226: ALIENS AMONG US AT HARDING’S TOMB

Sunday November 27, 2022 began when Tom’s alarm rang at 7 o’clock in the morning in our Springfield, Ohio hotel room. For me, it was a bittersweet moment as I figured this was likely my final trip of the year. Even though I knew the first half of the day would be spent wandering the endless expanses of an antique mall, I also knew my photographer had planned to visit a handful of Presidential sites later in the day as well.

By 8:45am, my companions had the Jeep packed and we were on the road, but we weren’t headed to the antique mall quite yet. Instead, Tom wanted the three of us to pay a visit to Madonna. When I heard that, I instantly felt like a virgin, touched for the very first time. But it wasn’t the famous pop singer my photographer was talking about. Instead, it was a statue of a pioneer woman located in a small, unassuming park near the center of Springfield. As soon as I was plucked from the camera case and saw the 18-foot-tall poured algonite statue, I realized I had seen it before. But since this was my first visit to Springfield, how could that be?

It turned out the National Society of Daughters of the American Revolution wanted to pay tribute to the pioneer women and their contributions to this great land. In 1927, German artist August Leimbach created twelve identical statues that would be placed from coast to coast along the historic National Old Trail. The president of the National Old Trail was none other than judge Harry S. Truman, the future 33rd President, and he was present at all twelve statue dedication ceremonies. Ironically, the first ‘Madonna of the Trail’ statue was unveiled in Springfield, Ohio on July 4, 1928 and it was the same one that stood before me on that partly cloudy Sunday morning. In 2011, however, the statue had been relocated from its original position along the National Old Trail Highway, which was about ten blocks away. That meant one thing – I wouldn’t get to stand in the footsteps of Harry S. Turman that morning.

As Tom carried me back to the nearby Jeep where Vicki waited for us, it dawned on me where I had seen that statue before. It was in Vandalia, Illinois on the grounds of the old State Capitol building. We had stopped at that Vandalia site on the first day of our 2016 Texas trip because of its association with Abraham Lincoln. While there, we accidentally discovered the ‘Madonna of the Trails’ statue and its historic connection with Truman. You might be wondering where all twelve statues are located; well, let me tell you. From east to west, the ‘Madonna of the Trail’ statues are in Bethesda, Maryland; Beallsville, Pennsylvania; Wheeling, West Virginia; Springfield, Ohio; Richmond, Indiana; Vandalia, Illinois; Lexington, Missouri; Council Grove, Kansas; Lamar, Colorado; Albuquerque, New Mexico; Springerville, Arizona; and Upland, California. For the past nine years, I’ve travelled from sea to shining sea and have seen only two of those statues. Will I ever see all twelve? It’s highly unlikely!

Even though I’m not a material girl, or bobble head, I do live in a material world, and that was very evident at our next stop. Instead of making the entire 6.5-mile drive to the Heart of Ohio Antique Center, Tom decided we needed to pay a visit to the Wescott House first. The Wescott House was a Prairie-style home designed by famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright. I had heard of Frank Lloyd Wright in the past, and I knew he wasn’t related to either Orville or Wilbur Wright, but I wasn’t exactly sure what he was famous for; and my photographer wasn’t quite sure either. The two of us figured Wright was either an architect, an author, or a renowned artist. As we neared the famous Springfield, Ohio home, Tom guessed Wright was likely an architect. Not surprisingly, it turned out he was right, which my photographer jokingly says is “a curse to be right all the time.”

Vicki chose to remain inside the Jeep to watch Instagram posts on her phone while the two of us visited the home. Seconds after Tom got out of the vehicle and flung the camera case, with me in it, around his shoulder, I heard him suddenly yell out: “Oh no!” Immediately, my world inside the protective case was jolted to the core. I figured I was okay as I had stayed conscious, and it felt as though my fragile right arm was still intact. Then came the shock – when my photographer opened the top of the case, he checked his camera before seeing if I had suffered any injuries. A minute or so after inspecting his camera, he lifted me out of the case and gave me a quick once-over. “Well, Jefferson still survives!” I was a bit miffed; one, for the lack of concern for me and then, for quoting John Adams.

Admittedly, I had an attitude as the two of us strolled around the front yard of the Wescott House. The huge home was designed by famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright and built in 1908 for Mr. Burton J. Wescott and his wife Orpha. We learned it was the only Prairie-style house designed by Wright in the entire state of Ohio. Wescott owned the home until his death in 1926 and it exchanged hands several times until the house and grounds were acquired by the Wescott House Foundation in 2001. After an extensive renovation, the home has been open for public tours since 2005.

