“Siri, driving directions to Mount Vernon.”
Those words seemed simple enough to get us from the National Mall to the home of our first President George Washington. The GPS’s voice immediately replied that it would take 25 minutes for us get to Mount Vernon and I was extremely excited – I was less than a half-hour from visiting my 14th Presidential gravesite.
After twenty minutes into our drive, it became obvious to both Bob and Tom that something was wrong. I heard them mention that we weren’t going along the Potomac River on the George Washington Parkway like they had done in the past; but they were, however, willing to let Siri’s directions play out just to see where she would take us.
We made a left-hand turn onto Dandridge Terrace with a quarter-mile to go and as we arrived at the end of a cul-de-sac, Siri said “You have reached your destination – Mount Vernon.”
Confused, Bob turned the Optima around and we retraced our path out of the cul-de-sac. Just as we were about to leave Dandridge Terrace, a middle-aged guy ran out of his house towards our vehicle – he waved his arms in an effort to get us to stop. When Mongo rolled the driver’s-side window down, he heard the guy shout out, “George and Martha sent me out to talk to you. You guys are from out-of-state, right?” Bob replied, “Good guess, Sherlock, did the Michigan plates give us away?”
“I bet you asked your GPS for directions to Mount Vernon,” the guy said with a smile. “Well, at the end of that cul-de-sac is the geographical center of Mount Vernon, Virginia; not George Washington’s home. We get a handful of lost tourists every day who do the same thing you guys did. As a matter of fact, yours is the fourth car I’ve stopped since noon today.” After he did his best to give us verbal directions to George’s house, we thanked him for the entertainment and drove off; after all, it was just before 3:00pm and Mount Vernon closed at 5:00. I could hear Bob and Tom chuckling all the way to “the real” Mount Vernon as they relived that hilarious episode.
At the Visitor’s Center, we paid the entrance fee – our time-stamped ticket to tour the mansion’s interior was 3:45pm; which gave us time to make the short walk to the President’s tomb. I had two goals while we were at Washington’s estate: I needed to be photographed in or near George’s bedroom where he had died and I really wanted to stand on the President’s sarcophagus inside the tomb.
At Washington’s tomb, there was a military veterans wreath-laying ceremony in progress and we didn’t want to be a distraction. We were happily surprised, however, that the iron gate which is normally closed at the tomb’s entrance was wide open; I saw it as a golden opportunity for me to be placed on George’s sarcophagus without much difficulty. But before I would be able to set foot inside the tomb, we needed to make our 3:45pm appointment at Washington’s plantation house.
As we entered the historic mansion, the tour guide made it well-known that photography was prohibited. Upon hearing that news, my reaction was: “So much for my first goal of posing near Washington’s bedroom.” My photographer tried to think of a scheme where he could sneak a photo of me without being caught; or kicked out of the house; or booted off the property. But we had to be careful; after all, I still had to pose for the photos at the tomb. In desperation, Tom could always ask Mongo to fake a seizure as a distraction.
The interior of Mount Vernon had been restored to look like it did when George and Martha Washington lived there. There may have been a few pieces of furniture that actually belonged to the Washington’s, but most of the furnishings were period pieces. Once we went upstairs, we stopped in front of a bedroom that was directly above the first floor study. Our tour guide said that this was the bedroom of George and Martha Washington; she also mentioned that President Washington died in that bed at 10:00pm on Saturday December 14, 1799. Although there was a thick rope at the room’s entrance to keep tourists from wandering inside, my photographer and I got a great look inside the large bedroom; mainly because we intentionally lagged behind the tour group. We had figured by taking our time, it might afford us the best opportunity for a quick photograph of me and the bed.
As I looked at the bed that Washington died in, I could envision the ailing President lying there with Martha positioned at the foot while a handful of doctors tried to save his life. One of the doctors thought Washington had quinsy; another physician thought he had a violent inflammation of the throat. Several attempts at bloodletting were made; and nothing seemed to make a difference. In the final moments, the President summoned his private secretary Tobias Lear and gave instructions to wait three days before his burial; this was out of fear of being entombed alive. “Do you understand me?” Washington said to Lear. When the secretary said he understood, Washington muttered “Tis well” and died peacefully. As much as Tom wanted to photograph me near the bed, “Old Eagle Eyes” wouldn’t stray far from the entrance and she was never out of our sight.
