The best thing I discovered when Tom’s alarm rang at 6:00am on Monday July 29, 2024 was the fact that my photographer was still in our room. I was concerned that the Stoney Creek Hotel surveillance cameras would have shown him stealing the ‘Welcome Chiefs’ sign nine hours earlier and I figured the cops would be knocking on our door that morning. But thankfully that never happened; Tom was never questioned by anyone during breakfast or when we checked out. When the three of us walked out of the hotel’s front door and out to the Jeep, we were scot-free. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself – we were in the town where Jesse James was killed due to his life of crime and my photographer decided to begin his life of crime there, albeit a small theft. But even the infamous Jesse James had to start somewhere – and that somewhere was in Liberty, Missouri where he and fellow gang members robbed a bank on February 13, 1866 and got away with $62,000. That’s a lot more loot than a ‘Welcome Chiefs’ placard.
With Vicki behind the wheel of our get-a-way car, we made the short four-mile drive into downtown St. Joseph where Tom said we’d see the place where Jesse James was killed. But when we got to the hillside site on Lafayette Street, all I saw was a granite monument surrounded by a wooden blockade. I didn’t see a house, or a bank, and that was a huge disappointment.
On Christmas Eve 1881, Jesse James and his wife Zee moved their family into a small house atop a huge hill that overlooked St. Joseph. Jesse lived under the assumed name of Tom Howard and rented the house from a city councilman for $14 per month. Shortly after Jesse moved into the home, he invited brothers Charley and Robert Ford, two new gang recruits, to live with him and his family. It didn’t take long, however, before the Ford’s would betray their host and highly wanted outlaw. After breakfast on April 3, 1882, twenty-year-old Robert Ford shot Jesse James in the back of the head – killing him instantly. The most wanted criminal in America was dead at the age of 34; and it happened at the home once located on the site in front of me.
The one-story, four-room house became an instant tourist attraction in St. Joseph and the building remained on what’s known as Jesse James Hill until 1939. In an effort to attract more visitors, the home was moved to a busier section of town where it remained until 1977. At that time, the home where Jesse James was killed was moved to the grounds of the Pattee House Museum, which was two blocks south of the home’s original location on Lafayette Street, and that’s where the three of us were headed next.
I no more got comfortably situated in the camera case after posing at Jesse James Hill when Vicki finished the two-block journey south to the location of the original house where Jesse James was killed. It was easy to see we were at the right location as there was a large sign that read ‘Jesse James Home’ affixed to the fence in front of the one-story wooden home, painted white with green trim. Fortunately for us, plus good planning by my photographer, the historic home had opened just a few minutes before we arrived.
Before we went inside the home, I posed for a handful of images near the exterior of the structure, which had been placed on a fairly steep hill to possibly replicate the landscape where it had originally stood. From my position along South 12th Street, I saw an enormous four-story brick building next door. Today, that building is the Patee House Musuem and was built in 1858 as a 140-room luxury hotel. Following the death of Jesse James in 1882, the outlaw’s wife and children moved into the hotel, then known as the World’s Hotel, for a few days while officials investigated the death of Zerelda’s husband.
It was time for the three of us to go the inside the historic house where Jesse James lived and died. I was absolutely stunned by the price of admission for my two old companions – it was only three bucks each. Usually when the price to visit a site is set low, there isn’t much to see and I’m usually disappointed. But that was definitely not the case at the Jesse James Home.
After a historian named Jerry gave us a brief tour and explanation about the artifacts inside the home, Tom, Vicki, and I had the place to ourselves. While most of the artifacts on display throughout the home were awesome, nothing compared to the time I spent in the parlor where Jesse James died.
Jesse James moved into this rented St. Joseph house with his wife and kids on December 24, 1881 where he took on the alias Tom Howard. At the time, the outlaw had planned on giving up his life of crime and buy his own farm. But because he didn’t have enough money to purchase the farm, Jesse decided he needed to rob another bank for some quick and easy cash. After all, that would make a lot more sense than getting a real job. But since his brother Frank had given up his life of crime, and the rest of the James-Younger Gang were either dead or in jail, James recruited the help of the Ford brothers, Charley and Robert, whom he trusted. So must so, in fact, the Ford’s lived in Jesse’s new rental and posed as his cousins – just so Zerelda wouldn’t be concerned.