During our time in front of the Prescott House, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the architectural design, or the history of the home, for that matter. The place featured a horizontal line design, which was enhanced by flat roofs with large overhangs. The two-story home also featured rows of windows, which was traditional for Prairie-style homes. When my photographer placed me on a concrete wall, which appeared to be part of the front lawn landscape design, I noticed the lights of a beautiful Christmas tree glowing through a section of the lower row of windows. For roughly ten minutes, I was taken to several locations near the Wright-designed dwelling where I posed for photos. But to be totally honest, I wasn’t overly excited at being there – especially after the incident. Had Frank Lloyd Wright lived in the home, or had some historic event occurred within its walls, perhaps my opinion would’ve changed. But that simply wasn’t the case. To me, the Prescott House was just an oddly shaped home with not much historic significance, and I was happy when we were back in the vehicle and headed towards the antique mall. The best part of all came when I heard Tom say to his wife: “Thank goodness we didn’t go too far off the beaten path to see that place. When I saw the home was billed as Frank Lloyd Wright’s Prescott House, I thought Wright had once owned it and lived there. I was disappointed to learn that wasn’t the case.” And to think, I was nearly killed trying to get close to it.

After a five-mile drive from the “semi-historic” Prescott House where I was nearly killed, Vicki pulled the Jeep into the massive parking lot at the Heart of Ohio Antique Center, which had opened just 18 minutes earlier. I laughed when my photographer’s wife quipped: “I’m surprised we’re not the first ones here!” I thought to myself: “Had this been a Presidential Museum, Tom and I would’ve been here 18 minutes BEFORE it opened!”

Once inside, I knew we would be there for a while. The place was enormous; perhaps even larger than the Ohio Valley Antique Mall we had visited on Friday. I just stood back in the camera case and watched the world go by through an opening in the top. There were endless aisles of showcases, each featured a different type of antiquity. While Tom saw numerous displays that featured sports memorabilia, historic relics, and vinyl records, it was the small cafeteria where he spent his money. That’s right, my gluttonous camera guy couldn’t resist shoving a Coney dog down his throat at 11am.

After two and a half hours of meandering about the gigantic antique mall, my companions returned to the parking lot empty handed. I thought for sure Tom would buy the Bill Taft bobble head for thirty bucks, but he didn’t. I was also surprised when he passed on a fossilized tilcrevolym rock formation he saw as well, even though it was nearly fifty dollars. My photographer held the rock and examined it closely, and at one point I saw him smell it to see if the fossil had an odor. Even though I heard him say it was one of the most beautiful formations he’d ever seen, plus it was discovered in my home state of Virginia, it remained behind when we walked through the mall’s exit doors at roughly 12:10pm.

For the next 90 minutes, as we headed northeast to a tiny dot on the map known as Iberia, Ohio, we dodged rain drops. The sky in central Ohio had turned dark in places and a threat of rain was everywhere, but we pressed on – even though Tom knew a downpour at our next site would be disastrous. I was stunned, and I think Vicki agreed, when my photographer said he didn’t want to stop at the Rutherford B. Hayes birthplace site as we drove past Delaware, Ohio. Tom’s reasoning for bypassing the Presidential birth site was weather related – he stated we needed to keep ahead of the storm front so he could photograph Harding’s college in Iberia without getting drenched.

It seemed great to be once again in Warren G. Harding country. We passed Harding’s childhood hometown, Caledonia, before we reached our destination seven miles to the east. Iberia, Ohio was an extremely small community of roughly 200 people, but that was okay, I didn’t expect any fanfare when we walked onto the campus grounds of the former Ohio Central College. I heard Tom mention to his wife that we were at the site where Harding graduated college, but when my photographer carried me onto the grounds, all I saw was a large white church in front of us.

In late 1879, at the age of 14, young Warren Harding enrolled at his father’s alma mater, Ohio Central College in Iberia, where he was considered an adept student. During his final year at O.C.C., Harding and a friend created a small newspaper, the Iberia Spectator, which they hoped would appeal to both the college and small town. During that same time, Harding’s father moved the family from nearby Caledonia to Marion, Ohio, where Warren joined them upon his college graduation in 1882.

Nearly two decades after Harding’s gradation from Ohio Central, the college closed its classes and the buildings were transformed into a school for the blind. Unfortunately, all of the buildings on campus were destroyed by fire, with the exception of the original Presbyterian Church. That church served as the college chapel during Harding’s time at the school. In 2009, the Ohio Central Bible College was established on the site. Since then, students attend classes in the church conference room where they can earn a degree in Bible studies.

Tom carried me to a few select locations near the exterior of the church where I posed for a handful of photos. In my mind, the place didn’t look like a college campus. To me, it looked like a country church grounds instead. When I thought about young Warren Harding, however, and envisioned him walking the same grounds to get to class or worshipping in the same church in front of me, the experience became more enlightening. Was this the spot where Harding got his motivation and enthusiasm to own and run his own newspaper? Perhaps, although Warren learned the basics of the newspaper business from his father Tyron after the elder Harding bought The Argus in Caldonia when the future President was only 11 years old.