The interior tour was finished and the next thing I knew we were standing on the enormous front porch of Mount Vernon. The view of the Potomac River was amazing from the porch and it didn’t take long to realize why the Washington’s loved that location so much. As I stood on the window sill and looked out towards the river, I thought to myself: “There was a time when George Washington was looking at the same view that I am seeing right now.”
Once we were done at the house, it was time for us to retrace our steps back to Washington’s tomb. As we walked along the South Lane, I wondered if the iron gates to the tomb would still be open. If they were open, that would give me my only chance to stand on the President’s sarcophagus. Should the gates be closed, my photographer wouldn’t be able to reach through the bars far enough to place me on the marble burial box.
When we arrived at the location of the “New Tomb”, I was excited to see the gates were still open. Although there was a line of people who were waiting to photograph the tomb, the line didn’t seem too long. I also noticed an elderly lady, who was dressed in period clothing, standing off to the side of the tomb. The woman appeared to be talking to all of the tourists near the front of the line; she was telling them facts about Washington and answering questions they may have had.
I was in my photographer’s hand and it was the moment of truth as to whether or not I would be allowed to stand on the sarcophagus. There was no way he was going to be able to sneak me onto it; there were too many people around and the woman was watching the tomb like a hawk eyeballs a field mouse. That meant my photographer had to ask permission – which was something that was not foreign to him. I was anxious to hear him work his magic once again!
“This is a Thomas Jefferson bobble head and we travel all around the United States to visit Presidential sites,” Tom said with a smile. “And today, our travels brought us to the home and tomb of perhaps the most famous of all Presidents – George Washington.” I loved it, he was laying it on thick. He and I both know that Jefferson is the most famous of all Presidents! The old woman beamed with a huge grin and said, “That is such a clever idea. I think it’s wonderful. Welcome to Mount Vernon and to the tomb of General Washington.”
Within seconds, however, the conversation went downhill rapidly after my photographer said: “I would like to ask permission to place Jefferson on the tomb for a quick photo. If you don’t want me that close, maybe you could set him on the tomb.” The next thing I heard shocked me; especially since the woman seemed to be so friendly. “That bobble head will NOT be placed on the General’s tomb,” she snarled. “You can take pictures, but that thing will not go anywhere near the tomb. It is very irreverent and I will not allow it.” Her demeanor went from ‘Dorothy Gale’ to the ‘Wicked Witch of the West’ and I could tell that Tom was ready to throw a bucket of water on ol’ Almira Gulch.
Stunned by the Jekyll and Hyde transformation of the woman, my cameraman wasn’t going to let her ruin our photo session at the tomb. He held me close to the tomb as I posed for a few photos; and then we waited three more times in line to get additional shots. The main reason for the return trips was to avoid taking up too much time and annoying the other’s waiting patiently in line for their turn. We wanted to be courteous to everyone there; well, with the exception of the woman with the broomstick and flying monkey.
On our fourth and final trip through the line and to our usual position in front of the tomb, we had to wait for a man and boy to vacate the front of the burial chamber. They were chatting with the crabby woman and Tom didn’t want them in the foreground of the photo. As we waited for them to move to the side, the “Wicked Witch” said aloud: “That’s your fourth time through the line and it’s getting very annoying. That is so irreverent!” At that moment, and without hesitation, my photographer shot back with: “I don’t even know what irreverent means, but I’ve waited in line just like everyone else and I will keep doing so until I get the photos I need. But this is nowhere, and I mean nowhere, close to being as annoying as those stories you’re telling everyone.”
As soon as Tom captured the last of the images, he glared at the crone and said loudly, “Now I’m finished” and we headed back towards the mansion. I could easily tell that my photographer was infuriated and that his COBS had flared up. He was peeved by the fact that his usual foolproof spiel had failed to get me onto the tomb and he was angered by the way the old hag had treated us. Tom was also so mad that we accidentally bypassed Washington’s original tomb that was only a short distance from the “New Tomb”. For me, that meant one thing: Some day I will be back at Mount Vernon.
