When Tom’s alarm rang at 5:50am on Friday May 20, 2022, the final day of our 12-day trip was underway. Suddenly out of nowhere, I had an issue with my head – it fell off and rolled harmlessly onto the bed when my photographer picked me up. It seemed as though the Sticky Tack was no longer sticky; it had dried during the night and was rendered useless. Once Tom removed the hard-packed original tack from inside my skull and replaced it with a fresh gob, I could see again. In my mind, I hoped there wouldn’t be any additional problems with my head throughout the day. Not only is it embarrassing to be headless, but it could be life-altering as well; especially if my resin skull crashed onto a hard surface.
The guys had the Jeep packed and we were on the road by 7:45am under an overcast sky with a potential for rain. I was excited when I heard my photographer and Bob Moldenhauer as they talked about our first site – the farm near Minerva, Ohio that was once owned by President William McKinley.
The historic farm at 11159 Walker Road, which was only a mile or so east of downtown Minerva, was about a 26-mile drive from our hotel in Canton. As my photographer drove our vehicle south on the narrow asphalt-covered Walker Road, I heard him talk out loud about their potential strategy at the privately owned farm. “I’ll park directly in front of the farm where we can get our first pictures. If that goes well, we can try walking onto the property to get a closer look at the farmhouse and barn. If the owner sees us, hopefully he’s friendly and maybe we’ll get a tour of the place like we had at Cleydael with the Parker’s.”
At precisely 8:30am, Tom pulled off onto the grassy shoulder along Walker Road. We were just south of the farm’s driveway, and we had a great view of the two-and-one-half-story home and the white barn in the distance. There were several outbuildings on the property, but our primary focus was the farmhouse and white barn, which featured the wording ‘McKinley Farm 1884’ emblazoned in black lettering across the front. While Mongo captured video of the farm from the passenger seat, Tom pulled me from the camera case, readjusted my head which had once again nearly fallen off, and he stepped in front of the Jeep for his first attempt at a picture. That’s the moment I heard Bob say: “Oh oh, here comes someone walking pretty fast up the driveway and he doesn’t look very happy.”
Sure enough, I saw the guy as well. An older guy, who seemed to have a scowl on his face, was headed directly for our Jeep. Was he armed? I couldn’t tell for sure. Tom tried to defuse the situation by waving at him, but that didn’t work, he never waved back. When the farm’s owner, who turned out to be 74-year-old James Falconer, got roughly 30 feet from our vehicle, he stopped and yelled: “What are you two doing in front of my house.” That was the beginning of an intense five-minute back-and-forth vehement conversation between my photographer and Falconer.
Tom: “My buddy and I are Presidential enthusiasts, and we travel all around the country to visit and photograph Presidential sites. We know this was once William McKinley’s farm and that’s why we’re here. We don’t mean any harm or disrespect.” (Tom attempted to de-escalate the situation, which the three of us could tell was about to grow uglier.
Falconer: “Why didn’t you knock on my front door and ask for permission first?”
Tom: “It’s eight-thirty in the morning and we didn’t want to disturb anyone. We planned on snapping a couple of pictures from the road and then we’d be on our way back to Canton.”
Falconer: “How would you like it if strangers came to your house and started taking pictures of your garage?”
Tom: “To be honest, I don’t think it would bother me all that much. I’d ask them why they were there, then I’d let them take their pictures.”
Falconer: “Well, I’m a tax-paying citizen of the United States of America. I was born in this country.”
Tom: “I was born in the United States as well. I’m an American citizen just like you are.”
Falconer: “I was in the military; I’m a proud veteran. I fought for our freedom.” (That’s when I knew in my heart the confrontational guy was likely armed with a weapon.)
Tom: “Well, I was never in the military because the Vietnam War had just ended when I graduated high school. But my father was in the Army, and he fought for our freedom in Korea. As a matter of fact, he was a gunner on a tank.”
Falconer: “William McKinley died in 1901 and he hasn’t paid a penny in taxes on this farm since.” (I shook my head, which nearly fell off again, and wondered what the heck that had to do with anything. I could tell my photographer was dumbfounded as well – Tom had no rebuttal for that totally off-the-wall and ignorant statement.)
Falconer: “Where are you from? Where do you two live?” (I knew Tom was reluctant to say we were from Michigan because that might have pushed the already aggressive disturbed Ohio farmer over the edge.)
Tom: “We live in Michigan.”
Falconer: “Here’s what I want you to do. You go back to Michigan, and you tell everyone there that you just met the biggest asshole in the entire state of Ohio.”
