197: OUR LUCK WAS TESTED ON FRIDAY THE 13th

Tom’s alarm went off at 5:50am on Friday May 13, 2022. When my companions opened the curtains in our room at the Hampton Inn, there was no doubt Friday the 13th had begun with horrible luck. A storm was moving through the Manassas, Virginia area and sheets of rain pelted the window. Even though my photographer wanted to get an early start to the day, that didn’t happen – and it wasn’t because his legs were sore from the previous day’s hike. Instead of an early departure, Tom and Bob ate breakfast and then lollygagged for over an hour until the rain stopped.

I was anxious to get our day underway because we were scheduled to visit some sites on the outskirts of Washington D.C.; some of which have always fallen off our radar during our past trips to our nation’s capital. However, with six full days on our Washington sightseeing docket, the three of us should have the opportunity to check the boxes on a lot of the sites that we’ve missed on previous historical trips.

By 9:15am, the rain had subsided and the three of us were headed north towards Middleburg, Virginia, which was just over 20 miles from our hotel. Roughly a half-hour into our journey, Tom pulled the Jeep into the parking lot of St. Stephen the Martyr Catholic Church, located just east of downtown Middleburg.

In 1962, Jacqueline Kennedy acquired and designed the Kennedy’s new 167-acre ranch she named ‘Wexford’ that was just four miles northwest of Middleburg. It was the only home John and Jackie built together during their marriage, and it was meant to be a weekend retreat house throughout the Kennedy presidency. My photographer did some research as he planned to take me and Bob to ‘Wexford’ during the trip, but Tom couldn’t find any access to the property. It was very secluded; or at least it seemed to be. However, during JFK’s last visit to ‘Wexford’ on November 10, 1963, which was less than two weeks before his fateful trip to Dallas, the Kennedy’s attended a Catholic mass at St. Stephen the Martyr Church.

My photographer carried me up the long walkway to the front of the church and he placed me on a couple of spots where President Kennedy was photographed as he walked out of the church in 1963. As I stood on those spots, the thoughts of JFK having only two more weeks to live flooded my mind. He was there with his family; his children Caroline and John, Jr. were so full of life. And then Dallas.

Tom and Bob opened the same doors used by the Kennedy’s and the three of us went inside the church. There was no one else there; we had the place to ourselves. For the first interior image, my photographer placed me near the altar, which likely hadn’t changed much since JFK was there in ’63. Then Tom saw a brass plaque affixed to one of the pews that read: ‘In Memory of John Fitzgerald Kennedy’. There was no doubt in any of our minds that pew was used by the President and his family when they attended mass in that church. As a matter of fact, that may have been the last place JFK ever attended church in his life. In honor of President John F. Kennedy, Tom purchased some rosary beads in the church, and I wore them around my neck while I stood on the Kennedy pew. Since it was Friday the 13th, and not a good Friday, I needed all the karma I could get!

When we were finished inside the church, the three of us retraced President Kennedy’s steps as we left the building. We were walking in history, and to me, it was a sad moment. With no way for anyone to know as he left that church on November 10, 1963, John F. Kennedy was less than two weeks from one of the most, if not THE most, single significant and tragic moments in Presidential history.

My companions and I were lucky during our time at St. Stephen the Martyr Catholic Church – we didn’t see a soul during our entire half-hour visit. Tom and Bob hoped they’d experience the same thing at our next site, James Monroe’s historic home ‘Oak Hill’, which was just a little over eight miles from the church.

Although he became sole owner of the property located near present-day Aldie, Virginia in 1805, the main house at ‘Oak Hill’ plantation was built for President James Monroe in 1822 while he lived in the White House. At the conclusion of his second term in 1825, Monroe spent time at his ‘Monroe Hill’ home in Charlottesville because he was on the Board of Visitors at the University of Virginia. However, due to his deteriorating health, the President and his wife, Elizabeth Kortright Monroe, moved to their retirement home ‘Oak Hill’ in Loudoun County, Virginia. Five years after the Monroe’s moved into ‘Oak Hill’, Elizabeth died in the home on September 23, 1830 at the age of 62. She was laid to rest in the beautiful gardens behind the mansion where she remained for 28 years. In 1858, Elizabeth’s remains were reinterred alongside her husband at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond. Shortly after Elizabeth’s death, the frail President moved from ‘Oak Hill’ to his daughter’s home in NYC where he died on July 4, 1831 – less than ten months after his wife had passed away.