It was nearly 5:00pm and time for us to make the 60-mile trek to Baltimore, Maryland. We had three Presidential stops to make in Baltimore before we ended our day in White Marsh; a small suburb located north of Baltimore.
We arrived at our first site just a few minutes past 6:00pm and I quickly found myself being held up for a photo just outside of a large, four-story Grand Victorian townhouse located in the Reservoir Hill section of Baltimore. It turned out that Woodrow Wilson had delivered his official Democratic Party acceptance speech in August 1912 from the second-story balcony of that house. Although the house was called the Wilson House Bed & Breakfast, we decided not to visit the interior; mainly because we didn’t have a lot of time. It would’ve been interesting to stand on the balcony where Wilson gave his speech and envision the crowds below as they cheered his name. That dream would have to wait for another day.
The second of our three stops was less than a mile from the Wilson House B&B; and ironically, it was another Woodrow Wilson house. Located in the Bolton Hill section of Baltimore, the three-story brick rowhouse was where the future 28th President lived while he pursued a PhD from Johns Hopkins University in 1886. With no way of going inside the house, I posed for a small handful of exterior photographs.
Two down, one site to go – it was 6:30pm and we needed to start winding down for the day. Our final Presidential stop on Sunday July 20, 2014 was located a little over a mile away in the Oliver neighborhood section of Baltimore. Before I knew it, we were inside Green Mount Cemetery and in search of the Booth family plot. That’s right, we were looking for the gravesite of John Wilkes Booth; the southern sympathizing actor who shot and killed President Abraham Lincoln on April 15, 1865. The cemetery was large, with over 65,000 people buried there; and it seemed that we drove in circles for over a half-hour. In some sections of the cemetery that we couldn’t see very well from the Kia, we got out and walked. Well, I was carried as my photographer and Bob walked around the hundreds of headstones as they searched for only one. The one that said ‘BOOTH’.
Finally, just as frustration was setting in, we saw the white obelisk with the word ‘Booth’ etched into the stone. The ten-foot tall obelisk marked the final resting place of Junius Brutus Booth; the father of the infamous assassin. All of the other grave markers in the plot had names etched into the stone; all except for one. Bingo – we found the gravesite of John Wilkes Booth. The small, white marble stone that was void of any markings was located in the corner of the plot; some 20-feet or so from Junius’ obelisk. There were about 20 pennies that had been placed on top of the assassin’s headstone; all were placed face-up. It was as though visitor’s were giving Lincoln the final word.
As I stood on top of John Wilkes Booth’s unmarked gravestone, numerous emotions raced through my resin-filled head. I knew that this scoundrel actor had played a huge part in Presidential history; and for that I was glad to be standing there. But I also knew that the cowardly Booth killed an unarmed, innocent man as he watched a play with his wife. And not just any innocent man – he killed the greatest American to ever walk the planet; and for that I wished I had the ability to urinate on the stone. To me, bobblehead pee would’ve been too good for the dastardly John Wilkes Booth.
Twelve days after he assassinated Abraham Lincoln, Booth was cornered in a barn near Port Royal, Virginia where he was shot and paralyzed. After Booth’s death three hours later on the porch of the Garrett farmhouse, soldiers found a diary in his pocket. One entry was where the assassin had written about Lincoln’s death: “Our country owed all her troubles to him, and God simply made me the instrument of his punishment.”
It was a ten-mile drive to the Hilton Garden Inn in White Marsh, Maryland. Once there, I was placed on the entertainment center directly above the television set where I stayed for the next five nights. During my long stay at the hotel, I had a chance to reflect on Washington D.C. and all of the cool sites that I saw. As I stood in solitude, two things kept popping into my head: The “Wicked Witch” at Washington’s tomb and the grave site of John Wilkes Booth. If I had my way, both would have been washed down with some liquid.
That was another great, memorable day…..a day that will live in infamy!