hill-side along Scranton’s Hickory Street, was once St. Mary’s Keller Memorial Hospital where Joseph Robinette Biden, Jr. was born on November 20, 1942. When Tom carried me up close to the building, a rabbi quickly emerged from an attached house and asked if he could help us. The clergyman seemed content when my photographer assured him that we were there only because it was President Biden’s birthplace. In a blink of an eye, the rabbi disappeared before Tom could ask for permission to visit the interior, which seemed unlikely anyway as the religious leader didn’t seem overly friendly. As I posed for a handful of photos near the exterior of the former hospital, I laughed when I thought to myself: “It was inside this building when our President was slapped with the middle name of Robinette”. I knew Biden was named after his father who had the same middle name, which was why ‘Junior’ was stuck with “Robinette”, too. But the more I thought about it, the funnier it became. So much so, in fact, I changed the words of a 1971 advertising jingle for candy that had popped into my resin-filled head: “Goobers or Robinettes, the chocolate covered candies that pour.” While he might not have been born poor or covered in chocolate, some “Goober” named him Joseph Robinette Biden, Jr. and that happened in the building directly in front of me.
We began our Biden tour of Scranton where our 46th President had come into the world – at St. Mary’s Keller Memorial Hospital. When baby Joe left the hospital shortly after his birth, he was taken to his maternal grandparent’s house located in the Green Ridge neighborhood of Scranton that was about three miles to the north. While the President’s father had been wealthy, he had some financial issues around the time Joe Jr. was born; forcing the family to reside with Jean Biden’s parents – Ambrose and Catherine Finnegan. As we followed in Joe Biden’s footsteps, the three of us travelled across town to the same three-story Colonial house that was home to our 46th President during the first ten years of his life.
Tom parked our vehicle along nearby Fisk Street and the three of us made the short walk to Joe Biden’s boyhood home. That section of North Washington Avenue where the historic home was located seemed quiet and peaceful; it was what I envisioned as a “Leave It To Beaver” neighborhood. The gray two-story wooden house with black shutters looked like any other home on the block, except there was a small information box near the front walkway that encouraged visitors to photograph President Biden’s boyhood home, but only from the sidewalk alongside the street. When Bob read the notice aloud, I thought to myself: “It’s a public sidewalk. We don’t need permission to take pictures of that house from a public sidewalk.” Without a gate and with no “Private Property” signs posted anywhere, Tom carried me up the front walkway and he placed me on the first step of the porch where he thought Presidential candidate Biden stood on Election Day 2020. It turned out that my “lamebrained” photographer missed the exact spot by one step – Biden stood on the second step instead of the first. From the spot where Joe had walked and didn’t stand, I noticed something very cool on the front door. The owners had altered their 2446 house number – the “46” was painted gold and was encircled in black; it symbolized Biden as our 46th President. During the photoshoot where I stood on a few different spots along the front walkway, I envisioned the young boy as he played in the front yard of his grandparents’ home. He likely mowed the lawn or played catch with his friends there; or maybe he sat on the front steps and ate Goobers or Raisinets. At one point, I also pictured Biden as he walked up towards the house on November 3, 2020 and said to Anne Kearns, the current owner: “It’s good to be home”. For me, it was good to be at his home!
Take a moment and check out Tom’s images of our visit to Joe Biden’s childhood home in Scranton, Pennsylvania; as well as photographs of Presidential candidate Biden when he paid a visit to his boyhood digs on November 3, 2020. You will notice that my goofy photographer set me on the wrong step of the porch. Tom did, however, place me in the right spot on the walkway closer to the sidewalk. I love standing in the footsteps of the Presidents!
As we did our photo-shoot on the steps of Joe Biden’s childhood home, I had hoped owner Anne Kearns would’ve noticed me and invited the three of us into her home. At one point, I thought about Jose Cunningham in Washington when he invited Mongo into “The Day the Earth Stood Still” house that he owned. Why don’t things like that ever happen to me at Presidential sites? Don’t people realize I’m one of the most well-travelled and famous bobble heads in the country? In my mind, it was likely that Anne wasn’t home or she surely would’ve invited us into Biden’s old bedroom, as well as the living room where the President signed the wall on Election Day 2020.
Exactly one mile south of Biden’s childhood home was St. Paul’s School, a public Catholic K-12 school that Joe attended during his youth in Scranton. Today, the school was only for elementary students. Just as we arrived in front of the four-story brick building, a school bus pulled up and parked directly in front of the entrance as the driver waited for the exodus of students. That meant only one thing: We needed to head to the next Biden site and return to the school when the students were gone.