During our short ten-minute drive from the church to ‘Oak Hill’, I became concerned about what I heard from the front seat of the Jeep. My photographer explained to Bob that ‘Oak Hill’ was a private home and the pair would have to engage in a covert operation to see and photograph the mansion. He also said that getting close to ‘Oak Hill’ would be one of the most challenging endeavors they’ll likely ever attempt, primarily due to the layout of the property and where they’ll have to park our vehicle. Tom ended the short conversation by saying there was a chance they would get caught and possibly arrested for trespassing – and since it was Friday the 13th, that was a huge concern in my mind. Inside the camera case, I wanted to rub the rosary beads for good luck, but unfortunately my arms wouldn’t move.

At 10:50am, our highly secret mission began. Tom parked the Jeep along Oak Hill Farm Road, near a sign that was posted in the bushes which read: ‘PRIVATE RESIDENCE – PLEASE RESPECT‘. Usually when my companions see a sign like that, they don’t go any further – mainly out of fear of being shot or arrested. Then I heard something that stunned me when my photographer said: “This place is historically huge to me – James Monroe retired to ‘Oak Hill’ and his wife died there. We’re so close; I have to see that house. I’m not turning back now.” Bob agreed and the three of us began the long, 300-yard walk along the gravel-covered road towards the mansion.

When we arrived at the area of the road where it curved to the right, the three of us noticed another sign posted to a tree – the wording on the second sign was more of a concern to me than the first. ‘OAK HILL FARM is NOT OPEN TO THE PUBLIC. DO NOT ENTER.’ I figured for sure, when they stopped and read that warning sign, Tom and Bob would turn around and walk back to the Jeep. After a short pause, however, along with another short discussion about whether or not they should proceed further, I heard my photographer tell his friend: “Oak Hill is just on the other side of those trees – I’ve scoped it out on Google Maps. All we need to do is walk around the trees to the left and we should be able to see the house.” Need I say more?

Tom was correct – we walked around the trees and sure enough, historic ‘Oak Hill’ came into view. At least some of it. There were still some trees that obstructed our view of the historic mansion, but we had made it to the home of James Monroe. We were on the very grounds that Monroe once walked upon after he left the White House. As soon as Tom captured an image of me with ‘Oak Hill’ in the background, I thought for sure we’d begin the long walk back to the Jeep. But once again, I was mistaken.

I heard Tom tell Mongo that since he didn’t see anyone around, he was going to get closer to the front of the home. My photographer also said he wanted to see the gardens where Elizabeth Monroe was once buried. Without hesitation, Tom hurriedly walked towards an area in front of the house. He had his camera in his right hand, and I was held tightly in his left. Within 45 seconds, the two of us were directly in front of ‘Oak Hill’; but once again, the view wasn’t as spectacular as Tom had hoped. Trees and bushes had obscured a lot of the façade; but since we were in “The Danger Zone”, that was a close as Tom was willing to get. As he held me up in front of that amazing mansion, I waited for someone to confront us; or worse yet, shoot at us.

When my photographer finished taking his photos of the building, he quickly spun around to get a glimpse of the beautiful gardens behind us; and that was a moment I won’t easily forget. During his haste, as Tom repositioned me in his left hand, he lost his grip, and I was headed face-first for the ground. With my photographer’s “cat-like reflexes”, he snagged me around the neck; but for a bobble head, that could easily end up as a catastrophic event. Sure enough, when Tom brought me under control and back into position for another photo, my head laid sideways on my right shoulder. In my mind, I thought for sure my neck was once again broken – likely due to the curse of Friday the 13th. “Doctor Tom” immediately went into “Bobble head repair mode” as he pulled my head up and twisted it until both of us heard a loud snap. With a second gentle twist, I was as good as new, although my neck felt weaker than it had been in the past.

As we stood between the home and its gardens, my thoughts went from my near-death experience to our 5th President and his beautiful wife Elizabeth. As a matter of fact, I envisioned James Monroe as he walked down the mansion’s steps and out to his wife’s garden gravesite to mourn her passing. I wanted to cry, but my sadness quickly turned to panic – but not because of my strained neck. I suddenly realized Bob Moldenhauer hadn’t walked to the front of the house with us. Instead, the two of us noticed Mongo in the distance as he frantically waved his arms in the air.

