It was Sunday morning July 28, 2024 when Tom’s alarm went off at 6:00am in our Springfield, Illinois Ramada hotel room. As soon as my two companions got themselves ready and all of their belongings packed, they headed downstairs to meet Tom II, Meghan, and their twin boys for breakfast. I stayed next to the TV set and hoped my photographer wouldn’t forget me.
Everything seemed eerily quiet, until the door flew open and Tom rolled the luggage cart into our room with two nine-year-olds onboard. Although we were going our separate ways that morning, as Tom II and his family had plans to see a few Lincoln sites in Springfield, I knew we would see the four of them late Monday afternoon at our Airbnb in Prairie Village, Kansas – which was a suburb south of Kansas City.
Due to all of the extra commotion we experienced that morning, the three of us didn’t leave the hotel parking lot until 8:30am – which was roughly 30 minutes later than usual. And although Tom chomped at the bit to hit the road, Vicki was happier than a tick on a fat dog as she was able to have breakfast with her grandsons Bo and Rory.
When we left Springfield behind, I thought for sure we had left Abraham Lincoln in our rearview mirror as well. But that wasn’t the case. Roughly one hour after we parted ways with my photographer’s son and his family, we arrived in the small town of Beardstown, Illinois where Vicki parked the Jeep alongside the town square known as Art Zeeck Park. Across the street from the park, I got my first look at a two-story brick building once known as the Old Cass County Courthouse when it was built in 1844 on the corner of West 3rd Street and South State Street. But fourteen years after the building was constructed, it became known as “The Almanac Trial Courthouse”. Can you guess who was front and center of the historic name-changing event? That’s right, the clever and shrewd lawyer, Mr. Abraham Lincoln, himself.
Tom carried me up to the front of the historic brick structure where I saw a banner stating we were at the ‘Old Lincoln Courtroom’, but the doors were locked tight on that Sunday morning. And that was disappointing because the courthouse in front of me was the only one where Lincoln practiced law that’s still in use today. As I stood on the window of the historic brick building, it was as though I could see Abraham Lincoln, dressed all in white with a paperback book in his hand, as he walked through the front door. In my mind, it was May 8, 1858 and Mr. Lincoln was headed to work and into the history books.
A 24-year-old young man named William “Duff” Armstrong had been charged with murder on August 29, 1857 when he and another guy were accused of hitting James Metzker in the head with a slungshot, which was a rope with a heavy weight attached to one end. It turned out the young Armstrong was the son of Jack Armstrong, one of Lincoln’s friends when he was studying law in New Salem. As soon as Lincoln heard about the murder charge, he volunteered to represent the younger Armstrong at his trial -and he did it for free.
When the trial began on May 8, 1858, one person was called to the stand as an eyewitness. The witness, Charles Allen, testified under oath that he saw Armstrong strike Metzker with the weapon – even though it was eleven o’clock at night and he was 150 feet away. Under cross-examination by Abe, the witness claimed that while he was a long way away, he could see clearly because of the evening’s bright moonlight.
Lincoln acted quickly and produced an almanac, which he opened to the two calendar pages from August 1857. That almanac proved the Moon was in the first quarter, plus it was riding “low” on the horizon, about to set, at the precise time of the murder. Lincoln argued the witness had lied and said he could not have possibly had enough light to see what he had claimed. When Abe showed the almanac entry to the judge and asked him to take notice of the Moon’s low position in the sky, the magistrate agreed, and the jury found the defendant not guilty. Thanks to the quick and creative thinking by Lincoln, ‘Duff’ Armstrong was acquitted.
As the clock slowly ticked towards ten o’clock, Tom and I rejoined Vicki in the Jeep where she sat and watched us do our photoshoot around the historic courthouse. We still had a lot of ground to cover that day – we were over 250 miles from our hotel in St. Joseph, Missouri where Vicki had booked reservations; plus, my photographer had several sites he wanted to see along the way. All of those sites were centered on the infamous outlaw Jesse James.