Tom: “You can count on that!” (At that point, my photographer had given up all hope of getting me near the barn.)
My photographer carefully slid me back into the camera case, which he placed on the rear seat. Seconds later, as Tom began to drive away from the house, I heard Bob say: “What the hell was that? That guy is mental. You did a good job of trying to de-escalate the situation and he wasn’t having any of it. I thought for sure that lunatic would pull out a gun and start shooting at any moment.” In my mind, James Falconer sold himself short. He wasn’t the biggest asshole in Ohio; he was the biggest asshole in the entire country, by far. In the nine years I’ve travelled with Tom and Bob, we’ve never encountered a bigger jerk than that guy. And what made matters worse – he owned the farm that once belonged to a President of the United States. It should be a crime for an a-hole to own a historic site.
Tom and Bob were not about to leave the area without getting photos of McKinley’s farm. That just wasn’t going to happen. As my photographer drove past Falconer’s property, he snapped a half-dozen images through the open window of the Jeep. Then, when we arrived at the corner of Walker Road and Ellsworth Avenue, Tom pulled off the road at Plaines Cemetery where he and his friend took additional pictures. I became a bit nervous when I heard Mongo say: “Even though we’re a half-mile from that house, I’m waiting for that deranged bastard to pull out a rifle and start shooting at us.”
We left the Minerva area and headed westward towards Canton. For most of the 18-mile drive to our next site, I listened to Tom and Bob as they rehashed the ugly encounter at McKinley’s farm. My companions started to second-guess themselves as to whether or not they should’ve walked up onto Falconer’s porch and knocked on the front door for permission. But in my mind, that wouldn’t have made one iota of difference. The last thing I heard really surprised me, however. Bob vowed to go back to the McKinley farm at some point in the near future to get better pictures. “I’ll go back just to spite that bastard. He won’t be able to say a damned thing if I’m standing in the middle of the road. That road is public property, and it doesn’t matter if I’m directly in front of his house or not.” I laughed to myself when I thought about James Falconer pulling a gun on ‘that Mongo character’: “If you shoot him, you’ll just make him mad.”
When I heard we were headed to another place where William McKinley once lived, I wondered if we were jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Fortunately for all involved, the Saxton McKinley House, located in the heart of downtown Canton, was deemed a historic site and was open to the public for tours. Minutes after Tom parked the Jeep in a lot adjacent to the house, I was carried to the front of Ida McKinley’s birthplace where I posed for a handful of photos. But the home was more than the birthplace of the First Lady. William McKinley lived in the home with his wife from 1878 to 1891 during the time when he served in the United States House of Representatives. As a matter of fact, it’s the only residence with direct historical ties to President McKinley remaining in his hometown of Canton.
Once Tom and Bob had taken their exterior images of the historic home, we walked a short distance north along Market Avenue where a museum dedicated to the First Ladies of the United States was located. Known officially as the First Ladies National Historic Site, the museum was also where my companion’s bought the tickets for our guided tour of the home – which was the primary reason for our visit. The three of us had roughly a half-hour to kill before our tour began, so we browsed through the exhibits of the First Ladies. I was somewhat disappointed by the displays as some of the artifacts exhibited were replicas of what the particular First Lady had worn. However, I was proud to pose next to the display that featured the inaugural gown worn by Ida McKinley.
At precisely ten o’clock, Tom, Bob, and I made the short walk to the Saxton McKinley House that was built in 1841 and modified in 1865. During our one-block hike, it started to rain, but not enough to get my companions very wet. As we were about to step foot into the house, Mongo mentioned that we were primarily interested in the original artifacts and furnishings owned and used by William and Ida McKinley. And I agreed – when it comes to period furnishings, we can see those in an antique shop. We were no more safely inside the house when it began to rain a lot harder. Sometimes, timing is everything!
The interior of the home was beautifully renovated, and there were some furnishings inside that were in the house when William and Ida lived there. My favorite room was President McKinley’s study, where I had the chance to stand on William’s chair. Please sit back and enjoy the images from our time inside the Saxton McKinley Home in Canton, Ohio.
During the final moments of our Saxton McKinley House tour, our guide mentioned William and Ida’s wedding that took place at the First Presbyterian Church in 1871. When my companions asked if the original church still existed, she said it had and was located only a few blocks away. That’s all Tom and Bob needed to hear – a few minutes later the three of us were headed to church. Thankfully, it had stopped raining.