At first, my photographer thought Bob was waving “hi” or he was letting us know where he was at. However, when we made our way back to his location, Mongo’s hand-signals were a warning that someone was approaching up the driveway. I had to laugh to myself when I saw those two guys attempt to stay concealed amongst the bushes located a short distance from the roadway. And while Bob had been smart and wore a green-colored shirt, which blended in fairly well with the foliage, Tom hadn’t considered the covert operation when he selected his day’s wardrobe – his shirt was a light color of orange. When the vehicle passed our camouflaged position, it headed westward around the bend in the road and was soon out of sight. When the car disappeared, the three of us made our way towards Oak Hill Farm Road where the Jeep was parked. Just as soon as we left the cover of the brush, however, the car suddenly reappeared and headed past us towards where the Jeep was parked. I heard Bob say to my photographer: “Well, they must have spotted us, but thankfully they kept going. Let’s just keep walking down the road and if they come back, we’ll deal with the people then. We got our pictures; the worst thing they can do now is kick us off the property.”

When that unidentified vehicle got to the spot where our Jeep was parked, the three of us saw brake lights and the car stopped. From 300 yards away, it appeared the vehicle was stationary alongside our Jeep. Were the occupants waiting for us to get back? Were they blocking the roadway so we couldn’t escape before the police could arrive? Those terrible thoughts flooded my crooked hallow head and I figured those same thoughts were likely going through my companion’s minds as well. But those scenarios were moot – the car turned right onto James Monroe Highway and it was gone. Even when the three of us had finally completed the long walk back to the Jeep, my travel mates took a few minutes to check our vehicle for any signs of damage – thankfully there was none. We had made it. Our covert operation was a complete success, at least for the most part. Even though our mission wasn’t as thrilling or as dangerous as when the U.S. Navy Seals carried out their May 2011 nighttime mission in Pakistan to kill Osama bin Laden, my resin-based adrenaline flowed like none other during our entire half-hour ordeal. I was thrilled to be safely back inside the Jeep and thankfully that was the last of our “stealth” missions for the day.

For the next 45 minutes, while I stood in my camera case, I thought about everything that could’ve gone wrong at that last site. But now, we were headed east towards Washington D.C., and I looked forward to getting back to our nation’s capital. As a matter of fact, when we were close to finishing our 33-mile drive east from ‘Oak Hill’, I overheard Tom say that we were headed to another “hill”. All I could think of was Capitol Hill. In my mind, that was cool – I hadn’t been to the Capitol Building since the January 6, 2021 uprising and I looked forward to seeing it again. However, when Tom parked the Jeep along narrow Langley Lane in McLean, Virginia, we were still 12 miles from the Capitol. That’s right – the “hill” Tom had talked about was ‘Hickory Hill’ – the estate once owned by John F. Kennedy. The sense of excitement once again filled my body as ‘Hickory Hill’ was a place I’ve always wanted to visit but never had the chance. But the next thing out of my photographer’s mouth hit me like a ton of bricks – we were once again going to walk onto private property for some of our photos. “Oh no, not again!”

As the three of us walked across Chaine Bridge Road and up to the large driveway of ‘Hickory Hill’, I could easily see the enormous white brick mansion in the distance – and it didn’t seem that far away. I was relieved – the house was close enough that we wouldn’t have to venture onto the property to capture our images. As Tom held me up for the first of our photos, there was a small mutt yapping from a section of the driveway. I laughed when Bob said: “Well, so much for us sneaking onto the property unnoticed; thanks to that damned dog. Everyone on the entire block knows we’re here now.”

‘Hickory Hill’ was built in 1870 on 5.6-acres of property and has had numerous owners over the past 150 years, including the reason for our visit, John F. Kennedy and his wife Jacqueline. On October 15, 1955, the Massachusetts Senator and his wife paid $125,000 for the home that now features 13 bedrooms, 12 fireplaces, 11 baths, a tennis court and a pool. ‘Hickory Hill’ was their sanctuary away from Washington and was where JFK penned his Pulitzer Prize winning book ‘Profiles in Courage‘. But after Jackie suffered a miscarriage in the home, John sold the estate to his brother Robert Kennedy and his wife Ethel who had already started their large family. The home remained in the Bobby Kennedy family from 1957 until Ethel sold it in 2009.