What Jesse didn’t realize, however, was Robert Ford had been in secret negotiations with Missouri Governor Thomas T. Crittenden and was offered a total of $10,000 to capture or kill either of the James brothers – and a full pardon for past crimes came with the offer. After scheming the night before to rob the Platte City Bank, the Ford brothers and Jesse were set for action just after breakfast on April 3, 1882. At one point just before they left, James walked across the parlor, set his revolvers on a table, and proceeded to step up on a chair to clean and straighten a picture high on the wall. At the same time, Zerelda and their kids were standing next to the kitchen sink in the adjoining room.
At the moment when Jesse reached to clean a crooked picture with a feather duster, Robert Ford approached the unarmed outlaw, and with ten thousand little dollar signs running rampant through his mind, he drew his revolver and shot Jesse James in the back of the head. The most wanted criminal in America was dead by the time he hit the wooden floor.
The Ford brothers immediately left the house and word quickly spread that Jesse James had been killed. Shortly afterwards, large crowds came to the house to see the dead outlaw. At the same time, Robert Ford wired the governor to claim the reward money. When the Ford brothers surrendered to authorities, they were charged with first degree murder as Robert had shot an unarmed man in the back. The Fords were indicted, pleaded guilty, sentenced to death by hanging, and were granted a full pardon by Governor Crittenden, all in the same day.
While most of the furnishings in the parlor were not original to the house, the wooden floorboards and the picture Jesse James was straightening when he was shot were. When Tom set me down on the floor, a thousand things ran through my resin mind. It was as though the entire scene played out in my mind – I watched Jesse as he walked across the room and set his holster on the table. But the highlight came when my photographer placed me on the chair below the picture. I looked up towards the picture and saw the bullet hole in the wall; a hole that has become very large over the years thanks to souvenir hunters. That same picture I was staring at above me was the last thing Jesse James saw in his life
Suddenly, empathy for the outlaw Jesse James filled my heart. The previous day, when I was at his birthplace, James was nothing more than a famous thief who killed lots of people with no regard to life, liberty, and justice. But when I learned about how he was treated as a teenager by the Union soldiers, and how those soldiers tortured his stepfather, and killed his stepbrother and maimed his mother when they bombed the family home, perhaps his life of crime was justified. I called it “The Jesse James Revenge Tour”, and it was spawned by the United States government.
When our visit to the Jesse James Home ended, and after I posed for a couple of images in front of the 1882 World’s Hotel, I figured we were finished with the Jesse James sites for a while. But once again, I was wrong. Somehow, my photographer discovered there was a wicker casket on display at a small museum inside the Heaton-Bowman-Smith and Sidenfaden Chapel Funeral Home in St. Joseph. That long, coffin-shaped wicker basket was once used to transport the body of Jesse James. However, the only way we’d be allowed inside the free museum was if the funeral home wasn’t busy. After Vicki drove us nearly four miles out of the way to the northwestern part of town, we quickly discovered there was a funeral procession about to begin. Tom made the quick decision to abort our sightseeing mission, which I thought made a lot of sense. After all, my photographer might be a thief in the night, but he does have some compassion for the dearly departed.
It was 10:15am and there was only one scheduled site left on Tom’s agenda. Since we couldn’t get into the Airbnb in Prairie Village until four o’clock, the three of us had a little time to kill. Whenever that happens on our trips, which is rare, my companions end up “free styling”, which means they hunt down antique malls along our route. And sure enough, they spotted one only four miles south of the funeral home in St. Jospeh. That large building was appropriately called the St. Joseph Auction and Antique Mart.
Usually, Tom takes me inside antique malls when we travel and I thought for sure I’d go inside this one as well, especially after I posed near the exterior. But this time, he left me behind in the Jeep. I think that decision was based on the fact the mall didn’t look very impressive and Tom felt he’d be in and out quickly. We’ve been to several places so far on this trip, and my photographer had yet to find what he calls “The Honey Hole”.
