155: THE OMAHA BIRTH SITE OF A MICHIGAN KING

The alarm rang at 6:00am on Saturday October 9, 2021. Even though his wife seemed reluctant to budge from the bed, Tom was able to get her up, get everything packed, and get the three of us on the road by 7:40am. It wasn’t because my photographer was trying to be mean to Vicki, it was due to the fact we had 650 miles of roadway ahead of us and Tom wanted to see Mount Rushmore at sunset. I laughed to myself when my photographer said to his wife: “The good news is we will gain an extra hour when we cross into the Mountain Time Zone.” Tom’s philosophy reminded me of Clark W. Griswold when he said to his family: “Everybody in the car. Boat leaves in two minutes. Or, perhaps you don’t want to see the second-largest ball of twine on the face of the earth, which is only four short hours away.”

At one point during the monotonous 100-mile drive from Stewart, Iowa to Omaha, Nebraska, I thought I heard my photographer attempt to impersonate Bob Seger; and let me tell you, it was a horrible rendition of ‘Turn the Page’. While the hum of our Jeep’s new engine was soothing, Tom’s singing voice was not: “On a long and lonesome highway, East of Omaha; You can listen to the engine moanin’ out his one note song.” That was about the time when Vicki stopped his “one note song” and she turned on the radio.

It was an exciting moment for me when we crossed the Missouri River into Omaha, Nebraska as I had never set foot in the Cornhusker State before. Even though we wouldn’t be there long, Nebraska had become the 38th state I had visited since 2013. Less than fifteen minutes after we arrived in a quiet neighborhood west of downtown Omaha, I found myself standing at the birthplace site of a King. That’s right – Leslie Lynch King, Jr. was born on July 14, 1913 in a three-story Victorian mansion owned by his paternal grandparents. However, the future President Gerald R. Ford lived in the home for only sixteen days. After Ford’s father threatened to kill his mother, the newborn baby, and Ford’s nursemaid with a butcher knife, Gerald’s mother left her husband for good. After a short stay in Oak Park, Illinois, Dorothy and her infant son moved to her parent’s home in Grand Rapids, Michigan where Gerald grew up. Before the future President turned four years old, his mother married a local salesman named Gerald Rudolff Ford. From that point on, young Leslie Lynch King, Jr. was known as Gerald Rudolff Ford, Jr.; although he was never formally adopted and didn’t legally change his name, and the spelling of his middle name to Rudolph, until he was nearly 19 years old.

But where was the elaborate three-story mansion where our 38th President was born? As I looked around, I saw a beautiful flower garden in a park setting; as well as a large pagoda and a kiosk that contained some Gerald Ford memorabilia. But there was no house. It turned out that the historic 14-room mansion was razed after a 1971 fire had caused substantial damage. While Tom carried me around the site and placed me in several areas where the birthplace once stood, I envisioned the mansion still standing there in all of its glory. But the site was also a place of darkness and despair in Gerald Ford’s life. After all, it was where the first assassination attempt on his life, and that of his mother, occurred when the future 38th President was only two weeks old. The more I thought about it, perhaps it was a good thing the home was destroyed and replaced by a lavishly gorgeous park. The house had vanished long ago, and along with it, all traces of that abusive King.

The three of us left the Omaha birthsite of Gerald Ford around 9:45am and once we made it north to Sioux Falls, we began the long, tedious, boring, butt-numbing five-hour drive across the state of South Dakota. There were three highlights during that western trek – the speed limit was 80mph; there was plenty of reading material with the thousands of billboards along I-90; and a few thunderstorms on the route left us awestruck. But in true Griswold fashion, we suffered damage to the ‘Family Truckster’ – a vehicle in front of us catapulted a stone into our windshield and chipped the glass. While Vicki was furious, in my mind it was better than a bunch of thugs stealing our hubcaps in St. Louis.

I scratched my resin-based head when I heard my photographer tell his wife we were stopping at the famous Wall Drug in Wall, South Dakota. Perhaps it was because he and Vicki had counted over 90 different Wall Drug billboards and signs during the drive; or maybe it was because they had visited the famous drug store back in 1982. Before I could say “Free Ice Water”, I found myself posing in front of America’s largest tourist trap just as a major storm rolled-in from the southwest. Vicki entered the enormous building to buy a well-advertised donut while Tom and I stayed outside to admire the approaching storm. And let me tell you, that was one heck of a thunderstorm. At one point, while my photographer held me aloft in front of Wall Drug for a photo, we were nearly struck by lightning. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I smelled burned resin after the bolt of electricity hit somewhere very close to us. As we stood under the overhang just outside of Wall Drug, the two of us experienced high winds, sheets of rain, hail, and of course, impressive bolts of lightning.

Tom and I had survived the thunderstorm and Vicki managed to choke down her Wall Drug donut; one that she said tasted like it must’ve been an original from 1931. It was nearly 4:00pm when we headed out of the “middle of nowhere” called Wall, South Dakota. After a 75-mile drive to the Mountain View Lodge and Cabins, which was located about five miles east of Hill City, South Dakota, my companions unpacked their belongings into the amazingly cozy place we’d call home for the night.