Roughly seventy-five minutes after we left Beardstown, we crossed the Mighty Mississippi River just north of the town of Hannibal, Missouri. And no trip across that river would be complete without my photographer reciting one of Clark W. Griswold’s famous lines from the movie ‘Vacation’. When his daughter asked what river they were crossing in the Family Truckster, Clark said, “Ah, that’s the Mississippi. The Mighty Mississipp. Hahahaha, the Old Miss. The Old Man. Deeeeeeep River, my home is over Jordan.” Each time that quote spews from Tom’s mouth, both Vicki and I can’t help but laugh – and roll our eyes.
Suddenly, and out of nowhere, I heard Tom ask his wife to take the first exit into downtown Hannibal. First, I was stunned that my photographer was going “off script”. And second, I didn’t know of any Presidential sites in Hannibal, Missouri. But a minute or two after Vicki exited I-72, she did the unthinkable. Or better yet, the “unsinkable.”
When the Jeep was parked, Tom carried me towards a small, two-story brick and wood-framed house that stood alone on a steep hillside. We were at the birthplace home of Margaret Tobin, who entered the world in that small house on July 18, 1867. In my mind, I wondered who Margaret Tobin was and what connection she had with one of our Presidents. Perhaps she was a secret love interest of Grover Cleveland, who was a bachelor when he entered the White House in 1885 when little “Maggie” was 18 years old. As a matter of fact, that was just one year before Margaret married James Joseph Brown; so, my theory may have been possible as both Margaret and Grover were single. But that was pure fictional nonsense – here’s how Margaret Tobin became famous without indulging in a Baby Ruth candy bar in the White House.
Roughly forty-five years after her birth, Margaret Brown became a household name when the RMS Titanic sank from beneath her and she unsuccessful urged the officer in Lifeboat No. 6 to return to the ship’s debris field to search for survivors. Even though her pleas to help those who struggled to survive in the frigid North Atlantic waters fell on deaf ears, and over 1,500 passengers lost their lives when Titanic sunk on April 15, 1912. Brown was deemed a heroine, and her story became the focus of books and movies alike. Forever more, little Margaret Tobin from Hannibal, Missouri was known as the Unsinkable Molly Brown.
Unfortunately for us, when Tom carried me along the uneven ground towards the birthplace, my photographer’s attempt to sink some money into a tour failed. The historic home was closed, and it was due to the rainwater that got inside, which caused mold and other structural issues to rear their ugly heads. Not only were city officials concerned about visitor’s safety, but they were also considering options to move the home to a more-accessible downtown location.
While my photographer has been a Presidential enthusiast since the JFK assassination in late 1963, one of his other passions has been centered on the RMS Titanic and its passengers. Throughout our 20-minute visit at the birthplace of Margaret Brown, I watched as Tom bounced around the grounds like a schoolkid at recess. Okay, that was an exaggeration – he looked more like a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest. But nonetheless, it was evident that our unplanned stop in Hannibal where we paid tribute to the Unsinkable Molly Brown was a visit the two of us will not soon forget.
After my companions and I returned to the Jeep, I figured our time in Hannibal was over and we’d continue our journey westward. But that didn’t happen. Instead, Vicki followed her husband’s directions and within a couple of minutes, she found a parking spot along North Main Street in downtown Hannibal. One of the first things I noticed after we parted ways with my photographer’s wife, who went on her own shopping spree at a few of the local stores, was there seemed to be a lot of signs with the name ‘Twain’ on them. I wondered if we were in the hometown of Shania Twain. Even though I can’t stand country music, and neither can Tom, Shania makes me feel kind of funny, like when we climbed the rope in gym class. She’s definitely babelicious and tested very high on the strokability scale.
Suddenly, my visions of possibly meeting the babe of country music were dashed. It turned out Hannibal was the hometown of Mark Twain, who really wasn’t a Twain. I quickly discovered writer, humorist, and essayist Samuel Clemens used ‘Mark Twain’ as his pen name. And then to sprinkle salt into my open wounds, Shania wasn’t a Twain either – she was born Eilleen Edwards and adopted her alter ego as a stage name. Mark was Samuel, and Shania was Eilleen, and never the twain shall meet.
