282: SEVEN YEARS AFTER TRUMP’S VISIT, I TOOK A V.I.B. TOUR OF JACKSON’S HERMITAGE

My photographer had his alarm set for 6:00am on Friday April 19, 2024, but he hurriedly rolled out of the sack fifteen minutes early. As Tom sat poolside, I stood next to the television set and thought about the 256 men, women, and children who perished on that date in Waco and Oklahoma City in the mid-1990s.

That morning, weather became a concern for the three of us. Not only were we likely to experience some rain showers at our first site of the day, but the NASCAR race at Talladega Superspeedway on Sunday was in serious jeopardy. We had tickets to the race and a postponement to Monday would throw Tom’s well-orchestrated itinerary into a tailspin. Meteorologists were forecasting a potential all-day rain and some storms in Alabama on Sunday. All we could do is hope they were wrong – which they usually are.

Once the Jeep was loaded, the three of us made the four-mile trek to the Hermitage, which was the home where President Andrew Jackson lived for the last 41 years of his life when he was in Nashville. When we arrived at the historic site shortly before nine o’clock, I was thrilled to be back because I knew Tom and I were going inside the mansion. During our visit in 2014, my photographer refused to tour the interior due to the site’s no photography policy – but that changed ten years later. Oh, they still have the same policy in 2024 – but visitors willing to shell out $60 for a VIP tour of the mansion are allowed to snap as many images as they want inside the building. As a bonus, they also get to step out onto the second-story balcony of the Hermitage to see the view Jackson had when he lived there.

At precisely the moment when the clock struck nine, Tom registered with his V.I.P. (Very Important Photographer) pass he had purchased online, while I entered with him as a V.I.B. (Very Important Bobble head). The third member of our group, my photographer’s wife Vicki, bought the basic grounds pass as she didn’t care to see the inside of the mansion. And why would she? After all, Tom and his wife were inside the Hermitage with their kids in the early 1990s and there’s no reason to go back a second time – at least in Vicki’s mind.

With an hour to kill before our 10am guided tour, Tom and I ‘high-tailed’ it onto the grounds in an effort to capture images of the Hermitage before the throngs of tourists gathered in front of the building. For the most part, that scheme worked to perfection; we had the historic building to ourselves – with the exception of several tour guides who had congregated on the front portico. Luckily, we were also able to dodge most of the sprinkles, which began to fall from the sky just as we arrived at Jackson’s Hermitage.

While I posed in several locations in front of the historic mansion, I stood in the footsteps of another President – one who had visited the Hermitage on March 15, 2017 to celebrate the 250th anniversary of Andrew Jackson’s birth. During his speech on the front portico of the Hermitage, President Donald Trump described Jackson as a hero; he called him “The People’s President”; and at one point, he compared himself to Old Hickory by saying Jackson defied “the arrogant elite.”

As I stood on the spot where Trump delivered his ten-minute speech nearly seven years earlier, I couldn’t help but think of the phrase, “The People’s President”; a moniker that has been bestowed upon Jackson’s legacy over the years. In my mind, that phrase should be changed to “Some of the People’s President” because his administration and policies sure in the heck-fire didn’t include the rights of the Native Americans, enslaved Africans, or American women. Perhaps Trump was right when he compared himself to Jackson and idolized his Presidency. It seems as though, at least in many American’s minds, the two were cut from the same cloth – they were arrogant, egotistical, brash, and both were intimidators.

At roughly 9:40am, Tom carried me back to the Visitor Center where we were told the V.I.B. tour would begin. And sure enough, at precisely ten bells, our guide named Jay arrived and led our group of twelve people and one bobble head into the museum.

The first half-hour of our tour was horrible – at least in my resin mind. We stood in a small group in several locations around the museum’s entryway and we listened as Jay described the General’s life story. There were display boards along the walls, as well as a model of the First Hermitage. Some of the members of our group may have enjoyed Jay’s spiel, but I was bored to death; and I think my photographer was as well. We had joined this tour for one reason, and one reason only – to get inside the Hermitage where I’d pose for pictures.

Once we made it outside, it seemed to take forever for our group to make the lengthy stroll to the front of the mansion. We paused numerous times as Jay told stories about Andrew Jackson’s life on the same grounds we were walking. As I listened to our guide as he painted a verbal picture of what the mansion and grounds looked like during Jackson’s lifetime, it was as though I was transported back in time to the late 1820s, just before the General was elected President. In my resin-mind’s eye, I saw Jackson on his horse as he rode up the pathway we stood on. Standing in front of the Hermitage was Rachel, thrilled to see her husband as he arrived home from a lengthy absence. I also noticed dozens of enslaved people, mostly children, in the distance as they toiled in Jackson’s cotton fields. Finally, a slave known as Uncle Alfred appeared from behind the home to help welcome his Master back home. Alfred’s role at the Hermitage was Jackson’s personal servant, carriage driver, stableman, tenant farmer; and as a teenager, he may have also raced some of Jackson’s personal thoroughbreds at some of the local racetracks. Although he was enslaved, Alfred was Andrew Jackson’s right-hand man; and he lived through the Civil War which eventually gave him his freedom.