Another piece of history that occurred at ‘Hickory Hill’ happened on November 22, 1963. Attorney General Bobby Kennedy was behind the house having a pool-side lunch when the phone rang. FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, who was not a fan of either Kennedy, had called and told Bobby that his brother had been shot in Dallas. Hoover’s voice was cold – void of sympathy, emotion, grief and least of all, surprise. He just said the President wasn’t dead yet, just shot.

After Tom and Bob had finished taking their photos near the opened gate of the driveway entrance, I heard my photographer say he wanted a better, more unobstructed view of the front of the house. That meant only one thing – we had to once again walk onto private property to achieve this. As the dog in the distance continued to bark, the three of us headed along the gray brick circular driveway towards the front of the house. As soon as the four-foot-tall urn planter was centered with our view of the house, we stopped, and I posed for several images. ‘Hickory Hill’ was more spectacular than I had imagined or could see from our previous location near the street. As I looked at the historic home, I envisioned Bobby Kennedy as he walked out of the front door and left on his Presidential campaign trail in the spring of 1968 – only to be gunned-down in Los Angeles by a crazed lunatic at the Ambassador Hotel in the early morning hours of June 5, 1968.

Seconds after Tom had captured his final images directly in front of ‘Hickory Hill’, I heard the words that I feared the most whenever we are trespassing: “Oh, oh, someone is coming towards us. It’s likely the owner. That damned dog ratted us out!” Sure enough, Bob was right. As the three of us tried to make our way back to the entrance gate, we came face to face with a younger guy who looked to be about 30 years old. The young man, who seemed polite, asked my companions: “Do you realize this is private property?” Tom quickly replied, as though he’s had this response buried in his mind’s vault for years to use just for occasions such as this: “It is? I didn’t see any ‘No Trespassing’ or ‘Private Property’ signs, plus the gate was open. We figured this was a historical site because John F. Kennedy once owned the property and Bobby lived here until his death.” That well-timed excuse was followed by Tom’s well-rehearsed spiel about our Presidential and historical trips around the country. He told the young man the three of us we were Presidential enthusiasts determined to preserve Presidential history and legacies. It turned out the guy’s name was Jonathan and he didn’t own ‘Hickory Hill’, he only worked for the owner. As a matter of fact, Jonathan’s original goal of kicking us off the property turned into him asking us about our feelings and opinions about the Kennedy assassination conspiracy theories.

But when my photographer politely asked Jonathan, who had grown very comfortable with our presence, whether or not he could take the three of us for a short tour of the grounds where we would honor the legacies of John and Bobby Kennedy, he declined our request. Jonathan mentioned the current owner of ‘Hickory Hill’, a wealthy businessman named Alan Dabbiere, was in a huge legal fight with Kerry Kennedy (Bobby and Ethel’s seventh oldest child) over the urn planter in front of the house and he didn’t want any visitors roaming the grounds. After my companions thanked Jonathan for not being a jerk when he caught us trespassing, the three of us walked along Chain Bridge Road to capture different views of the historic home and grounds from outside the property’s fence.

As I stood on the fence that surrounded ‘Hickory Hill’, my thoughts weren’t on President John F. Kennedy. Instead, images of Bobby Kennedy and his family filled my resin head. In my mind’s eye, I watched as Bobby and his children romped around the hilly grounds of the estate. At times, the Kennedy’s played football, or the kids swung from a tree-swing, or they simply took a leisurely family stroll – together as one. Then out of nowhere, it was as though I could hear the famous words spoken by Bobby Kennedy a short time before the Senator’s assassination on June 6, 1968: “Some men see things as they are and ask why. I dream things that never were and ask why not.” With those words still ringing in my ears, the three of us headed for another Kennedy site – Bethesda Naval Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland.

It was approximately ten minutes past noon when Tom navigated our Jeep over the Potomac River for the first time on the trip. By the time we got close to our final destination just north of Bethesda, Maryland, the traffic had become quite thick; while at the same time, my photographer’s patience had grown quite thin. Then it happened – as he attempted to pull into what he thought was a parking lot near historic Bethesda Naval Hospital, it turned out we were headed onto the military facility’s property itself. At the guard shack near the entrance, a young soldier questioned our motives and demanded Tom’s driver’s license. Even though my photographer explained we were only there to get a photograph of the hospital where JFK’s autopsy was conducted in 1963 and that we had turned into that entrance by mistake, a thorough investigation of Tom’s ID was conducted before we were turned around. I wondered to myself if we were in Moscow or Washington – after all, it’s only a hospital for crying out loud.