With little time to waste before sunset, the three of us boarded the “Truckster” for the 10-mile drive to Mount Rushmore. Even though we heard the Evening Lighting Ceremony had ended for the season ten days earlier, we knew the historic monument would still be illuminated at night – and that was good enough for me. However, as I listened to Tom and Vicki reminisce about their 1982 trip when they witnessed the four Presidential heads get bathed in floodlights seconds after our National Anthem had played, I was disappointed we wouldn’t experience the ceremony.

When we arrived at Mount Rushmore at roughly 6:00pm, which was only eighteen minutes before sunset, I got my first glimpse of the enormous 60-foot-tall sculpted heads of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln from the parking lot. The sky was overcast; the wind was brisk and chilly as we walked through the Avenue of Flags to the viewing platform where we waited for the day’s last light to slowly disappear. The floodlights were already lighting the faces; which made the overall experience anticlimactic. It was still better, however, than not seeing the illuminated monument at all. For my photographer and me, the visit was one with a Presidential connection; Barack Obama had been photographed in 2008 with the lighted monument in the background. The area where Tom and I stood was the same place where Obama had stood as well; and for me, that was “Presidential Holy Ground”!

The longer we sat and waited for total darkness, the colder it had become. I knew my photographer was chilled, even though he wore a hooded sweatshirt beneath his West Michigan Whitecaps baseball jacket. I wasn’t prepared for the weather whatsoever; I was still dressed in my usual overcoat, shirt, and knickers that I wear everywhere. I had hoped the extreme temperature wouldn’t have an adverse effect on my surgically repaired legs; after all, I’m used to travelling in the summer. When Tom held me up in the breeze in front of the illuminated mountain, I was happy my legs had been taped for extra support. In my mind, I was concerned about the Gorilla Glue staying effective in cold temperatures.

When Tom finished capturing his images of the memorial from the viewing platform, we began the long walk back to the parking lot. But when we stopped near the Avenue of Flags where he took a final photo, my patriotic resin-filled heart skipped a beat. There were 56 flags that lined both sides of the approach way – they represented the 50 states, one district, three territories, and two commonwealths of the United States of America. At that moment, when I gazed up in awe at the illuminated memorial, I wished Lady Gaga would somehow magically appear and sing the Star-Spangled Banner. There’s nothing better than being a proud American; and there’s no better place to let patriotism flow through one’s veins than at Mount Rushmore – especially at night.

My companions headed into the nearby town of Keystone where they searched for a place to have dinner. It was nearly 7:30pm and they hadn’t eaten much all day – except when they munched on the treasure trove of snacks they had stowed in the Jeep. Once in town, Tom and his wife quickly discovered that a lot of the eateries had closed early in October and their choices of diners were extremely limited. However, after the two of them settled on a place called Boss’ Pizza and Chicken, my photographer scarfed four pieces of fried chicken so fast, I thought nearby patrons should’ve worn safety glasses due to the flying crumbs. Vicki, on the other hand, ate her chicken sandwich at a more controlled and civilized pace – which didn’t surprise me at all.

Minutes after the three of us arrived back at our motel, Tom placed me on a small table alongside his bed where I spent the entire night. The Mountain View Lodge and Cabins was one of the best places we had ever stayed; our room featured two distinct bedrooms, one for each of my companions. That meant I only heard one of them snore instead of the usual choreographed duo. As I stood throughout the night in deep thought, I kept thinking about the 1982 story about Tom and Vicki’s first trip to Mount Rushmore where my photographer’s ultimate goal was to capture pictures of the memorial beneath a cloudless, blue sky. When their tour day arrived 39 years ago, however, it was partly overcast and Tom never captured a single image sans cloud cover. But, when the two of them awoke the next morning, there were no clouds anywhere. As he told his version of the story: “It was the day I had envisioned for months before that trip, and we were still only ten miles from Mount Rushmore. My dream had come true!” He also stated over and over that their route to Devil’s Tower took them past the entrance to the memorial, but Vicki (who was driving) refused to stop – even for a few minutes. As a matter of fact, Tom quoted his wife as saying sarcastically as she sped past the parking lot: “How many pictures of that thing do you need?” My answer to her would’ve been: “Only one – now stop!”

In my mind, time was running out for my photographer. I figured the next morning might be Tom’s last chance to fulfill his dream of seeing Mount Rushmore beneath a pure blue sky. Unfortunately, the weather forecast wasn’t favorable; local meteorologists predicted partly cloudy skies for most of the next day. As I stood on the table and watched Tom sleep, all I could do was hope the forecast was wrong. There was a moment I thought to myself: “Thomas, George, Abe and Teddy, if the four of you have any pull, please help make tomorrow a cloudless day for my photographer. We’ll take lousy weather for the rest of the trip in exchange for the perfect Sunday.” I didn’t get an answer!