For over two hours, I stood in the camera case on the back seat of our Jeep while my resin chestnuts roasted over what felt like an open fire. The morning was heating up and there didn’t seem to be an end in sight. When Tom and Vic returned to the Jeep, my photographer had a couple of vinyl records in his hand and he had such a huge smile on his face, I figured he’d need plastic surgery to remove it. My personal “Clark W. Griswold” was whistling zippity-doo-dah out of his asshole and I couldn’t wait to find out why. As we pulled out of the parking lot and headed towards Richmond, Missouri, the reason behind Tom’s excitement became very clear. It turned out he not only found the “Honey Hole”, but my photographer told his wife he had found the Holy Grail of record shops, called The Kool Kat Music Exchange, inside the mall – and he had the photos to prove it.
As we headed southeast during our 70-mile ride to Richmond, Missouri, I wondered what type of material was featured on the George Carlin album Tom had purchased. I knew Carlin was the funniest comedian ever, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the ‘Seven words you can never say on television’ segment he recorded. I’m not sure why I was so intrigued by that famous bit. Although people may not be allowed to say seven certain words on TV, I’m sure my photographer, aka Mr. Road Rage, has shouted those same seven expletives in the past day or two.
Roughly halfway through our journey to Richmond, Vicki suddenly whipped the Jeep into the parking lot of another antique mall. The place was called ‘Enchanted Frog Antiques’, which was located only a few miles east of downtown Lathrop, Missouri, and I couldn’t wait to hop inside. That’s right, my photographer wasn’t leaving me alone in the vehicle this time.
My camera guy and I wandered the aisles for over 45 minutes, but we never saw a ‘Honey Hole’ like Tom had found at the last place. I agreed with my photographer when I heard him tell his wife, “Once you’ve been to the Promised Land of antique shops, the rest pale in comparison.” Then, out of the corner of my painted eye, I saw an old-looking artifact in a display case which featured an image of President Woodrow Wilson on it. Tom liked the piece, too, which turned out to be an antique watch fob. When my photographer paid the cashier for the Wilson fob, along with the one-dollar decorative wooden cane he found, the two of us returned to the Jeep and waited for Vicki to finish shopping.
Thirty-two miles down the road from the Lathrop, Missouri antique shop, we arrived at the entrance to the Richmond Cemetery, which was located in that small town in the northwestern part of the Show Me State. As Vicki drove through the narrow opening and up a hill towards our final destination, I was shocked by what I saw. The historic burial ground appeared to be neglected; overrun by tall grass, weeds, and who knows what else. At first, I thought the cemetery was a complete disgrace – until I heard Tom mention who was buried there. We had made the trip to Richmond to visit the grave of Robert Ford, the twenty-year-old gunman who shot Jesse James in the back of the head.
Thankfully there was a sign near the end of the paved roadway which gave us an idea where to look for Ford’s grave. After Tom carried down an incline and over uneven ground for about thirty yards, we found the outlaw’s grave marker, which was nearly obscured by overgrown vegetation. There was also a wooden stake next to the headstone as well, but it appeared the sign with Ford’s name had been stolen. While I felt bad for the others buried in the neglected cemetery because they deserved a better final resting place, I thought it was the perfect setting for the scumbag, lowlife coward and traitor who shot an unarmed man in the back of the head while he was in his own home.
Following the assassination of Jesse James on April 3, 1882, Bob Ford and his brother Charley were charged with first degree murder; but the pair were given a full pardon the same day by Missouri’s governor. For some time after, Robert Ford earned money by posing for photographs as “The man who killed Jesse James”. Ford also spent time touring in traveling shows, along with his brother Charley, as the pair re-enacted the murder.
Over the next decade, Bob Ford dabbled in numerous ventures to make money after his brother committed suicide in 1884. Bob once lived in New Mexico, then he moved to Creede, Colorado where he opened a saloon known as the Ford Exchange. When the place burned to the ground on June 5, 1892, Bob replaced his business with a temporary shelter known as a ‘tent saloon’. On June 8th, just three days after the fire, a man by the name of Edward O’Kelley walked into the tent saloon with a shotgun. Initially, Ford’s back was turned to the entrance. When O’Kelley said, “Hello Bob”, Ford turned to see who it was. O’Kelley fired both barrels and hit Bob in the neck, killing him instantly. From that moment on, Edward O’Kelley was known as “The man who killed the man who killed Jesse James.” That made me wonder something silly. When O’Kelley was shot and killed by a police officer on January 13, 1904, was the cop called “The man who killed the man who killed the man who killed Jesse James?”