Still in search for a place to park the Jeep so we could get our photos of the hospital, we ended up in a parking lot on the campus of nearby Stone Ridge School of the Sacred Heart – which was a prestigious Catholic prep school for girls. As it turned out, that school had some notable alumni, including Kathleen Kennedy (Bobby and Ethel’s oldest child), Maria Shriver (John F. Kennedy’s niece), and Katie Ledecky, one of the most celebrated American swimmers in Olympic history. As soon as we found a spot in the parking lot where we could see a section of the nearby military hospital through a fence and between an opening in the trees, the school’s security arrived faster than a hobo snatches a wayward hotdog. We were told by the security force to immediately leave, which was disappointing because we could’ve easily walked to the front of Bethesda Naval Hospital from there.

Seconds after Tom found the way to get back onto Rockville Pike, my companions saw an area in front of the hospital that Bob dubbed “The Money Shot”. That prime viewing area was between the road and security fence, which we knew was public property due to the sidewalk. But with nowhere to park on that Friday afternoon, and with several sites still left on the day’s agenda, Tom and Bob decided to put Bethesda Naval Hospital on the back burner until the weekend. There was no doubt in my mind, and in my companion’s minds as well, that we would return.

We had a five-mile drive from Bethesda Naval Hospital that took us along Connecticut Avenue, through Chevy Chase Circle, and into the District of Columbia. It seemed great to be back in our nation’s capital; and I was excited to see our first site in Washington – the apartment where Harry S Truman lived for over four years. Tom got lucky and found a parking spot along the street that wasn’t too far from Truman’s place at 4701 Connecticut Avenue.

Harry Truman, his wife Bess, and daughter Margaret moved into apartment #209 on January 15, 1941 when Truman was a U.S. Senator representing the state of Missouri. The Truman’s rent was a staggering $120 per month, but their apartment consisted of five rooms on the second floor. On January 20, 1945, that apartment became the residence of the Vice President of the United States when Truman was sworn-in as FDR’s third and final right-hand man. His term as V.P. lasted only 82 days – on April 12, 1945, Franklin Roosevelt died suddenly in Warm Springs, Georgia. Truman was rushed to the White House where he took the Presidential Oath of Office in the Cabinet Room at 7pm that night. Following the solemn ceremony, the 33rd President returned to his Connecticut Avenue apartment where he tried to relax.

Even though Truman loved his 4701 Connecticut apartment and preferred living there instead of the White House, he knew that would be impossible due to security concerns. Truman did live in the apartment for a few days as President, then he and his family moved into Blair House until the Roosevelt’s belongings could be removed from the White House. For most who walk past that five-story apartment complex on Connecticut Avenue, they are oblivious to its historic significance. There is no historical marker outside the building, nor a plaque affixed to the exterior wall outside Truman’s corner apartment. But during his entire time living in Washington D.C., Harry S Truman loved 4701 Connecticut the most; and it was as though I could feel his presence during the twenty minutes we were there. As a matter of fact, I nearly shouted out loud “Give ’em hell, Harry!” as we headed back to the Jeep.

Our Friday the 13th tour of Presidential homes wasn’t finished. Located a little over a half-mile from Truman’s apartment was a two-and-one-half-story brick home where Lyndon B. Johnson lived with his family while he served in the United States Senate in the 1950s. Johnson, who was a Senator from 1949 until he became Vice President in 1961, resided in that house longer than any other place while in Washington. When the three of us arrived at his home located in the Forest Hills neighborhood of Washington, I wondered if LBJ felt just a tad-bit guilty when he first moved in. After all, Johnson’s narrow victory in the 1948 Texas Senate election was filled with fraud accusations. His opponent had concrete proof that over 200 late votes were filed in alphabetical order and were written in the same handwriting. LBJ won by a slim margin of 87 votes out of the 988, 295 votes that were cast. Seems as though some things never change!

