192: I KISSED THE HISTORIC BRICKS IN INDY – BUT NOT AT THE BRICKYARD

It’s been three long months since I returned home from my Winter Dance Party trip to Wisconsin and I was itching to get back on the road again. During that time span, my photographer had organized a high-octane rigorous 12-day adventure that would take the two of us, along with our energetic and steadfast travel companion Bob Moldenhauer, through 12 states and the District of Columbia. Not only were we headed back to our nation’s capital, but the three of us had planned to spend six full days in Washington D.C. where we could take our time and visit some of the more obscure Presidential sites. There was no doubt in my resin-filled mind that we’d also see some of the more famous, well-known attractions as well. More importantly, at least to me, was thinking about what hidden gems would be in store of us?

Tom’s alarm clock rang at 2:50am on Monday May 9, 2022, which gave my photographer less than an hour to get himself ready for departure and the Jeep Grand Cherokee L packed before we headed to Bob’s house, which was about eight miles north of our home. Everything that morning went very smoothly – the two of us were in front of Bob’s residence at 3:50am and on the highway by four o’clock. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’ve done this a time or two.

The first site on our agenda was Benjamin Harrison’s home in Indianapolis, Indiana where we were scheduled to be on a ten o’clock guided tour. The weather was ideal, and the traffic seemed fairly light during the entire 330-mile drive to the Hoosier State’s capital city; at least from what I saw through an opening in the camera case. It was a few minutes past 9am when Tom parked the Jeep along Delaware Street; we were directly in front of our 23rd President’s historic home. I was thrilled to be back – it had been eight years since my first visit to Indy and I looked forward to seeing the entire mansion instead of only two rooms. Due to a lack of time on our July 6, 2014 visit, Tom asked for permission to be taken on a very abbreviated visit inside Harrison’s home. My cameraman wanted to photograph me in Benjamin’s bedroom where he died and one other significant room in the house. Although our time inside the home was short, we achieved our goal. I had the opportunity to stand on a Presidential deathbed for the first time.

With nearly an hour to kill before our tour, Tom and Bob wasted no time in getting to work with their cameras. My two companions wanted to take advantage of being alone in front of Harrison’s home without other tourists in their way. But as soon as my photographer removed me from the camera case, disappointment was written all over my face. Several unsightly cranes and tall lifts, which were being used by construction workers to make repairs to the home’s roof, were positioned very close to each side of the mansion. Since that was completely out of our control, the three of us focused on the front of the historic home. We only hoped that wasn’t a sign of things to come.

Even though the equipment detracted from the beauty of Harrison’s pride-and-joy, it didn’t lessen the historical significance of where we were standing. Benjamin Harrison began his law practice in Indianapolis in 1854, then he enlisted in the Civil War eight years later. Following his military endeavor, Harrison purchased that double lot where we stood in an 1867 auction. During that time, the property was on the outskirts of Indianapolis. As a matter of fact, the construction of Harrison’s home started a trend where wealthier citizens of Indianapolis moved to the north side of town. The three-story home that stood in front of me was completed in 1875, although at that time it didn’t feature the massive front porch. Ironically, it’s been falsely reported that Harrison conducted “front porch speeches” during his 1888 Presidential campaign, but the enormous porch wasn’t added to the home until three years after he left the White House. Benjamin did address large crowds that had gathered in front of his home and along Delaware Street during the Summer of ’88, but he spoke from the steps outside his front door.

After Tom and Bob had finished capturing their photos of the home’s exterior, the three of us made our way to the small visitor center located behind the house. That’s where our tour group assembled before we headed to Harrison’s home. My goal, as it is in every historical place I visit, was to stand on as many authentic furnishings and artifacts as possible; without doing any damage, of course. However, when my companions and I rendezvoused with our tour guide Bruce Bowman in the home’s foyer, I didn’t have a good feeling. My resin gut told me Bruce was a no-nonsense guide who knew the ins and outs of the historic residence and there would be no way he’d allow a bobble head to stand on or touch historic artifacts. As a matter of fact, when my photographer mentioned to Bowman that I had stood atop Harrison’s deathbed during my first visit eight years earlier, he didn’t blink an eye. It was as though he wanted to say out loud in front of our small group: “Not on my watch, Jefferson. Not on my watch!”