Samuel Clemens was four years old when he moved with his parents from Florida, Missouri to Hannibal. He lived in the riverport town along the Mississippi River until he moved away at the age of 18. The town of Hannibal was his inspiration for the fictional town of St. Petersburg, which was where his literary characters Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn lived.
My photographer carried me north along Main Street until we arrived at a white picket fence located at the corner of Hill Street, which was partially blocked to vehicle traffic. Once the two of us had made our way halfway down the secluded street, I saw a two-story white house which turned out to be the boyhood home of Mark Twain, who was still known as Samuel Clemens when he lived there from 1844 to 1853.
At first, I thought it was cool to be standing in Mark Twain’s neighborhood, which he featured in his novel ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’. But it didn’t take long before the two of us realized we had fallen into a huge tourist trap, or at least that’s what it felt like to me – especially when I was forced to pose alongside a bucket of whitewash next to a wooden fence.
Since I don’t want to whitewash the story any further, please sit back and check out my photographer’s images he captured in Mark Twain’s neighborhood. I’d like to call this section ‘The Adventures of Tom Jefferson’, and that included the half-hour we spent in the Mark Twain Musuem.
At roughly 12:30pm, Tom and I met up with Vicki, who had just returned to the Jeep with several decorative towels she purchased to add to her personal collection of useless junk. I didn’t have the heart to say it out loud, but I figured those expensive towels will be sold at a garage sale for fifty cents in about two years – right alongside her useless Rae Dunn mugs. While my photographer didn’t purchase any souvenirs, the two of us did gain a greater appreciation for Mark Twain. He was a literary genius and a true American treasure, and I was honored to have helped whitewash his fence.
Mark Twain had already left Hannibal by the time Molly Brown was born there, so it’s very likely the two never met. But on that hot and sunny Sunday morning, after Tom and I had walked in the footsteps of both, I couldn’t get one of them out of my mind. Don’t be stupid, I wasn’t referring to Twain.
For the next 187 miles, as we headed westward out of Hannibal, all I thought about was Margaret Brown as she stood in Titanic’s Lifeboat No. 6 and threatened to throw one of the crew members overboard if they didn’t return to the ship’s debris field to search for survivors. Even though the officer had several reasons not to return to where the passenger liner had sunk, and no survivors were ever plucked out of the 28-degree North Atlantic water and into Brown’s lifeboat, Margaret was a true heroine who wanted to risk her own life in an attempt to save others. Margaret Tobin was more than a legend in my eyes. She was the Unsinkable Molly Brown.
Two hours and forty-five minutes after we left the birthplace of Brown in Hannibal, we arrived at the birthplace of James in Kearney, Missouri. When we pulled into the parking lot at 3:25pm, which was just over a half hour before the last visitors of the day were allowed inside, I thought we might be at the birthplace of James Brown. As a matter of fact, I began to recite the words to the song ‘Living in America’ which was a popular Brown tune featured in the movie Rocky IV. But when Tom carried me from the Jeep and up to the entrance to the museum, the James who was born in the small house located behind the museum was the Outlaw with no Soul Jesse James, not the Godfather of Soul James Brown.
Once my photographer paid the entrance fee for the three of us, we spent the next 40 minutes browsing through the impressive collection of authentic artifacts centered on the life and death of Jesse James and his brother Frank. While there were countless things that caught my attention, the one artifact that was the highlight for me was the pair of boots worn by Jesse James when he was shot and killed on April 3, 1882 by a bullet from the gun of Robert Ford.
Finished in the museum, it was time for my companions and me to visit the birthplace home of Jesse and Frank James. Rather than my photographer hiking from the museum to the farmhouse, Vicki drove to the property and parked near the original gravesite of the infamous outlaw.
