Once our visit to the National Museum of the United States Air Force had concluded on Friday November 25, 2022, my photographer, his wife, and I were headed south towards Cincinnati. But instead of visiting the sights in The Queen City, the three of us were on our way to ‘The Point’, which was the site of Point Farm where President Benjamin Harrison grew up in North Bend, Ohio.
A little over an hour into our journey where Vicki followed the GPS directions set in place by my photographer, she parked the Jeep in a small, remote parking area after Siri said we had reached our destination. Through an opening in the camera case, I noticed the area seemed very familiar; in my mind, I knew Tom and I had been there before. My suspicions were confirmed when I heard my photographer’s wife say, “This isn’t a farm, this is Harrison’s tomb. We’ve been here before. Why did we need to come back? And don’t give me that old Moldenhauer pizza analogy either.” Calmly, Tom stated the farm site was only a few miles down the road and he felt compelled to stop and visit William Henry Harrison’s tomb again; especially since we had to drive right past it. “I’m drawn to Presidential gravesites, what can I say? Plus, it’ll only be a 20-minute stop and then we’ll head to the farm site.”
Tom carried me to the front of our ninth President’s final resting place, but unfortunately, the iron gate at the front entrance was locked shut. My camera guy knew in advance we wouldn’t be able to get into the crypt like we had in 2021, but he was surprised when we couldn’t access the entryway to view Harrison’s crypt. Instead, the two of us had to settle for exterior images of the 60-foot-tall limestone obelisk. Even though I had visited Harrison’s tomb in September of 2014 and again in May of 2021, I never get tired of making return trips to Presidential gravesites. Those visits never grow old to me; and quite frankly, it seems as though I notice changes or something different with each visit to a President’s grave.
My third visit to President William Henry Harrison’s final resting place had finished roughly 25 minutes after it began. Even though Tom and I weren’t able to view Harrison’s crypt, it was still an awesome experience to pay my personal tribute to our ninth President. The two of us rendezvoused with Vicki at the Jeep and we began our four-mile drive to the site where William Henry’s grandson, Benjamin Harrison, grew up.
When we arrived at the site, I expected to see a vast farmland butted-up with the Ohio River in the southwestern-most part of the state. But when Tom removed me from the camera case for our photoshoot, I was stunned. There was no farmhouse; no barn; no cattle; and no amber waves of grain. Instead, I saw a huge cooling tower of an electrical power plant that was surrounded by a chain linked fence topped with barbed wire. It turned out the Luminant Miami Fort Power Plant had been built on the site where ‘Point Farm’ was once located. While I was disappointed to see a huge power plant on the property, it was comforting to know that President William Henry Harrison had once owned all of the land as far as my painted resin eyes could see. I was standing where two Presidents once walked, worked, and lived.
Shortly after Benjamin Harrison’s birth on August 20, 1833, the future 23rd President moved into a two-story brick farmhouse known as ‘The Point’. That historic home, along with its 600 acres of farmland, was given to Benjamin’s father, John Scott Harrison, by John’s dad William Henry Harrison; whose own estate was located adjacent to the property. Benjamin grew up at ‘The Point’ and received his early education at a nearby small log schoolhouse. Even though the Harrison’s came from a wealthy lineage, John Scott spent most of his farm income on his children’s education instead of living in the lap of luxury. Benjamin lived at ‘The Point’ on and off throughout his college years, which was when he met and married Caroline Scott. Benjamin and his new bride lived together at ‘The Point’ for only a short time after their marriage. The couple moved out for good in 1854 and headed for Indianapolis.
Tom carried me towards a flagpole situated where the plant’s entranceway met Brower Road. There, sandwiched between two large informational signs, was a brick structure that was partially obscured by shrubs. A bronze plaque, affixed to the brick structure, had been erected to pay homage to the Harrison’s ‘Point Farm’ that once graced the landscape there. The sun angle was horrible, and at times, my photographer was forced to wait for the cooling tower’s steam to block the bright glare. After I had posed for several photos taken from a couple of different locations, I heard Vicki yell out from the nearby Jeep as Tom captured his final image: “You might want to hurry. There’s a warning sign posted on the fence over there stating photography is prohibited anywhere on the property.” In my mind, that made absolutely no sense at all. Why would anyone erect a historical marker to a President and then expect visitors, or Presidential enthusiasts such and me and Tom, to not snap a few pictures at the site. In the end, it didn’t matter – we had our photos; I was able to pay homage to Benjamin Harrison; and we were on way to a restaurant just south of downtown Cincinnati.
It was 1:30pm and time for my photographer and his wife to eat. And in their minds, the best places to eat while travelling are the ones chosen by Guy Fieri for his show Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. Following a little on-line research a week or two before we left home, Tom had chosen the Senate restaurant in Blue Ash, Ohio as their Triple D place for the trip.
Following a 30-mile drive through heavier-than-usual Black Friday traffic from North Bend to Blue Ash, we arrived at the Senate at roughly 2:10pm. When the three of us entered the trendy pub, famous for its gourmet hot dogs and craft beers, Tom was it right between the eyes with a severe dose of WTF. When he asked the hostess where the Guy Fieri autographed logo was on the diner’s wall, she replied: “I’m sorry, but Guy Fieri wasn’t at this restaurant. He was at the Senate in downtown Cincinnati.” Hungry, and in no mood to fight the downtown traffic, my dismayed companions stayed put at the “wrong” restaurant.