During some of our tours in the past, we’ve encountered some tough cookies, but more times than not I find my way onto historic furnishings. Not only are Tom and Bob a well-orchestrated team as they capture unobstructed images of historic sites, but they’re also in sync with each other as they get me to pose on some amazingly cool artifacts. Now sit back and enjoy the images taken by my photographer inside the home of our 23rd President Benjamin Harrison.

I couldn’t believe the amount of time I was allowed to stand on Benjamin Harrison’s bed; the very bed where he died on March 13, 1901. After Bruce Bowman had talked to our group about the bedroom for a few minutes, he vacated the room and left the three of us alone to do what we wanted. I was shocked to be in Harrison’s bedroom unsupervised; but in reality, it didn’t matter. The three of us would never do anything to deface, or destroy, or desecrate any Presidential or historic site – ever. When I get placed onto a piece of furniture or onto an original artifact, it’s my way of paying homage to one of our amazing Presidents. I know it may seem unbelievable, but it’s as though I can feel their presence when I’m touching one of the President’s possessions or standing in their footsteps.

When our tour had finished and we walked back into the front yard, I had a completely different understanding and appreciation for Benjamin Harrison. While most people consider Harrison one of our obscure and uninspiring Presidents, their views might change if they knew about some of his accomplishments. Six states were added to our nation during his single four-year term; Harrison pushed for Civil Rights legislation; and the part I love the most – he was a true champion for conservation and ecological protection in our country. As a matter of fact, he helped plant the seed of conservation that bloomed into Theodore Roosevelt’s passion. While President, Harrison created three National Parks – Sequoia, Yosemite, and General Grant, which later became part of Kings Canyon National Park. He also sparked legislation that helped save some of our national forests and waterway systems.

Another aspect that sometimes gets lost with Benjamin Harrison is the fact he was an honest President – and that’s something that can’t be said about every person who has lived in the White House. Harrison was a true American whose lineage sprouted from some of the finest patriotic roots in our nation’s history. His great grandfather, Benjamin Harrison V, signed the Declaration of Independence. Benjamin’s grandfather was William Henry Harrison, our 9th President. And when he moved into the White House in 1889, Benjamin Harrison fought hard to do what was best for every American and to protect the natural beauty and resources of our great nation.

I had a bounce in my step and a wiggle in my neck when we left Benjamin Harrison’s beautiful home. While the Indianapolis Motor Speedway pops into most people’s minds when they think about Indiana’s capital city, the true crown jewel of Indianapolis is Benjamin Harrison’s home. Winners of the Indianapolis 500 traditionally kiss the track’s famous bricks embedded into the finish line. However, the Indy bricks that are more historic and more famous and should be kissed are the 380,550 red bricks of Harrison’s beloved home. I was so blown-away with the mansion that it moved up from 13th place on my list of Presidential homes to 8th. That’s right – Harrison’s historic digs leap-frogged past Garfield’s ‘Lawnfield’, Hayes’ ‘Spiegel Grove’, Van Buren’s ‘Lindenwald’, Buchanan’s ‘Wheatland’, and Tyler’s ‘Sherwood Forest’.

It was an honor for me to pay tribute to Benjamin Harrison when I stood in his footsteps and touched some of his prized possessions inside his beautiful home. However, that historic home wasn’t the only place where I would have the opportunity to honor our 23rd President. In fact, we were headed for an up-close visit with Harrison himself at his final resting place; located just three miles north of the homestead in Crown Hill Cemetery.

Following Benjamin Harrison’s death on Wednesday March 13, 1901, the President’s casket was placed in the Front Parlor of his home where friends and family mourned his passing. Three days later, Harrison laid in state in the rotunda of the Indiana State House. The following day, Sunday March 17, 1901, a funeral was conducted at the First Presbyterian Church in Indianapolis before burial services were carried out at Crown Hill Cemetery. The body of the President was buried alongside his first wife and First Lady Caroline Scott Harrison, who had died in the White House from tuberculosis on October 25, 1892.

Tom drove our Jeep through the gates of Crown Hill at high noon, but it took another ten minutes before we found Harrison’s grave inside the enormous cemetery. Once we made the short walk from the roadway to the Harrison plot, I soon found myself standing in front of the large granite monument that marked the graves of President Harrison, First Lady Caroline Scott Harrison, the President’s second wife Mary Lord Harrison, and the President’s son Russell B. Harrison. While a stiff breeze rustled through the branches of the surrounding trees, a calm serenity filled the entire area. During my first visit to Harrison’s grave on July 6, 2014, my ponytail mysteriously fell off into the greenery that covered the President’s plot. I couldn’t imagine something like that happening again. It seemed great to be back, especially with Bob Moldenhauer – after all, it was Bob’s first time inside Crown Hill and to Benjamin Harrison’s grave.