When my photographer set me down on Robert Ford’s original weed-infested grave marker, I noticed the raised letters that were emblazoned onto the face of the bronze tablet in front of me featured the wrong birth date – and it was off by twenty years. At the end of the day, it didn’t really matter – there was no doubt I was standing on the correct grave, as I also noticed the words, “The man who shot Jesse James”.
Out of the blue, while I still stood on the grave, Tom placed his cell phone next to me where I heard Elton John’s song ‘I Feel Like a Bullet (in the Gun of Robert Ford) from Elton’s 1975 ‘Rock of the Westies’ studio album. For five minutes and twenty-seven seconds, I listened to one of my photographer’s favorite and most underrated Elton songs where the piano man mentioned the name Robert Ford six times in the tune – even though the song wasn’t written about the killer of Jesse James. Instead, the lyrics penned by Bernie Taupin reflected the lyricist’s feelings after the breakup of Taupin’s marriage to his first wife – and it was painfully easy to hear Bernie’s heartbreak through Elton’s melodic singing voice.
When the song had finished, Tom removed me and his phone from the grave of Robert Ford. Even though I love to stand on gravesites and pay my respects to those buried beneath me, there was a feeling of pure disgust that tore at every resin fiber of my being. And quite frankly, I hadn’t felt that way since July 20, 2014 when I stood on the grave of John Wilkes Booth, the assassin who shot an unarmed President in the back of the head. It’s part of American history, albeit a dark part of our history, and that’s why Tom and I visit places such as Richmond Cemetery and Green Mount Cemetery in Baltimore.
Tom used his newly purchased ornate cane to help him navigate over the rough, uphill terrain back to our Jeep. In my mind, he nearly needed a machete as well. Once my photographer placed the camera bag with me inside on the back seat, I tried to inspect my hairline and clothing for ticks. Just the thought of bugs crawling on me makes my resin skin crawl.
The dashboard digital clock read 2:45pm when Vicki drove the Jeep out of Richmond Cemetery. And to be honest, it felt as though we had just been on a 30-minute African safari, only without the lions and tigers and bears. I bet you thought I was going to say “Oh, my”, didn’t you? Before we began the 60-mile journey to our Airbnb home-away-from-home for the next six nights, however, my companions made an emergency stop at the nearby McDonald’s for a late lunch where I was forced to watch Tom stuff his face with a burger, fries, and a Diet Coke. “Oh my!”
For the first time since we left home, the temperature reading on our vehicle’s dashboard hit the 100-degree mark and we were just 15 miles east of downtown Kansas City. But that wasn’t the bad news. That’s because the forecast for the rest of the week, during the time when we’d be at most of the baseball games, was for the same type of weather – hot, humid, and horribly uncomfortable.
We arrived at our Airbnb in Prairie Village, Kansas at precisely 4:51pm where we were greeted by a welcoming committee that featured two nine-year-old boys and their parents. Once my companions had unloaded all of their belongings into the three-bedroom, one-story house with a finished basement, I posed on the front porch as the sound of cicadas nearly made my ears bleed.
For the rest of the evening, the seven of us relaxed after Tom II and Meghan had brought Papa Johns pizza back to the house. As for me, I stood on the fireplace mantel alongside a miniature figurine of Thomas Jefferson that was purchased at an antique shop by my photographer’s son. That mantel became my private refuge; my inner sanctum, each and every night of our stay.
With everyone snuggled in bed by ten o’clock, I stood alone in the living room and thought about where in the world I was – which was smack-dab in the center of Harry Truman country. Truman’s boyhood farm was ten miles south of us; and his adult home and Presidential Library were twenty miles northeast of us. Although I knew the reason for the entire trip was to watch Tom and Vic’s grandson play baseball, the ball games didn’t start until Thursday. That meant I had two days to hobnob with Harry and Bess – and I couldn’t wait to get started.