Located just four blocks west of the Saxton McKinley House was the Christ Presbyterian Church, which was known as the First Presbyterian Church when it was founded in 1821. Construction began on the main stone structure in 1868, and the larger, refurbished church was dedicated on April 23, 1871. John Saxton, the founding publisher for the Canton Repository newspaper, and his son James, a prominent banker, served as elders in the church. Three months before the dedication ceremony took place, John Saxton’s daughter Ida married Major William McKinley on January 25, 1871 before a crowd of 1,000 well-wishers. It was the first service of any kind in the newly constructed sanctuary, which I had hoped to see.
During the ten minutes while I posed for photos near the exterior of the beautiful 151-year-old stone structure, disaster struck. As Tom held me up for a photo, my head fell off and bounced off the sidewalk below. Everything went dark, but when he placed my head back on my body, I was dizzy and had a severe headache. I heard my photographer tell Bob what had happened, and once again we avoided a life-ending incident – I only had a small nick in my painted resin hair. Thank goodness I have a hard head! And thankfully I didn’t hit the sidewalk face-first and damage my devastatingly handsome good looks!
Getting inside the historic church likely wasn’t going to happen. After I had finished posing for our pictures, Tom attempted to open the front doors, and they were locked. Another attempt to open a side door, this time by Bob, ended in the same result. At that point, most people would’ve given up. But not my companions. Bob found a third locked entrance and knocked on that door; luckily, his knocks did not go unanswered. A friendly gentleman, in charge of church maintenance, opened the door and invited us inside for a tour of the sanctuary where the McKinley’s were married.
At one point during our visit to the sanctuary inside Christ Presbyterian Church, Tom placed me alongside a Bible that was from the 1870s when the church had been enlarged. It was during that moment, as I stood by the Bible, when my excruciating headache had vanished. I had to admit, the headache stunt was cool, but I would’ve rather had a “new spring around my neck” miracle instead!
It was roughly 11:30am when the three of us left the church and returned to the Jeep. We had an amazing time in Canton where I saw William McKinley’s home, farm, church, and tomb, but it was time to go from one assassinated President to another. That’s right – we were headed north towards the Cleveland area where President James Garfield once lived and was laid to rest. I laughed to myself when I heard my companions had planned on another visit to Garfield’s tomb. After all, my head was already detached. What could our 20th President, or his ghost, possibly do to me this time?
I was excited and nervous at the same time to see James Garfield’s tomb once again, but Lake View Cemetery wasn’t our first destination that afternoon. The first historic delicacy on our plate was a house in Hiram, Ohio that was once owned by Garfield and has been reputed to be more haunted than any other site associated with our 20th President. In 2015, when I visited the home for the first time, I didn’t see, hear, or feel anything whatsoever out of the ordinary. But then again, the place was locked-up tight and I was only able to stand on the front porch. Since then, however, my photographer has read articles that stated the house was open for tours via Hiram College. As a matter of fact, Tom had a telephone number that he planned to call for a tour should no one be at the house upon our arrival. In my mind, we were as good as in!
We arrived in Hiram, Ohio at a few minutes before one o’clock. When Tom carried me along the sidewalk to the front of what’s now known as the ‘Garfield – Robbins – Zimmerman House’, I immediately noticed several huge differences in the home’s appearance. Gone were the unsightly bushes and small trees that nearly obscured the beautiful front porch in 2015. It also appeared the entire home had been renovated and repainted; and the second-story green shutters had been replaced with black ones. But unfortunately, one thing still remained the same; the doors were locked and no one was home. Okay, let me clarify that – no living humans were inside the house.
The historic house that stood in front of me was built in 1836 and became a boarding house for faculty members of Western Reserve Eclectic Institute, known today as Hiram College. James Garfield attended WREI for three years beginning in 1854, then he went to another school to finish his degree. After he graduated in August 1856, Garfield returned to Hiram where he began teaching at the Institute; by 1857, he was the school’s principal. Reunited in Hiram with the love of his life, Lucretia Rudolph, the couple were married on November 11, 1858 and soon moved into the former boarding house that James had purchased the previous year. The Garfield’s owned the Hiram house until 1876 when James bought a larger farmhouse in Mentor, Ohio to accommodate his growing family.