In 1951, Joseph Biden, Sr. helped kick-start the Green Ridge Little League program which had built a field only a few blocks north of where the Biden’s lived on Washington Avenue. For a couple of seasons, the President’s father coached young Joe’s team. When we arrived at the Green Ridge Little League complex, the three of us discovered there were two baseball diamonds there – one for the older kids and a smaller field for younger players, which was where Joe Biden played ball as a youth. On that Monday afternoon at 2:15pm, there was no one at the ball fields except for the three of us; we had the entire complex to ourselves. Once Tom had carried me to the “back field” where Biden had played, we quickly discovered the entrance gates to the field were locked, which meant there was no chance of me standing on home plate for a photo. That was until Mongo came to my rescue. Bob easily climbed the fence and carried me onto the infield where he placed me onto home plate. I knew that Joe Biden was regarded as a very good baseball player in his day, and I was standing where he faced some of his first pitchers. At that moment, I was on the Field of my Presidential Dreams, and I loved it!
Tom had taken me out to the ballgame in Scranton, but he didn’t buy me any popcorn or Cracker Jacks; or any Goobers or Raisinets for that matter. Like the field, the concession stand was closed as well. It was mid-afternoon and all the talk of snacks had made my companions hungry, which made the decision to visit Hank’s Hoagies all that much easier. But Hank’s wasn’t just an ordinary sandwich shop in Eastern Pennsylvania. It was, in fact, ‘THE’ sandwich deli that’s famous for serving Joe Biden’s favorite hoagies; not just in Scranton, but in all of Pennsylvania. I knew my photographer was happy when we stopped there because he could kill two birds with one stone. After all, it’s not too often where a person can fill their stomach and visit a Presidential site at the same time.
My photographer wanted me to pose with the exterior of the small sandwich shop first. During my time in front of Hank’s, there were several things about the sandwich shop that I liked. There was the hometown neighborhood feel about the place; and that was evident by the number of customers that we saw go in and out of Hank’s with smiles on their faces. And I felt right at home when I saw several Presidential figurines situated in one of the front windows – including Bill Clinton, Abraham Lincoln, and George W. Bush. But there weren’t any Joe Biden toys anywhere in sight, and that shocked me. There were also numerous baseball bobble heads of Philadelphia Phillies players as well, but no Biden. Say it ain’t so, Joe!
Inside Hank’s Hoagies, the first thing that popped into my head was the small sandwich shop was part deli and part museum. There was a case near the cash register with antiques and old baseball cards on display; the area behind the counter was filled with treasures from the past; and I posed near a life-sized cardboard cutout of President Biden that stood near the front entrance. Located on the wall behind the Biden cutout was a board I had noticed called “Hank’s Wall of Fame”. That board featured the names of customers from 1984 to present day who had been “inducted” into Hank’s Wall of Fame. As a matter of fact, Joe Biden’s name was listed on the Wall of Fame for the year 2008; likely when he first visited Hank’s as the Vice-Presidential candidate. What caught my eye was the fact that 2021 was void of any name – it was still open. There was no doubt whatsoever in my mind that Tom Owens should consider me for that honor; especially since I was the first bobble head to visit Hank’s that’s been to all 39 Presidential gravesites.
When Joe Biden lived just two blocks away in the early 1950s, he and his friends bought penny candy from that store – then known as Simmy’s. There’s no doubt each time Biden returns to Hank’s when he’s in Scranton, the President relives his childhood all over again. My photographer met Tom Owens, the owner of Hank’s, and he explained that Biden orders the same hoagie whenever he’s there – Hank’s Italian, because of the “Hank’s Special Sauce” they use. Since “my” Tom and Mongo love to follow in the taste buds of the Presidents, as well as in their footsteps, both of my companions ordered the Hank’s Italian hoagie. While the sandwiches were being made, I had the pleasure of posing with Tom Owens, as well as with a “special guest” in Tom’s other hand – a Joe Biden bobble head.
When my photographer finished capturing his images inside Hank’s Hoagies, the three of us found a picnic table on the west side of the building where Tom and Bob got their first taste of a Hank’s Italian hoagie. It didn’t take but a minute or two before I heard my photographer’s verdict as he couldn’t hide his pleasure any longer: “That’s the best tasting Italian sandwich I’ve ever had. The “Bobbie” was good, but it’s definitely not the greatest sandwich in America. That honor goes to Hank’s Italian with Hank’s Special Sauce.” When my companions finished their meal, they bid farewell to Tom Owens and complimented him on their sandwiches. Hank’s Hoagies was one of those places that proved you should never judge a book by its cover. From the outside, the place appeared very small with out-of-control ivy that clung to the old stucco-covered block walls. And while the interior was crammed with antiques, figurines, and mementos, there was an instant hometown charm that began with Tom Owens and ended with his fantastic food.