As I stood in front of that brick home where Johnson once lived, I didn’t have the compassionate thoughts I had earlier in the day when I was at Truman’s apartment or ‘Hickory Hill’ where the Kennedy’s once lived. I believe it was because I’m not a huge LBJ fan; he’s one of my least favorite Presidents. Don’t get me wrong – Johnson was a hard worker. I’ve always admired our leaders who had humble beginnings and worked hard to become President. But to me, LBJ was different. I’m still not convinced that his hands were completely clean with the Kennedy assassination, but that’s just a gut feeling with no real evidence. But the fact that Johnson was a vulgar bully who intimidated people to get where he wanted to go doesn’t set well with me. When our ten-minute photoshoot at LBJ’s home ended, I was happy to be headed elsewhere.

During our ten-minute drive south towards the Woodley Park section of Washington, which was very close to the National Zoo, I heard my photographer mention to Bob that he wasn’t sure if we’d be able to get onto the property at ‘Woodley’ – the mansion used by Grover Cleveland as a “Summer White House”. When we arrived in the upscale neighborhood, I realized why Tom said what he did. It turned out ‘Woodley’ was on the campus of a large private school known as Maret School and the schoolyard in front of the mansion was filled with students. In my mind, I thought for sure we’d never be allowed onto the property; but I forgot who I was travelling with.

Once my photographer had found a parking spot around the corner from the school, the three of us headed for ‘Woodley’, which was situated next door to the residence of the Swiss Ambassador. But my resin heart sunk when we got to the entrance drive along Cathedral Avenue – there was a green and white sign posted on the gate that contained the bold words: ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY – NO TRESPASSING’. But then my two companions noticed another sign that was posted along the driveway leading onto the campus that said: ‘VISITOR PARKING’. Tom and Bob looked at each other and I heard them say in unison: “We’re visitors – let’s go!”

Roughly 100 yards onto the property, we came across our next obstacle – it was a security guard shack where visitors were checked upon arrival. When Tom and Bob approached the small wooden shack, I could see the historic mansion through a clearing in the trees and it was very close to where we were. I thought to myself, as my companions talked to the security guard: “If that guard refuses to allow us to go any further, we could make a mad dash to the front of the house and get our pictures.” My photographer explained the reason for our visit – he assured the guard that they would not take pictures of any students; and they were only interested in the historic house where Grover Cleveland once lived. The guard replied: “You will have to go inside the front door of the main house and get permission from my boss.” I laughed to myself when I heard that. Heck, if we have to walk to the front of ‘Woodley’ and go inside the building to get permission, we could just as easily take our photos without permission and not bother anyone. However, Tom and Bob ALWAYS like to follow the rules!

Once in front of ‘Woodley’, the three of us walked up the same steps and through the front doors used by President Grover Cleveland when he stayed in the mansion during his second term in office. Two larger-than-life cartoon cut-out frogs stood sentry at the doorway, which was cool because the Maret School’s mascot or nickname was The Maret Frogs. As we searched for another security guard inside the mansion, we heard someone say, “Can I help you with anything?” The man behind the friendly voice was Bobby Holt, who was the Director of Financial Aid and Associate Director of Admission at Maret School. As soon as my friends explained the reason for our visit and asked for permission to photograph the mansion, Holt couldn’t have been more excited to lead the three of us to the front of the building. As a matter of fact, when the security guard arrived and confronted Tom and Bob about being there, Holt immediately came to their defense: “They’re with me.”

‘Woodley’, which meant “Clearing in the Woods”, was built in 1801 by Phillip Barton Key, uncle of famous poet and patriot Francis Scott Key. Throughout the years, the mansion has been owned by numerous people and rented by others, including Presidents Martin Van Buren and Grover Cleveland – both who used the home to escape the heat during the scorching summers near the White House, which as everyone knows, was built on a swamp.

Grover Cleveland was the last President to reside at ‘Woodley’, and it was during his second term in office from March 1893 to 1897. During his first term as our 22nd President, however, Cleveland had purchased a mansion called ‘Oak View’ in what’s now the Cleveland Park neighborhood of Washington. When Grover lost his re-election bid to Benjamin Harrison, he sold ‘Oak View’. Unfortunately, the mansion was ultimately razed in 1927. When Cleveland returned as our 24th President, he needed a new get-a-way place – and that was ‘Woodley’.