After I posed for several images on the original grave of Jesse James, which has been empty since 1902, Tom carried me up to the home where the two notorious outlaws were born – Frank on January 10, 1843 and Jesse on September 5, 1847. We weren’t allowed inside the original farmhouse, but my photographer was able to capture photos through several screen doors.
There were two distinct sections of the James home. The original log home, which was built around 1822, was where the outlaws were born and where they grew up. The newer addition, which made the dwelling T-shaped, was built later and was where Frank James lived with his wife and son later in life. As a matter of fact, Frank died in the home on February 18, 1915 at the age of 72.
I had to admit, I thoroughly enjoyed my time at the birthplace of Jesse James. Even though I don’t condone his unlawful antics and murderous ways during his 34 years of life, James still played a significant part in American history and that’s right up my alley. Over the years, some have claimed Jesse James was similar to Robin Hood, who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. There was never any evidence, and it was hardly unlikely, that the James Brothers ever shared any of their loot with anyone outside of their own gang.
At roughly 4:40pm, after I had stood on the original gravesite of Jesse James, it was time for me to stand on his current gravesite – and that was in Mount Olivet Cemetery, which was located about four miles southwest of the James Farm. It took less than ten minutes for Vicki to make the short drive into downtown Kearney, Missouri where we found the historic burial ground near the center of town. While there were several entrance drives into the cemetery, my photographer’s wife picked the one that led us towards a large American flag which flew in the late afternoon sky. Her decision turned out to be a brilliant one – when she parked near the flagpole, we saw a sign which directed visitors to the grave of the infamous outlaw Jesse James.
Tom carried me from the Jeep where he and his wife walked through a grassy pathway in between several dozen grave markers until we saw another green sign with the name ‘Jesse James’ painted on it. After he had hobbled along 150 feet of uneven ground, my photographer set me down on the low granite marker – emblazoned with the name James. On one side of the marker’s face, I saw the name Jesse W., while the other side featured the name Zerelda – who was Jesse’s first cousin and wife. That’s right, Jesse James married his first cousin on April 24, 1874 during the heyday of the James-Younger Gang crime spree. Together, Jesse and Zerelda had four children, two of whom died in infancy.
Zeralda James passed away on November 13, 1900 and was laid to rest in the grave where I was standing. Eighteen months after her death, Jesse James’ body was exhumed from his grave on the James Farm and reinterred next to his wife. When the outlaw’s mother died on February 10, 1911, Zerelda James Simms Samuel was buried alongside her infamous son and near her third husband, Reuben.
Our visit inside Mount Olivet Cemetery lasted nearly a half hour as I stood on the grave of Jesse James, one of the most notorious outlaws in American history. It was hard for me to describe the feelings I had during my time at the gravesite, even though I felt the same as I did when I stood on the graves of Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger, Billy the Kid, John Wilkes Booth, and Lee Harvey Oswald. With each, there was a sense of intrigue, mystery, and possible conspiracy like I’ve never experienced before. On one hand, their deeds should not be sensationalized because each of them was a criminal; and perhaps their remains should have been cremated and flushed down the toilet. And on the other hand, each of them was a scoundrel who helped shape or alter the course of American history and their final resting places are a stark reminder of their misguided acts of violence.
In just over twenty-four hours, I had visited the grave of one of the greatest men in American history who helped keep our nation together during its darkest times. And in the same time frame, I also stood on the final resting place of someone who tried to destroy American decency by inflicting havoc, mayhem, and lawlessness wherever he went.
It was roughly 5:15pm when we left Kearney behind and began a 45-mile drive towards our hotel in St. Joseph, Missouri. As Vicki drove the Jeep out of town, I was happy we were leaving Jesse James in our dust. Little did I know, we weren’t finished with that outlaw quite yet. The primary reason for us driving nearly 50 miles out of our way was because Tom wanted to see and tour the home where Jesse James was shot and killed. I was ecstatic to hear that news – to me, it was poetic justice, and I couldn’t wait to stand on the spot where Jesse James met his demise.