Suddenly, as Jay led our group towards the large, two-story mansion, the Hermitage transformed before my eyes. The smaller home now featured two wings and a huge portico with a balcony. Six large Tuscan columns also graced the front of the mansion. Rachel was no longer standing there. Instead, Alfred opened the front door and invited our group inside. With tears running down his cheeks, he axed us to be respectful to the memory of Andrew Jackson. To most of the dozen men and women on our tour, they saw Jay standing in the Entry Hall as he described life in the Hermitage. But in my mind, it was Alfred standing there on June 8, 1845 – Andrew Jackson had just passed away at the age of 78.

When the interior portion of our Hermitage tour had concluded, I stood on the back portico of the mansion where I saw some of the outbuildings in the distance. While the others in our tour group had headed towards the Hermitage Garden, also known as Rachel’s Garden and located just east of the mansion, I stood in solemn silence and watched as Uncle Alfred slowly walked along a pathway to the north when he suddenly disappeared into a log cabin. I never saw him again.

With me in his hand, Tom and I caught up with the rest of our group who had already walked though Rachel Jackson’s Garden and were congregated around the President and First Lady’s tomb. The two of us stopped to smell the flowers; and during our short stay in the garden, it was easy to feel the same passion Rachel Jackson had for that area of the grounds. While no one can know for sure what Rachel’s Garden once looked like during her lifetime, records from the Hermitage gave historians a brief glimpse at some of the vegetation she had once planted there – including a lemon tree, geraniums, polyanthus, daisies and boxwoods.

Rachel Jackson died suddenly at the Hermitage from a heart attack on December 22, 1828; less than three weeks after her husband defeated John Quincy Adams in the Presidential election. During that ugly campaign, Adams’ supporters slung mud at Jackson and insinuated Rachel had already been married to another man when she wed Old Hickory. Even though her health problems began in early 1825, plus she was a cigar smoker, Andrew Jackson blamed his political enemies for her death. As a matter of fact, shortly after her death, President-elect Jackson stated: “I can and do forgive all my enemies. But those vile wretches who have slandered her must look to God for mercy.”

The distraught Jackson knew the perfect place to bury his beloved Rachel – in the garden she so cherished. On Christmas Eve 1828, Rachel Jackson was laid to rest. In death, she wore the white dress and shoes she had chosen for her husband’s inauguration. Three years after his wife’s death, President Jackson hired architect David Morrison to design a tomb for both him and Rachel. The design Morrison used strongly resembled a Greek temple found in the scenic wallpaper Rachel had chosen for the Hermitage entrance hall. When Andrew Jackson died on June 8, 1845, he was laid to rest in the tomb next to Rachel.

Tom carried me to the Jacksons’ final resting place just as Jay was leading the rest of our tour group towards the distant outbuildings. My photographer and I had the entire burial site to ourselves, at least for a few minutes until Vicki rendezvoused with us. In my mind, I wanted to stand on the President’s grave; but at the same time, I also knew Tom wouldn’t attempt to scale the nearly four-foot-high fence with his ailing knees. When his wife refused to climb over the barricade to set me on the gravesite, I heard Tom mutter to himself: “I wish Bob Moldenhauer was here with us. Mongo would have volunteered to scale that fence without any hesitation.”

While it was somewhat of an honor for me to stand near President Jackson’s gravesite for the first time in nearly a decade, I also had the opportunity to pay my personal tribute to someone almost as important to the Hermitage as Old Hickory. When Tom placed me alongside the small headstone that marked the final resting place of Alfred Jackson, I knew in my resin heart my mission at the Hermitage had come full circle. Uncle Alfred had kept the mansion in order when Jackson was away; he made sure the President had everything he needed to live comfortably while at home; and he shed tears along with the General’s family when his “Massah” died. Once slavery was abolished after the Civil War, Alfred stayed at the Hermitage and continued to live in a cabin behind the mansion until his death on September 4, 1901. As a matter of fact, Alfred Jackson lived at the Hermitage longer than any other person, white or black.

It was roughly 12 noon when we finished our visit at the Jackson family cemetery. But that didn’t necessarily mean we were finished at the Hermitage. Instead of hiking out to the First Hermitage, however, or paying a visit to Uncle Alfred’s Cabin or some of the other outbuildings on the property, Tom decided to end our visit inside the Andrew Jackson ‘Born for a Storm’ exhibit at the Visitor Center. That museum, which was where our V.I.B. tour had begun, featured some historic artifacts – including the President’s personal carriage.

Tom, Vicki, and I spent about twenty minutes inside the museum. Although there were a few interesting and authentic items on display, the overall experience was underwhelming – at least for me. I posed for pictures near Jackson’s carriage, which was difficult because the carriage was displayed behind Plexiglass and the reflective glare was horrific. I also saw several items in the museum that pertained to Rachel Jackson, including her original tombstone. When we had finished and Tom carried me back to the Jeep for the journey south to our next site, however, I wasn’t disappointed at all. During the past three hours, I was allowed to pose for photos inside and outside of the Hermitage; I finally got to see Andrew Jackson’s death bed; and I made another visit to Old Hickory’s grave. What more could a bobble head want?

The last thing I saw when we left the Hermitage property was a huge sign near the entrance. The sign read: ‘Welcome to Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage – Home of the People’s President’. I couldn’t help but think to myself, “I’m surprised that sign hasn’t been pelted by flaming arrows. Now that would help make America great again!”