Over the years since President Garfield’s assassination in 1881 and Lucretia’s death in 1918, the Hiram house has played host to a plethora of paranormal activity. Not only has there been hundreds of occasions where doors mysteriously closed and items moved about the house on their own, there’s also been reports of some very unusual activity that seemed to be linked directly to James and Lucretia Garfield. For example, former owners of the home would say the name “Garfield” aloud in the house and the lights in that room would flicker. There were times when the smell of cigar smoke was so thick inside the home, the owners would cough – yet no one smoked cigars; except for James Garfield, of course. Then there was the time when the newspaper crossword puzzle had been completed during the night, and in someone’s handwriting besides the home’s owner. When it was investigated further, the handwriting was… yeah, James Garfield’s. And finally, there were times when the owners would leave a tape recorder running all night to see if it would pick up any unusual sounds. One morning, when they replayed the tape, they heard the voice of a man and woman speaking in Greek as they discussed where to hang a picture. Both James and Lucretia Garfield were fluent in Greek. “Πιστεύω στους τρομοκράτες, πιστεύω στους τρόμους!”
As I posed on the porch, I thought about the dozens of ghost stories from the past. I even looked for some type of unusual movement in the windows and I listened for strange noises. During our entire fifteen-minute stay outside the house, I had the feeling someone was watching me. However, I never saw or heard anything out of the ordinary and I never caught a whiff of a cigar – even though Tom had a prop cigar in his camera bag that smelled a bit like fish. I wanted very badly to tour the interior of the home, but that was still up in the air. When the three of us returned to the Jeep, Tom made a phone call to the college.
Once again, luck was not on our side as no one at the college answered Tom’s phone call. He left a message and pleaded our case, but his plea for a return phone call fell on deaf ears. In a sense, I blame my photographer for not setting something up in advance. College staff members were likely on hiatus in the middle of May, and no one was available to conduct a tour without advance notice. In my mind, that meant only one thing – the three of us will come back to Hiram, Ohio at some point in the future and we’re going inside that house!”
While we failed to encounter any unusual paranormal activity at James Garfield’s home in Hiram, his tomb at Lake View Cemetery has never let us down in the three times I’ve visited. During my first trip to Garfield’s tomb in 2013, my head was mysteriously removed while I stood inside the padded camera case. Somehow, my decapitated head was placed beneath my base, and it was there when my photographer found it. On my second visit in 2015, an unexplained orb was captured on another tourist’s photos at the same time my photographer was taunting the President. The same woman also felt the presence of Garfield when she held me through the bars of the crypt. Finally, in 2019, strange music suddenly played from Tom’s phone as he slid me through the bars and along the floor of the crypt where Garfield’s flag-draped casket was located. What unexplained phenomena would we encounter this time?
It took about an hour to make the 38-mile drive from Hiram to Lake View Cemetery located on Cleveland’s east side. The rainy, overcast day had turned mostly sunny when we arrived at the beautiful 285-acre burial ground around 2:15pm. Behind the wheel of our Jeep, Tom followed the hilly and scenic roadway that led us to the James A. Garfield Memorial. Moments after we were parked and my photographer carried me to the front of Garfield’s tomb, one of nature’s beautiful creatures caught Tom’s attention. It was a white tail deer, which meant our visit to the tomb was put on hold for a few minutes.
James Abram Garfield died on September 19, 1881 after being shot in Washington D.C. on July 2nd. The 20th President had once expressed a wish to be buried at Lake View and the cemetery offered a burial site free of charge to his widow Lucretia. When the body of the slain President arrived at Lake View one week after his death, it was placed in the cemetery’s public receiving vault for nearly a month. On October 22nd, Garfield’s remains were transferred to an empty mausoleum that was owned and designed by Levi Schofield, a noted local architect.
The site for the memorial was selected in June 1883; Garfield’s tomb was to be built on the highest point in the cemetery. Just over two years later, on October 6, 1885, construction on the 180-foot-tall Garfield Memorial began. Finally, on May 30, 1890, which was nearly nine years after his death, the final resting place of President Garfield was dedicated, and his casket was placed in the burial crypt below the memorial. First Lady Lucretia Garfield died on March 13, 1918 and her remains were interred alongside her husbands on March 21st. But the President and his wife weren’t alone in the memorial. There were two urns located near the head of the caskets that contained the cremated ashes of the Garfield’s daughter Mary and her husband Joseph Stanley Brown.