It was 3:15pm and my friends figured the bus in front of St. Paul’s School was likely gone; and when we arrived there less than five minutes later, they were right. As a matter of fact, the entire school appeared empty; which was good because during our visit two hours earlier, Tom and Bob saw students as they poked their curious heads out of the windows to catch a glimpse of me. To be honest, I couldn’t blame them one bit.
When Joe Biden attended elementary classes at St. Paul’s School, he was never accused of being a great student. Biden was a very good athlete, but his scholastic achievements left much to be desired. He also stuttered, which may have hindered his classroom participation and overall confidence. As a matter of fact, his second grade teacher, Sister Eunice, tormented Biden because of his speech impediment and she constantly poked fun at him. It’s funny, at least in my mind, how things have changed in the past 70 years. Today, it seems as though teachers are fired or suspended if they say or do anything that upsets a student in the slightest way – those educators must constantly walk on eggshells, at least during school hours. But in Joe Biden’s situation, back in the early 1950s, that nun was out of control, which at times, caused him to loathe his tormentor. Sister Eunice, or “The Penguin” as Jake Blues once called a mean nun, didn’t stop teasing Biden even after he became a prominent U.S. Senator. Eunice once bragged to a one-time classmate of the Senator: “You children would go home for lunch, and Joe Biden would apparently have a big meal because he’d often fall asleep in class in the afternoon. I used to tease him. I called him ‘Bye, Bye Biden’.” On June 29, 2014, Vice President Joe Biden learned that Sister Eunice was celebrating her 100th birthday. With charity for all and malice toward none, or nun, Biden surprised his former tormentor when he called her on the telephone to extend his best wishes. That act of kindness and sense of forgiveness towards Eunice spoke volumes of Joe Biden’s true character – he let bygones by bygones. I wondered to myself: “Will Joe Biden ever forgive Donald Trump? At least Trump didn’t break a ruler over his knuckles!”
In 1953 when Joe Biden was ten years old, his father found a steady job in Delaware; Joe Sr. packed up the family and they left Scranton for good – only returning on occasion to visit the Finnegan’s. When our 20-minute visit at St. Paul’s School was finished, Tom packed me into the camera case, and we left Scranton for good. Like the Biden’s, we’ll return to the Finnegan’s home someday as well; and maybe, just maybe, we’ll also pay a visit to Hank’s.
After a long two-hour drive, we stopped in Harrisburg because my photographer wanted to capture a few images of the State Capitol Building. Since our arrival time was around 5:45pm, Tom had no problem finding a parking spot on the street near the west entrance to the Capitol. During our half-hour visit where we walked the grounds from the west front to the East Wing of the Capitol, I enjoyed the majestic beauty of the building. Compared to all the other State Capitol Buildings I’ve visited in the past, I was impressed most by that one in Harrisburg. It took four years to construct the massive building that was over 500 feet wide and some 270 feet up to the golden statue on top of the dome. When the Capitol was dedicated on October 4, 1906, President Theodore Roosevelt was in attendance to deliver a speech. When the Rough Rider first set eyes upon the Capitol, he said: “It’s the handsomest building I ever saw.” I couldn’t have agreed more with our 26th President; although I wasn’t about to use the word “handsomest” to describe that building.
It was late in the day and my companions wanted to spend the night in Gettysburg, which was only 40 miles to the south. From our parking spot in front of the Capitol, Mongo booked a room at the Comfort Inn. Bob told my photographer that the hotel was very close to the National Cemetery and the price was right. I laughed when I heard that phrase because it reminded me of a TV game show that was once hosted by another ‘Bob’.
We arrived at the Comfort Inn in Gettysburg at 7:00pm; my friends had the vehicle unpacked and Tom placed me next to the TV set less than 15 minutes later. When I took my first look out of the room’s window, I was stunned – all I could see were tombstones everywhere. Not only was our hotel near the National Cemetery, it turned out that our room overlooked Evergreen Cemetery; which was where Abraham Lincoln’s dedication platform was located when he delivered his Gettysburg Address in 1863. I knew that because my photographer and I had visited the site only ten months earlier on our “2020 Pandemic Tour”. At first, I was excited to spend the night so close to one of the most historic sites in America. Then, just as Tom extinguished the lights in the room around 9:30pm, it dawned on me – would I see apparitions wandering that burial ground throughout the night? I could only hope!
** This post is dedicated to Tom Owens – owner of Hank’s Hoagies and friend of President Joe Biden. **