At 6:10pm, my photographer’s wife pulled into the parking lot of the Stoney Creek Hotel in St. Joseph. Even though it was later than usual, and my companions were tired, a huge smile filled Vicki’s face when she noticed we were in the heart of the Kansas City Chiefs training camp. It turned out the defending Super Bowl champs weren’t training at the hotel, but their practice facility was within a mile of us and some of their family members and fans usually hang out at the Stoney Creek Hotel.
After Vicki had disappeared into the hotel’s lobby to register, Tom unpacked their belongings onto a luggage cart and joined his wife inside. When my photographer saw a funny ‘Welcome Chiefs’ display near the lobby’s stairway, he asked the desk clerk whether or not Taylor Swift was staying at our hotel. The woman laughed and said the singer wasn’t registered, but she would turn a blind eye if ‘Tom the Swiftie’ wanted to snatch one of the signs for his grandson after the clerk was informed the youngster was a huge Patrick Mahomes fan.
Once we made it to our room, Tom placed me next to the television set where I would spend the rest of the night. After my photographer and his wife had unpacked their stuff, the two of them headed to the nearby Texas Roadhouse for dinner. When the two of them returned at 7:40pm, I thought for sure I’d hear snoring within the next half hour. But that wasn’t the case – at least for Tom the Cat Burglar.
My photographer watched the Olympics on TV until 9:30pm, which was when he slipped on his shoes and left the room. I watched intently through an opening in the curtains and saw Tom suddenly appear in the parking lot. At first, I wasn’t sure what he was up to, but he looked suspicious when he walked swiftly past a handful of other hotel guests who had gathered in front of the building. I wondered if he was impersonating Jesse James as he tried to use the veil of darkness to conceal his escapades.
Then it happened in a blink of an eye. I saw Tom grab one of the ‘Welcome Chiefs’ signs that was in front of the hotel, and I watched him scoot to an area between several vehicles. I laughed to myself because my fat camera guy was as stealth as a clumsy porcupine in a balloon factory when he secretly carried the stolen sign to our Jeep.
Ten minutes after he left our room, Tom returned from the scene of the crime, and he looked like the cat who just swallowed the canary. I laughed to myself when Vicki asked ‘O.J.’ if he had snatched the goods, and Tom replied, “Oh yeah, it was a piece of cake – even though there were six or seven potential eyewitnesses to the crime.” I couldn’t believe it – only a few hours after I had condemned Jesse James, my photographer transformed into a thief in the night.
The lights were extinguished at a few minutes past ten o’clock and once again I was left alone with my thoughts. Once I had relaxed after I didn’t see any red and blue flashing lights in the parking lot, I started to think about Margaret Brown and her heroic exploits after the RMS Titanic sunk from under her. I envisioned her in the cold, dark, moonless night; seated in Lifeboat No. 6 with 21 other passengers and two crew members from the stricken ocean liner. Several times during their nightmarish ordeal, Brown engaged in a verbal altercation with Titanic Quartermaster Robert Hichens, who was in charge of the lifeboat. When Margaret pleaded for Hichens to return to the debris field to search for survivors, the quartermaster swore at her and said, “There’s no use going back. There’s only a lot of stiffs out there. It’s our lives now, not theirs.” Things in the lifeboat really got intense when Brown ignored Hichens’ orders and passed out oars for the women to row, just so they could keep warm. When the officer moved to physically stop her, Brown threatened to throw him overboard. Margaret Brown took charge, assigned two women to an oar, and they took shifts rowing. Due to her heroic actions, Margaret Brown from Hannibal, Missouri helped ensure the people in Lifeboat No. 6 would survive the night; a night that would be forever remembered. After all, she was the Unsinkable Molly Brown.
“Tonight, in my dreams, I see you, I feel you. That is how I know you go on. Far across the distance and spaces between us, you have come to show you go on. Near, far, wherever you are; I believe that the heart does go on. Once more, you open the door, you’re here in my heart; and my resin heart will go on and on.”