Our visit with Benjamin Harrison at his final resting place lasted nearly a half hour. However, the three of us weren’t finished inside Crown Hill Cemetery. There was one other infamous grave Tom and Bob wanted to track down, but it would take some time and FBI-like investigative work to find the burial plot of Public Enemy Number One – John Dillinger. In the early 1930s, Dillinger and his gang became notorious for robbing banks and breaking out of jail. Near the end of the crime spree, Dillinger and his gang killed ten men and robbed a dozen banks in a one-year span from June 1933 to 1934. But after a well-coordinated trap was set at Chicago’s Biograph Theater, John Dillinger was shot and killed in an alley outside of the theater on July 22, 1934. Ironically, fugitive outlaws Bonnie and Clyde had met their demise in Louisiana only two months earlier.

My two companions are very good at finding obscure graves inside large cemeteries. I’ve noticed there are several reasons for their success. First, they use photographs of the grave to determine background landmarks such as trees or buildings. Second, they aren’t afraid to ask for directions. And lastly, they never give up. I’ve travelled with those two for over nine years and I’ve never seen a more tenacious pair complete what they set out to accomplish.

After a half-hour of searching the 555-acre cemetery, which featured 25 miles of paved roadways and over 225,000 graves, Tom and Bob found the grave of John Dillinger. More times than not, when I stand on a person’s grave, I do it as a way to pay honor to their accomplishments. But that wasn’t the case with Dillinger. As I stood on that deceased fugitive’s final resting place, I thought about some of the other graves of notorious killers I’ve visited, including Bonnie and Clyde, Billy the Kid, Lee Harvey Oswald, and John Wilkes Booth. John Dillinger was a scoundrel who died at the age of 31 from “lead poisoning” and I was happy when Tom removed me from that small, souvenir-chipped stone that bore his infamous name.

As were prepared to head out of Crown Hill Cemetery for our next Presidential site in Lincoln City, Indiana, my photographer decided to go “off-script” from the agenda. It dawned on him that Indianapolis is the capital city of Indiana, and he wanted to photograph me at the State House, which was only five miles away. I was excited – I didn’t visit the Capitol during my 2014 visit to the city.

Shortly after we arrived at the State House around 1:15pm, I got my first glimpse of the 256-foot-tall dome – and I was underwhelmed. While the building was constructed in 1888 and President Harrison’s flag-draped casket laid in the rotunda following his death in 1901, the dome was difficult to see from most vantagepoints near the building. I thought the landscaping around the Capitol was lackluster as well; except for an eye-catching sculpture by artist Dale Enochs called “Time Flow”, which Tom used to creatively frame the State House in one of his images. The interior wasn’t much better, at least to my resin eyes. I posed for images near Governor Eric Holcomb’s office and next to the Indiana Constitution that was on display in the Rotunda. I’ve been to a lot of State Capitol Buildings during my nine years of travel, and the one in Indiana was one of the worst.

Our exterior visit and short interior tour of the Indiana State House lasted only 30 minutes, and quite frankly, that was about 20 minutes longer than it should’ve lasted. Once the three of us made it back to the Jeep, we had a long 140-mile trek south and into the Central Time Zone to get to the boyhood home of Abraham Lincoln. I’ve been to numerous Lincoln homes in the past, including a couple of his boyhood homes, but I’ve never visited his father’s farm near Lincoln City, Indiana. I was excited to once again walk in the footsteps of greatness, but there was one other reason for my anxiousness – it was at that farm where Abraham’s mother died and was buried. I wanted to visit her grave.

Even though we gained an hour during the nearly three-hour drive, we got to the Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial just as the Visitor Center closed for the day at 4pm. But my photographer and Mongo weren’t concerned at all; mainly because the handful of sites they wanted to see remained accessible to visitors until dusk.