Once we had reached the easternmost point of the trip at two o’clock on that Sunday afternoon, it was time to retrace our path down the Harding Highway back to Caledonia. The three of us had visited Warren Harding’s boyhood home, located on the northwest corner of Main and South Streets in the center of Caledonia, over two years ago on July 30, 2020. It was a memorable visit for Tom and me because of the clutter that had obscured most of the front porch of the historic home. When we talked to the home’s owner during our visit, he apologized for the unsightly collection of toys, strollers, boxes, furniture, tools, and sporting equipment that was assembled on his porch. The one item that stuck in my mind was the red and yellow ‘Little Tikes Cozy Coupe’ children’s car – the toy with the eyes and mouth on front. While my photographer thought he was preparing for a yard sale, the owner said he and his wife were simply in the middle of doing some interior cleaning and the stuff ended up on the porch.

When we got to Caledonia, Vicki turned north onto Main Street; we were roughly four or five blocks from the historic Harding boyhood home. Seconds later, Tom reminded his wife about the porch clutter we saw in 2020. I heard my photographer laugh; then he said: “I gotta believe after two years, the stuff is gone from the porch. That’s why I wanted to return in the first place, so I could get better pictures. But wouldn’t it be funny if that Little Tikes car was still there? Still in the same spot on the porch? I think I might pee my pants from laughter if I see that red and yellow car with the smiling face!” Even though I wanted to see my camera guy wet his drawers, I knew in my heart the stuff would gone. After all, it’s been two whole years.

A minute later, my photographer’s wife pulled the Jeep off to the side of Main Street, kitty-corner from the Harding home. That’s when I heard Tom burst out in laughter: “Oh no, I can’t believe what I’m seeing right now – that Little Tikes car is still on the porch. As a matter of fact, it looks like it’s in the same place, almost as though nothing has been moved in the past two years. The porch is still cluttered, but now some of the stuff has fallen off the porch onto the ground. Did the owners just pack up and leave the house abandoned?” Vicki started laughing as well, although it was likely because she hoped to see her husband pee his pants. As Tom carried me across the street where I posed for several images near the front of the historic house, I was flabbergasted and disappointed at the same time. While I posed for the photos near the porch, I wondered to myself: “How could anyone live in a Presidential home and not keep it somewhat clean? The owners have to be embarrassed knowing that people come here to take pictures of their home. Don’t they have any pride for history? That home and yard is an eyesore of historic proportions. And it’s a shame; the house looks decent if it wasn’t for the clutter.”

Speaking of history, Warren’s father, Tryon Harding, moved his family from Blooming Grove, Ohio to Caledonia in 1870 when the future President was just four years old. The elder Harding had purchased The Argus, a weekly newspaper in town. A few years later, after hanging out at the newspaper with his dad, young Harding learned the fundamentals of the printing trade, which inspired his interest in a journalism career. After the family had lived in the Caledonia home for roughly 12 years, they packed up and moved ten miles west to Marion. It’s been written that Warren’s father was a “small, idle, shiftless, impractical, lazy, daydreaming, catnapping fellow whose eye was always on the main chance”. Did one of Tryon’s descendants still live in the home? By looking at the porch, I would say ‘Yes!’

In keeping with the Warren G. Harding theme, it was on to Marion, Ohio, which was located a little over nine miles down the road to the west. With Vicki behind the wheel and my photographer barking out directions to our next site, I looked out the windows and noticed the clouds had grown darker; there was a definite threat of rain in the vicinity. It was my fourth visit to Marion, but it was the first time my photographer planned to take me to Warren Harding’s pride and joy – The Marion Star building.

Soon after he graduated from Ohio Central College in 1882, Warren G. Harding moved to Marion, Ohio where his father had relocated the family a short time earlier. Once there, the energetic youngster scraped together 300 dollars with two friends. With the money, the trio purchased a struggling newspaper known as The Marion Daily Star. Not long after the purchase, his friends baled for various reasons and the paper belonged to Harding. Warren took it upon himself to be the editor, a job he continued until 1920 – when he ran for the Presidency. Once Warren had married Florence Kling DeWolfe, she reorganized the paper’s finances and increased its circulation. The Marion Star became the President’s pride and joy.

In the heart of downtown Marion, Tom asked his wife to park in front of an old three-story brick building that appeared to have been renovated over the years. When the two of us got closer, I noticed one of the awnings above a set of windows read: ‘The Marion Star‘. Was that the same building used by Warren Harding when he owned and ran the newspaper around the turn of the twentieth century? It looked old enough, but my photographer had no way of knowing for certain and there wasn’t anywhere he could go to ask – not on a Sunday afternoon. I did my job – I stood in front of The Marion Star and smiled for the camera. In my mind, it didn’t really matter. I knew Tom had planned on bringing me back to Marion on August 2, 2023 for the 100th anniversary of Harding’s death. By that time, my photographer will have established for certain where Harding’s ‘Marion Star‘ building was located when he owned it.