After we bid farewell to our gracious host Bobby Holt in front of ‘Woodley’, the three of us returned to the Jeep where we began our short five-minute drive to our next site – the Washington National Cathedral. It had been three days since our last visit to a Presidential gravesite, which was Zachary Taylor’s in Louisville, and it was time to see another one. While a lot of folks believe there are numerous Presidents buried in our nation’s capital, there is in fact only one – Woodrow Wilson. Our 28th President is entombed in the enormous church officially known as the Cathedral Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul; or as it’s more commonly known – the Washington National Cathedral.

It took the three of us about ten minutes to walk from where Tom had parked the Jeep to the huge 676-foot-tall church. I was excited to be back – my first visit to Woodrow Wilson’s tomb was on July 18, 2014, and that was during my second year of travelling with my photographer. From the exterior where I posed for several images, I could easily see the scaffolding on the East Tower where repairs were still ongoing following the 2011 earthquake. The National Cathedral is huge – as a matter of fact, it’s the sixth largest cathedral in the world and the second largest in the United States. And besides being big, the church is also beautiful, as well. Since the time construction began on September 29, 1907 in the presence of President Theodore Roosevelt until it ended exactly 83 years later in the presence of President George H.W. Bush, the architecture was outfitted with 215 stained glass windows, 288 sculpted angels, and 110 gargoyles.

When my companions and I passed through the security checkpoint and we made our way into the massive interior of the cathedral, it was hard to take in the building’s beauty and enormity. I’ve never been inside a larger church in my nine-year existence. There were three places inside the cathedral that I had wanted to see again and perhaps stand on: Woodrow Wilson’s tomb; the pulpit where President George W. Bush delivered his eulogy to his father; and the Space Window with its small fragment of Moon rock. As Rock and Roll legend Meat Loaf once sang – Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad. I got to stand on the tomb and pulpit, however, the stained-glass window was too high for me to get close enough to. Please sit back and enjoy the images that Tom captured of our visit to the Washington National Cathedral.

I had to laugh to myself because I heard my photographer tell Mongo that we were going to focus solely on the Washington sites we had never visited before. Can you guess what happened during our first day in our nation’s capital? I started to suffer from a severe case of dé·jà vu all over again when we stopped at the Washington National Cathedral. I was there eight years earlier; but the funny thing was, I didn’t mind going back. It seemed good to see Woodrow Wilson’s crypt again; plus, I finally got to stand on the pulpit where George W had delivered his father’s eulogy in 2018. To me, even though we spent over 90 minutes there, it seemed great to see that amazingly beautiful church again.

My companion’s next site on their agenda was scheduled to be another repeat from our 2014 trip – President Lincoln’s Cottage. They had hoped to take a quick tour of the historic retreat home’s interior, primarily because we failed to get inside eight years earlier. But then the unexpected happened; there was a hiccup in our navigational system. At one point, when the three of us were roughly halfway between the National Cathedral and Lincoln’s Cottage, my companions discovered the main route, Rock Creek Church Road, was closed for repairs. For 15 minutes, Tom and Bob did their best to find an alternative route to the historic site, however, Siri would have nothing to do with their needed change of plans. When a third attempt at a new route failed, the plan to see Lincoln’s Cottage was aborted and we headed to the final scheduled site of the day, which was located in the Palisades neighborhood of Washington.

Tom had punched the coordinates of 5199 Palisade Lane into his Siri GPS system on his phone and within 20 minutes we were there; or at least the three of us thought we had arrived. The intended address was the home of George H.W. Bush and was where he had lived while he served as the Director of the CIA throughout 1976 and for the first month of ’77 before Gerald Ford left office. But when Siri said we had arrived at our destination, which was near the end of a cul-de-sac on Palisade Lane, we couldn’t find a house with the address of 5199. Thanks to some quick research on the internet, however, Tom discovered the house with the 5161 Palisade address was, in fact, Bush’s former home.

Locating the house was only half the battle; getting good photos of it was another challenge. Tom carried me to an area directly in front of the private residence, but a couple of small trees blocked some of the façade. When the three of us tried to get to an area alongside the famous house for a better view, the gate was locked. In my mind, I figured Bob would attempt to climb the fence and take me with him, but I was happy when he didn’t. After all, there could’ve been CIA security devices still in operation on the grounds. And since our Friday the 13th luck was still in full force, there was a vehicle parked in the historic home’s driveway. The owners appeared to be inside the home; and in our minds, they likely would’ve summoned the police had we trespassed onto their property. In that situation, I don’t think I would’ve blamed them. After Tom and Bob had captured a few images of the house, they hung around for a few minutes and hoped the owner would come outside to talk with us. Maybe if they knew what our mission was, and they met me, they’d allow us onto the property. Unfortunately, that never happened.