Once Tom found a parking lot near the home site, the three of us set out on foot along a lengthy pathway called the ‘Lincoln Boyhood Trail’. It was an incredible honor to be on the farmland once owned by Thomas Lincoln, Abraham’s father. After Lincoln lost his land in Kentucky, he moved his family into Indiana in 1816, when Abraham was seven, and they settled in the Little Pigeon Creek Community located near this site. Two years later, Nancy Hanks Lincoln (Abe’s mother) became ill with what was believed to be “milk sickness” and she died a short time later on October 5, 1818 at the age of 34. That illness was caused by drinking the milk or eating the meat of cows that had eaten white snakeroot. That plant contains the potent toxin tremetol, which is passed through the milk. Nine-year-old Abraham Lincoln helped his father make Nancy’s coffin by whittling the wooden pegs that held the planks together. When my exhausted photographer and his friend made it to the end of the “Lincoln Boyhood Trail”, I got my first look at Pioneer Cemetery, the small burial ground where Nancy Lincoln was laid to rest.

There was a four-foot-tall wrought iron fence that protected Pioneer Cemetery from visitors; all visitors except one, that is. After it appeared as though I would have to settle for posing near Mrs. Lincoln’s grave as I stood on the nearby fence, I heard Bob say to my photographer: “I think TJ would look better standing on that tombstone. I’m going to get him into that cemetery; I just need to find a place where I won’t impale my groin doing it.” Sure enough – once the NPS Ranger and a few straggling tourists left the area, Bob vaulted over the fence like he was shot out of a cannon. The man is truly amazing, and he plays a huge part in getting me onto certain sites where my large-framed (that’s a nice way of saying fat) photographer is unable to go.

As I stood alone on the five-foot-tall arrowhead-shaped marker, it began to sink in exactly where I was. While the woman buried six feet below my base wasn’t a President, Nancy Lincoln had a huge influence in the upbringing and values of the greatest President in American history. It’s been written and recorded for posterity that Abraham inherited his mother’s appearance and manner. Nancy was mild mannered, tender and intellectually inclined, but was somewhat of a bold and reckless daredevil at the same time. She was willing to take calculated risks to better any situation.

Mongo made sure I was safely transported back over the fence and into my photographer’s hands before he vacated the burial ground himself. Our next stop at the Memorial was the one historic site we had made the journey to Lincoln City to see – the boyhood home site of Abraham Lincoln. But instead of retracing our steps up the “Lincoln Boyhood Trail” where we had come from, my companions took the recommendation of the Ranger and hiked an alternate route called the “Trail of Twelve Stones”. The Ranger described that trail as being lined with twelve stones that represented a dozen different aspects of Abraham Lincoln’s life. The Ranger made the trail and its memorial stones sound spellbinding to any historical enthusiast interested in our 16th President.

However, once we were on the trail and saw the twelve so-called “stones”, I knew in my resin mind the Ranger had exaggerated slightly – or perhaps a lot. Some of the markers were large; some were extremely small; but none of them had the “wow factor” for me. Our route from the cemetery to the home site took us in reverse on the “Trail of Twelve Stones” as well. The first stone we saw represented Lincoln’s tomb in Springfield and the twelfth and final stone we came across depicted Lincoln’s birth. The neatly manicured half-mile trail wound through a wooded area of the property and the memorial stones, along with corresponding bronze tablets, were spread out about 200 feet apart. Now sit back and prepare to be underwhelmed by the 12 stones from the “Trail of Twelve Stones” at the Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial.

When we finished looking at the last of the memorial stones, I nearly fell out of the camera case with laughter when I heard Tom say out loud to Mongo: “That should’ve been called the ‘Trail of Tears’ instead of the ‘Trail of Twelve Stones’. I was nearly bored to tears as I looked at those pitiful markers and stones. That’s a half-hour of my life I’ll never get back.”

The best part of getting to the end of that trail, or should I say the beginning of the ‘Trail of Twelve Stones’, was the fact we were within a stone’s throw of the Lincoln cabin site. I was excited to see the place where our 16th President grew up. However, when we arrived at the historic site that was surrounded by a four-foot-tall stone wall, I was once again left hoping for more. Erected in the center of the walled fortress was the outline of a wooden foundation that featured a fireplace hearth at one end. To make matters worse, the foundation and hearth appeared to be entirely coated in bronze – and it was blue. I realize the coating was likely to protect the replica foundation from the elements, and perhaps it was blue to highlight the foundation for visitors, but everything seemed too imitation for me.