“Okay, where to next?” Seconds after Vicki asked that question, Tom informed his wife that he wanted to pay another visit to the tomb of President Warren G. Harding. Just when I thought I would hear her usual ‘Haven’t we been there before and why are we going back?’ comment, all Vicki said was “Which way do we go?” I was stunned and I looked out the window for an alien spaceship whose inhabitants must’ve switched her with one of their own. What would she say next? ‘Take me to your leader?’

Even after we made the shortt 1.2-mile drive south to the site of the Harding Memorial, I knew something had changed with Tom’s wife. She got out of the Jeep and immediately walked along the pathway that led to the impressive tomb. Completely out of character, Vicki had a bounce in her step, a smile on her face, and she got to the front of the memorial before Tom and me. When we caught up with her, I quickly looked at Vicki’s pinky finger to see if it was crooked, like the alien’s signature tell-tale sign on the 1960s TV show ‘The Invaders’.

Besides my photographer’s wife, there was another transformation that I noticed on that overcast Sunday afternoon. The Harding Memorial looked like it had been thoroughly cleaned since my last visit exactly 18 months earlier. Gone were the ugly black stains that I once saw on the white marble exterior. The biggest change I noticed, however, came after Tom carried me up the marble steps and we got our first glimpse of the twin sarcophagi. A complete renovation of the landscaping had transformed the interior of the tomb into a breathtaking spectacle. New sod had been planted throughout the interior; a young, smaller tree had replaced the original Japanese maple tree; and the entire place simply sparkled. At first, I thought the changes were made because someone in Marion had read my unflattering comments about the condition of the tomb after my last visit. But the more I thought about it, the sprucing-up was likely due to the upcoming 100th anniversary of Warren G. Harding’s death.

I had a warm and fuzzy feeling in my resin heart as Tom carried me back to the Jeep, even though it had begun to sprinkle. The memorial to our 29th President looked better than I had ever seen it. While I seldom wear a hat, I would take my hat off to the person or group who were responsible for the memorial’s make-over. Marion’s native son would be proud to see how his home, new Presidential Museum, and final resting place have been preserved for future generations to come.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon and time for us to head home to Michigan. But as the alien, formerly known as Vicki, drove towards downtown Marion, I heard her ask my photographer if he wanted to go to the President’s home. If that wasn’t a tell-tale sign of an alien intervention, I didn’t know what was. However, the next thing I heard really scared me. Tom said “No, let’s keep heading home.” I was stunned – we were only five blocks from the historic Harding home and Tom didn’t want to see it! My photographer claimed it was because of the rain and he didn’t want to get his camera equipment wet at a site he’s visited numerous times in the past, but I thought there was something more to it. I figured “Venus Vic” had transformed her husband into Mork from Dork during our visit at the Harding Memorial, which quite frankly, resembled a large intergalactic spaceship. I couldn’t help but wonder what strange phenomenon was next – would Mork’s wife ask to hear ‘Dominique’ on the radio? Would she watch an episode of ‘My Favorite Martian’ on YouTube? I knew one thing for sure: I felt like Will Robinson, and I was Lost in Space!

Things started to become a bit more normal after an hour into our trip north. That’s when I heard my photographer say he wanted to stop at the Texas Roadhouse restaurant in Findlay, Ohio. I laughed to myself as I imagined our small “space vehicle” known as The Jeep landing in Findlay where my two alien companions would mutilate cattle. But once inside the restaurant, it was business as usual; Tom scarfed-down his meal as though the Earth was about to stand still.

The rest of the journey home was completed without issue, although the heavy rain amidst the darkness of night made the trip more difficult than normal. My companions picked up Abigail from their daughter’s house and we were at our home by 7:20pm. It had been a great, four-day trip. I got to see some cool sites and meet some great people.

But when Tom pulled me from the camera case and set me onto the curio cabinet at home, I saw a look of concern on his face. It turned out a small piece of the right collar of my jacket had broken off during the incident in Springfield, Ohio. Luckily, my photographer found the black painted chip at the bottom of the camera case, and I was confident he would soon be able to repair it. After all, it wasn’t like I needed spring replacement surgery again!

I wasn’t sure when we would head out again on our next adventure, but I was certain we had just finished the last trip of 2022. One never knows what the future will bring, but I knew it was good to be home. As I looked at my photographer and he stared back into my painted resin eyes, I heard him say one final thing, and his words sent chills up and down my back.

“Klaatu barada nikto”.