After I had posed for a photo near the front of Garfield’s Memorial, I was carried inside the tomb where I saw an impressive 12-foot-tall Carrara marble statue of our 20th President. The statue was cool, but it was the burial crypt beneath the statue that I was anxious to visit. Shortly after Tom carried me down the marble spiral staircase and into the crypt, my photographer once again began to antagonize the slain President. While he didn’t verbally bash Garfield, because he’s one of Tom’s favorite Presidents, my cameraman did his best to coax James’ ghost into messing with me again. “Come on James, you removed Jefferson’s head nine years ago – it should be easier now; there’s nothing holding his head on except some dried puddy. What’s the matter, James, are you getting weak in your old age?” Unfortunately, there was nothing out of the ordinary that either of us detected inside that crypt. We didn’t see any orbs; there were no unusual shadows on the wall; and Tom’s phone stayed silent. At one point, just before my photographer planned on sliding me onto the crypt’s floor, my head fell off, but Tom caught it before it hit the tiled floor. While that near catastrophe was likely caused by gravity, and not Garfield, my photographer changed his mind about setting me back inside the caged crypt. Had my head fallen off inside the crypt, it might have stayed there for a long time.
I had to admit, it was a disappointment when I didn’t experience any paranormal activity inside Garfield’s tomb. Some of my greatest stories originated from that site, but unfortunately, that visit turned out to be a “ghost bust”, so to speak.
Then it dawned on me, there was still one more James Garfield tomb to visit, and that’s exactly where Tom and Bob were headed next. At first, my photographer thought he remembered where the Levi Scholfield mausoleum was located; he figured it wasn’t too far from the Garfield Memorial. But the tomb wasn’t where Tom thought it was. As a matter of fact, we drove around blindly in that humongous cemetery for a while until Bob suggested we ask for directions. Finally, after 25 minutes of searching, my companions found the elusive mausoleum. And guess what? It was still in the same spot as it was when I visited the mausoleum in 2015!
During the five or so minutes that I posed near the Schofield mausoleum, I thought about the slain President lying inside that tomb for almost nine years. I also wondered if Garfield’s ghost ever went back there for a visit, just for old times’ sake. The large mausoleum resembled some of the other temporary Presidential tombs I had visited in the past, such as Warren G. Harding’s and William McKinley’s. But for some reason, the Schofield tomb looked a lot creepier to me. I couldn’t imagine standing on that tomb at night.
Just before we headed back to the Jeep, I thought I heard a low-pitched growl; it almost sounded like an animal in distress. It freaked me out at first – I thought the noise came from the tomb. But I was mistaken. It turned out to come from my photographer’s stomach. He hadn’t eaten much all day and the clock was already at half-past three o’clock.
As we were headed out of Lake View Cemetery, Tom and Bob decided they would have dinner at Quaker Steak and Lube in Sheffield, Ohio, which was only a 30-mile drive from the burial ground. But would that 45-minute drive through the heart of Cleveland and beyond cause my photographer’s gut to start consuming itself? That’s something I never want to see.
I stayed in the Jeep while my companions had dinner. And to be honest, I was happy Tom didn’t take me inside Quaker Steak and Lube. First of all, it would’ve been extremely embarrassing had my head fallen off during dinner, and you know how much I hate making a scene. And lastly, there was no way I wanted to watch Tom eat himself into a food coma. Instead, I mentally prepared myself for the last stop of our trip – the grave of William Knox Schroeder, which was located in Ridge Hill Memorial Park in Amherst, Ohio. As soon as I started to think about the 19-year-old Kent State University student who had perished from a gunshot wound on May 4, 1970 after Ohio Army National Guardsmen opened fire on unarmed student protesters, I got upset all over again. Envisioning that horrific event caused me to think and feel bad things about President Richard Nixon; and my hatred towards Ohio Governor James Rhodes grew stronger as well.
We arrived at Ridge Hill Memorial Park, which was a 100-acre non-sectarian cemetery, at roughly 5:20pm. As soon as Tom drove the Jeep through the front gates of the burial ground, I figured we would be there for a long time. Most of the headstones in the cemetery were flat to the ground and were very hard to see from the winding roadway. But thankfully Bob had visited Bill Schroeder’s grave within the past year; he used a distant leaning pine tree that helped guide us directly to the location of William’s grave in Section 7. Once the Jeep was parked, we had roughly a 40-yard hike through a field of graves before we found Schroeder’s bronze grave marker alongside the headstones of his two parents and brother.