After my companions finished a friendly chit-chat with a couple of visitors, Bob hopped over the wall and down into the memorial where he carefully placed me onto the bronze-coated hearthstones. As I stood on the slippery stones, I paused for a moment to reflect on exactly where I was standing. Abraham Lincoln lived and grew up at this site; he worked on this farm; and he learned how to read, write, and cypher here – some of which was made possible by his stepmother Sarah, who brought books to the cabin after she married Lincoln’s father on December 2, 1819. As a matter of fact, Sarah encouraged young Abe to read as much as possible. As Abraham grew into adolescence, he realized he wasn’t cut out for the hard labor that was associated with farm life, which didn’t always set very well with his dad. Lincoln wanted to use his mind rather than his back to be successful in life. And boy, that sure worked out well for him, and for our nation.

We had one stop left on our Lincoln Boyhood Memorial visit and that was the recreated homestead and farm located only a short distance from the original site. I tagged along with my companions on a pea stone pathway, and before I knew it, we were standing in front of an 1800s farm. Okay, the buildings in front of us were erected on the site in 1968 and early ’69, but they looked old. In reality, the replica Lincoln cabin and outbuildings were original to the county, dismantled, then reassembled on the historic property. Tom carried me onto the farm where I posed near the cabin. From that vantage point, I saw what appeared to be a smokehouse, chicken coop, barn, and perhaps a carpenter shop. Since it was late in the day and my companions had been awake since three o’clock in the morning, we focused solely on the home and not the outbuildings. And quite frankly, that was fine with me.

When we first arrived at the Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial, I considered it one of the more disappointing Lincoln sites I had ever visited. However, once I stopped and thought about where we were at, and at times where I was standing, I felt better about our time there. I needed to keep in mind everywhere we hiked, from the Pioneer Cemetery, along the ‘Trail of Twelve Stones’, and back to the homestead site, was all farmland owned by Thomas Lincoln. Thomas had invested his blood, sweat, and tears into this property and he did his best to provide a safe environment for Abraham, his sister Sarah, and ultimately Abe’s stepmother Sarah after Nancy Lincoln had passed away.

Abraham Lincoln grew up on that site; he spent fourteen of his most formative years there. And the more I thought about it, Lincoln the Great Emancipator was molded and shaped on that land. Young Abraham was mostly self-educated on his father’s farm; but more importantly, his beliefs, ideals, integrity, and dreams were formed there as well. To me, the Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial was more than a bunch of replica buildings. It was where the legacy of Abraham Lincoln took root, was nurtured, and then blossomed into the greatest President in American history. And it all happened beneath my resin feet.

It was a few minutes before six o’clock when we made it back to the Jeep. Bob had already secured our hotel room in Georgetown, Indiana, which was roughly 65 miles to the east. The bad news was we were headed back into the Eastern Time Zone, which meant we would lose the hour we had gained earlier that afternoon. As the day’s light began to wane during our eastward drive, my companions decided to stop for dinner at Cracker Barrel near Corydon, Indiana, which was only 20 minutes from our hotel. For some reason, Tom carried me into the restaurant where I was forced to watch him gobble-down a four-piece chicken dinner like there was no tomorrow. I knew he hadn’t eaten much during the day, but my goodness, the crust from that chicken was flying so fast and furious that I wish I had been given a pair safety glasses to protect my painted eyes.

It was 9:00pm when we arrived at the Red Roof Inn just outside of Georgetown, Indiana. Because they’re a pair of experienced travelers, my companions were registered, had their stuff loaded onto a cart, and then had everything unpacked in our room in less than 15 minutes. It was an impressive, well-choreographed effort by both guys. Once in the room, Tom placed me alongside the room’s TV set where I had a chance to think about the first day’s sites. But as much as I enjoyed kissing the bricks of Harrison’s exquisite home in Indianapolis, it was difficult for me to focus on anything except what was about to unfold the following evening. The three of us had an appointment early Tuesday evening to meet an audiologist in Eastern Tennessee, but not because my hearing has deteriorated. Instead, my appointment with Dr. Dan Schumaier was primarily for me to listen; listen to the doctor tell stories about the small historic place on his property that he has restored. And mind you, that’s not just any ordinary house. It’s the Old Stover House – the home where President Andrew Johnson died. Throughout that night, as Tom and Bob slept, one frightening thought kept filling my resin mind: Would I have a face-to-face encounter with our 17th President in the Old Stover House? Only time will tell!