By 4:45pm, it was time to head for our hotel near Manassas, Virginia – which was nearly 30 miles to the west. Tom and Bob had wanted to stay at a hotel near the Pentagon in Arlington, but the price for both Friday and Saturday nights had been raised due to supply and demand. Several large groups were in DC for the weekend – one group was in town to celebrate and honor law enforcement officers, while the other group was on hand to protest a possible Supreme Court vote to overturn Roe v Wade that would essentially outlaw abortions. Seconds after my photographer fired-up the Jeep, I heard him tell Mongo that we had another issue to be concerned with – we needed to get gas “sooner rather than later”.

Shortly after we headed over the Potomac River and back into Virginia, I heard a loud ‘Ding’ that came from the front of the Jeep. It turned out to be an alarm for low fuel. We likely had enough gas to make the entire trip to the hotel, but the slow rush-hour traffic quickly became a concern; especially when we didn’t see any service stations along the highway. When Bob made the executive decision to avoid the toll road, their concern grew into panic when we wound up “lost” at Dulles Airport. At first, I thought it was hilarious to see my photographer sweat over the thoughts of running out of gas. But when we headed past the airport terminals twice because we had missed a turn, I began to worry myself; especially when I heard Tom tell his friend: “C’mon Mav, we’re getting low on gas. Let’s land this sucker! Find me a gas station and I don’t care how much it costs. We are on fumes!”

While those words must’ve been like nails on a chalkboard to Robert “Maverick” Moldenhauer, Tom was serious. In the ten months he had owned the Jeep, my photographer had never seen his vehicle that low on fuel and he was unsure how far it could go on the “Wrong Side of E”. Then out of nowhere, my companions saw a sign that read “Service Center”; our troubles were over, even at $4.19 per gallon. I watched from the backseat as Tom pumped the fuel into the thirsty Jeep. There were times I laughed to myself when I saw him look under the vehicle as if the expensive gas was leaking onto the ground. When the automatic shutoff engaged, and Tom topped it off, the final price was $99.99 – he refused to squeeze one copper cent more of gas into the tank. “I just can’t imagine myself paying a hundred bucks for a tank of gas. This is ridiculous; and all thanks to that damned Putin!”

With another crisis averted, we arrived at the La Qunita Inn & Suites at precisely 6:00pm. Fifteen minutes later, my companions had their gear unloaded and into our room where we planned on staying for two nights. Although our hotel was over 25 miles from the White House, it was half the price of closer hotels – even at $4.19 per gallon of gas, it was worth staying outside of DC for a couple of nights. For dinner, my companions found a nearby Taco Bell and they indulged on the fine “authentic” Mexican cuisine in our room.

The lights were extinguished shortly after 11:00pm and I was left standing next to the room’s TV set – alone with my thoughts. It had been a day filled with danger and espionage, and at times, near catastrophe; but then again, it was Friday the 13th. However, our day wasn’t entirely filled with bad omens. We had paid our respects to JFK in one church and Woodrow Wilson in another; and in between, the three of us met Bobby Holt whose kindness was second to none.

Thankfully Friday the 13th was finished, and just in time. On Saturday the 14th, our agenda had the three of us scheduled to spend most of the morning in the Georgetown section of Washington. While my companions associate Georgetown with numerous JFK sites, that historic neighborhood has a dark side as well, at least in my mind. After all, it’s where a very famous exorcism was conducted in a 1973 movie. Throughout the night, while Tom and Bob slept, I thought about Linda Blair’s head spinning completely around when she was possessed by Satan. If that were to happen to me on Saturday, my head will likely fall off due to my weakened spring and I’ll meet the same fate as Father Damien Karras did in ’73 – a lifeless crumpled heap lying at the bottom of some very steep steps. I couldn’t wait to get there!

** NOTE: This post is dedicated to Bobby Holt at Maret School for his time and kindness during our visit to ‘Woodley’ **