I knew my photographer had planned on ordering a gourmet hot dog, because he figured that’s what Guy had eaten on the show. But when he saw the menu and noticed some of the bizarre toppings that covered the dogs, he opted for the ‘Cleo McDowell Burger’ instead. That burger featured two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a toasted non-sesame seed bun. I laughed to myself when Tom said to the server: “That Cleo burger sounds exactly like a Big Mac and I’m not a fan of Big Mac’s. I’ll take mine without the special sauce.”
Minutes after my photographer and his wife choked-down their greasy and expensive hamburgers, which were served with only a dill pickle and no fries, the three of us were back in the Jeep and headed for Fairfield, Ohio. In an effort to entice his wife to go on the Thanksgiving weekend trip, Tom had promised Vicki they would spend a good amount of time at one of the largest antique malls in Ohio, which was where we headed after the late lunch.
As soon as we arrived in Fairfield, my photographer decided to throw a wrench into their plans when he redirected the GPS to take us to Hooterville first. When I heard him say “Hooterville”, I thought he was talking about the ’60s TV show that featured Uncle Joe Carson, Kate Bradley, and the three Bradley sisters Betty Jo, Billie Jo, and Bobbie Jo. But when we arrived at our destination, which was about five miles northwest of the antique mall, I didn’t see the ‘Hooterville Cannonball’ outside of the ‘Shady Rest Hotel’. Instead, we were at the Hooterville Sports Cards shop where Tom planned to do a little shopping for some Oakland Athletics baseball cards. As my photographer thumbed through a box of early 1970s cards, I couldn’t help but notice something familiar about the guy behind the counter. At first, I couldn’t put a resin finger on it. But just as Tom pulled a 1970 Catfish Hunter card from the box, I realized the guy looked like Jeff Albertson, the animated comic bookstore owner on The Simpsons TV show. I figured my photographer thought the same thing as the two of us chuckled all the way out of the store after he paid for the card.
Following our excursion to Hooterville, we headed back to the Ohio Valley Antique Mall where my companions had planned to spend the rest of their day. When Vicki pulled the Jeep into the huge parking lot, I heard Tom say to his wife: “The place closes at nine o’clock and it’s only four now. We should have plenty of time to see most everything there; or at least the stuff that interests us.” Usually when my photographer enters an antique store or visits a flea market, his sights are set on only a few things – Presidential or historical artifacts, vinyl records, and sports memorabilia. But once we had walked up and down the aisles for an hour or two, something else caught his eye – and it wasn’t anything for his own collection. Tom noticed a few of the display cases featured fossils, including teeth from Megalodon sharks, as well as a well-preserved Mosasaurus tooth. When he was finished scouring the aisles, as well as discussing fossils with artifact guru Taylor Roe, my photographer walked out of the mall with the tooth of a Mosasaurus, a huge marine lizard that perished over 60 million years ago in North Dakota, in his hand. That’s right, Tom didn’t buy anything related to Reggie Jackson, Buddy Holly, or John F. Kennedy. Instead, my photographer bought a tooth from a prehistoric critter featured in Jurassic World and he figured it would be the perfect gift for his grandson Rory.
Exhausted from a full day of seeing a lot of old things, the three of us left the antique mall and headed for the Drury Inn & Suites near Sharonville, Ohio where we spent the night. As the three of us headed towards the lobby to register, I overheard Tom mention something he had remembered what that hotel chain was famous for: free food for dinner. Although the Drury’s dinner menu didn’t feature fine cuisine such as thick T-bone steaks or leg of lamb, it didn’t matter to my cheap photographer. I actually think he would eat a petrified cat turd wrapped in a stale bun if it was free.
Unpacked and finally in the dining area, I nearly fell out of my camera case with laughter when Tom returned to our table with his plate of food. There, next to a handful of nacho chips covered in cheese, were two hot dogs. To be brutally honest, those hot dogs looked like petrified cat turds wrapped in stale buns, at least to me. After he took one bite of the first dog, Tom said to his wife: “These so-called hot dogs sure don’t taste like Zimmerman’s. I bet they’re the cheap ‘Bar S’ brand; and I know what the ‘S’ stands for!”
Back in our room for the night, Tom placed me alongside the television set where I watched him surf the channels as he tried to find something to watch. When my photographer couldn’t find The Andy Griffith Show or anything else that interested him or his wife, the lights were extinguished around 8:30pm. Tom seemed restless as he slept; I figured he may have had heartburn. Suddenly a weird sound came from his bed. At first, I thought it might have been my photographer snoring; but the longer I listened, it sounded like a cat’s meow. There was no doubt in my mind; it was the hot dogs doing the talking!
Throughout the entire night, as I stood alone with my thoughts, I was saddened by the images that were seared into my resin mind of President Kennedy as he walked off Air Force One in Dallas. Forty-five minutes after he walked down the steps from the rear of that aircraft, John F. Kennedy was dead. His youthful smile was gone forever, and JFK’s flowing locks of chestnut red hair were caked with his blood and brain matter. It had been 59 years since that tragic day in Dallas, but it seemed like the assassination happened that morning; at least in my mind. When Tom carried me down the steps from the rear of that same plane, SAM-26000, President Kennedy walked with us. He was there, I could feel his presence. JFK was at peace, and I could feel in my resin heart that he admired what I’ve been doing the past nine years. At one point, I thought I heard a voice whisper: “Ich bin ein bobble header!”
Although JFK’s favorite President was Franklin D. Roosevelt, he also admired the brilliance of Thomas Jefferson. As a matter of fact, Kennedy referenced the third President as he hosted a group of Nobel Prize winners at a White House dinner in 1962: “I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered together at the White House, with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.”
What could I say except: “Awe shucks! Ain’t it the truth? Ain’t it the truth?”