When Tom gently removed me from the camera case where I had ridden comfortably since we left the Schofield mausoleum in Lake View Cemetery, something seemed amiss and felt odd. It wasn’t until my photographer set me down on the metallic grave marker that I realized what was wrong – the lower part of my right arm was nearly severed from the upper. That’s right, my surgically repaired arm hung by a slim piece of resin and there was nothing anyone could do. At least not in the middle of a cemetery. I was in terrible shape – my head was crooked from the dried puddy that held it in place and my right arm dangled helplessly from my bicep. But there was no way I was about to complain – not there, anyway. Even though I’ll undergo surgery as soon as I return home, including a spring replacement surgical procedure that’s likely never been attempted before, there’s a good chance I’ll survive. I should still be able to visit historical sites in the future. The same, however, couldn’t be said about Bill Schroeder, the 19-year-old who loved to visit historical sites as well.
William Schroeder was in-between classes when the gunshots rang out on May 4, 1970; he was not part of the ongoing student protests that were unfolding in front of him. Schroeder was the All-American boy; a hard-working kid who at the age of 13 earned the rank of Eagle Scout. Throughout high school, Bill was an overachiever, a leader who excelled at everything he attempted. While enrolled at Kent State, Bill was ironically a member of the ROTC and he ranked first in his military class. As a matter of fact, the handsome youngster earned the Academic Achievement Award for “Excellence in History”. He loved to study history and visit historic sites; and he developed a passion for books about America’s wars – from the Indian Wars, the Civil War, the World Wars, and Korea; all the way to the Vietnam War. William Schoeder loved history. The sad thing was, he had no way of knowing he would make history on May 4, 1970. Schroeder stood in the Prentice Hall parking lot, a folder in his hands, as he observed the student protest in-between his classes. Seconds later, Bill was struck in the chest by a bullet from a M-1 Garand battle rifle. The National Guardsman’s bullet pierced Bill’s left lung and exited near his left shoulder. When the gunfire stopped and the screaming began, Bill was taken to a nearby hospital where he underwent emergency surgery. William Knox Schroeder died on the operating table about an hour after he was shot.
As I stood on William Schroeder’s headstone, I thought about the fact that he would be celebrating his 72nd birthday on July 20, 2022. I also thought about Bill’s passion for history. There’s no doubt in my resin mind that he would’ve loved what I’ve seen and where I’ve been; and he would’ve been so proud that I’ve stopped to recognize his place in American history as well. No one will ever forget May 4, 1970. No one will ever forget William Schroeder, Allison Krause, Sandra Scheuer, and Jeffrey Miller. “Those who cannot remember the past are destined to repeat it.”
When my companions saw Ridge Hill Memorial Park disappear in the Jeep’s review mirror, we had just under 200 miles of roadway to Bob’s home. It had been an amazing 12-day trip where we saw dozens of astounding historic sites and met some very special people. I even got a kiss from a member of Congress inside the Capitol. There were many highs and a handful of lows, but that’s expected with any cross-country journey.
As we crossed the border into Michigan, I thought about James Falconer at McKinley’s farm and what that cranky fart ordered Tom to do when we returned to our state. And I knew for sure as soon as my photographer got home, he wouldn’t let him down. But the more I thought about it, some of what Falconer did that morning was reasonable. In this day and age, when people boldly walk onto other’s property to do damage, steal their belongings, or worse; it’s hard to blame that 74-year-old for questioning us. I think my photographer and Mongo would do the same thing at their respective homes. But after Tom had calmly explained the reason for our visit, that’s when most “normal” individuals would’ve greeted us with open arms instead of going on the verbal barrage that bordered on political insanity.
At Bob’s house, my photographer and I once again bid farewell to our travel mate. Not only does Mongo make the trip fun and interesting, his passion for history and desire to make sure I get to stand on certain artifacts that Tom can’t reach is greatly appreciated. I certainly can’t wait for the three of us to team up and hit the road again.
It was 9:20pm when Tom and I arrived home – 2,778 miles after we had left 12 days earlier. Even though that Friday was the final day of our trip, it was one of the most ambitious days as well. Inside our house, my photographer removed me from the camera case in three separate pieces. He placed me on a living room cabinet where I hoped to spend my final night as an invalid. Surgery was slated for the following morning. I love history – and on May 21, 2022, I planned on making history. I will be the first bobble head in history to undergo spring replacement surgery. That’s right – the metal spring from an Abraham Lincoln bobble head will be transplanted onto me, a Thomas Jefferson bobble head. I was thankful the spring was from Lincoln and not a George W. Bush bobble head. I can’t afford to lose resin brain cells!
After Tom went to bed around midnight, a simple, yet familiar, movie jingle filled my decapitated resin head. “I’d unravel every riddle, for any individ’le, in trouble with the king. With the thoughts I’d be thinkin’, I could be another Lincoln, if I only had his spring.”
