307: MY DAY WITH RORY, HARRY S, AND THE ‘COUNTRY WEASEL’

It was a little over a one-mile drive from the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library & Museum into downtown Independence where Tom found a parking place across the street from the Independence Courthouse Square. Although my photographer figured the historic Truman Courtroom inside the Jackson County Courthouse would be open on that Tuesday morning, July 30, 2024, Tom had bigger fish to fry. And that fish came in the form of an ice cream float from inside Clinton’s Soda Fountain, which was promised by my cameraman to his grandson Rory. But there was a method to Tom’s madness as the soda fountain was also where young Harry Truman worked his first job.

In the Summer of 1898, 14-year-old Harry Truman went to work for J.H. Clinton at his drug store. The teenager and future President opened the store, mopped the floors, took out the trash, dusted and polished the jugs and bottles, worked the soda fountain, and at times, clerked. At the end of his first week, the owner handed Truman three silver dollars, which he later said was “the biggest thing that happened to me.” After spending three months in the store, Harry’s dad told the lad it was time to quit and focus on his studies. Sadly, the building where Truman worked burned down in 1906; however, the structure in front of me was rebuilt in the footprint of the original drug store.

After I had posed for a few images outside of the soda fountain, the three of us and Little Abe walked through the front door where we were transported back in time to a more innocent era. I stood on the 100-year-old marble countertop, which along with the wooden backdrop, was originally used at another soda fountain in Kansas City. In my mind, the only thing missing in that place was Richie, Potsie, Ralph, and The Fonz.

The first thing Tom and I noticed that was different from our visit eight years earlier was the map of the United States was missing. That map contained hundreds of colored pins that were stuck into each state to mark where visitors to the store lived. During our visit in 2016, Vicki had left a pin embedded in St. Clair, which is in the Thumb of Michigan. Rory was excited for the chance to jab his pin into Bay City, but unfortunately, that never happened. The map was gone and the two staff members had no idea of its whereabouts.

As I watched Tom and Rory enjoy their floats, I thought maybe my photographer would try the same dessert Truman enjoyed. But when I heard Harry loved butterscotch sundaes made with chocolate ice cream, that seemed utterly disgusting and I understood why Tom went with the root beer float instead.

The twenty minutes we spent inside the air-conditioned Clinton’s Soda Fountain was long enough to put a bounce in my photographer’s step, and he was ready to make the pilgrimage across the street to the Jackson County Courthouse, also known as the Historic Truman Courthouse. During our last visit in 2016, which was on a Saturday, the courtroom where Truman presided was closed, which was a disappointment. But it was 11:30 on a Tuesday morning and Tom told his grandson he was confident the courtroom would be open, and they’d see it together for the first time.

After I posed for a few photos around the perimeter of the historic building, which was constructed in 1836, Tom, Rory, Little Abe, and I went inside – but our optimism quickly turned to dismay. When Tom knifed his way through the small crowd of people who were there to conduct personal business, the clerk told my photographer, in no uncertain terms, the Truman Courtroom was closed, and he’d have to arrange an official tour with the Historical Society if he wanted to get inside. Perhaps the woman was having a bad morning, or maybe it was due to what Rory described as the “sketchy” clientele who lined the hallway, but the quick interaction Tom had with Eva Braun was anything but pleasant. Once again, like we had done eight years earlier, I posed for pictures outside of the dark, locked courtroom.

I admit, when Tom carried me out of the Historic Truman Courthouse, I had a sour taste in my mouth from the way my photographer was treated inside. We had been in Independence for just under three hours and we already had two encounters which put a kink in my stainless-steel spring. Perhaps our luck would change at our next site, which was the Trinity Episcopal Church where Harry and Bess were married. After all, I couldn’t imagine us getting brow-beaten by a reverend.

Even though the historic church was a little over two blocks to the north, Tom wanted to drive because the late morning heat continued to rise. Plus, he figured driving in the air-conditioned Jeep would be nice and it would save wear and tear on his delicate knees at the same time.

Parking was once again no issue as my photographer found a nice place for his Jeep along North Liberty Street, which was nearly in the shadow of the church. During the next five minutes or so, I posed for a few images outside of the historic church.

Bess Wallace, the wife of our 33rd President, attended Trinity Episcopal Church throughout her entire life. During her youth, Bess was considered a tomboy as she played basketball, tennis, covered third-base on the baseball diamond, fenced, and threw the shot put – all things Harry was unable to do because of his eyeglasses. While love is said to be blind, Harry’s glasses didn’t hinder his love at first sight. Young Truman met Bess in Sunday school when he was six years old, and the blue-eyed blonde was his “sweetheart” for the rest of his life. The couple didn’t begin dating seriously until 1913 when the future President was 29 years old, and the shy former farmer waited until 1917 to ask for her hand in marriage. Two years later, on June 28, 1919, Harry Truman married Bess Wallace in the sanctuary of the Trinity Church, and I couldn’t wait to see the area where the Truman’s recited their wedding vows.

In the past, Tom and I had visited a countless number of churches all around the country and at most of them, we simply walked through unlocked doors where I posed for photos in the sanctuaries. But when my photographer attempted to open the large, red front door of this church, it was locked tight.

Not wanting to abort his attempt at seeing the interior, Tom opened an iron gate and carried me around to a side entrance door, which made Rory verbally question his motive. Even though the boy said he was honored to be part of his grandfather’s illegal activities at the Presidential Library, the nine-year-old was skeptical when Tom made a second attempt at gaining entrance into the church. “Pa, you’re making me nervous right now. I don’t think you should be trying to break into a church. You’re gonna get us in trouble.” Tom assured his grandson he wasn’t doing anything illegal and said most churches don’t even lock their doors during the daytime hours. But the Trinity Church in Independence was different, at least on that Tuesday morning. I laughed to myself because Rory seemed relieved when all of us were back in the Jeep instead of him and Little Abe seeing my photographer sitting in the back of a squad car.

Back on the road, and once again without a police escort, Tom headed for another site the two of us had visited in 2016 – the historic Truman Depot. The 1.3-mile route Siri had mapped out took us past the Truman home on Delaware Street. My photographer had every intention of taking Rory to the Truman home that day, but it wasn’t open to the public on Tuesday.

Moments after Tom pulled into the parking lot just East of the Amtrak station, I heard Rory tell his grandfather, “I think I’m gonna sit this one out, Pa.” I was stunned by the boy’s decision to stay in the Jeep, even though there wasn’t another person anywhere in sight of the train station. Had the “sketchy” individuals in the courthouse and Tom’s alleged church “break in” dampened the kid’s spirit? Or perhaps Rory noticed the train station was closed and he thought Ol’ Gramps was about try something illegal again. One thing was for certain – Tom wasn’t about to let me sit this one out; which was just fine with me.

The Independence Station, otherwise known as the Missouri Pacific Depot, was built in 1913 by the Missouri Pacific Railroad. Even though it’s still an active station, it’s called The Truman Depot because the station was the final stop on President Truman’s 1948 Whistlestop Campaign. Truman made it famous again when he left the White House in January 1953 as over 8,500 admirers came to the station to welcome the President home.

I posed for a handful of images all around the exterior of the historic train station. At one point, I wondered whether or not President Biden had ever stopped at Independence Station. After all, Biden’s nickname was Amtrak Joe during his time in the U.S. Senate because he rode the train from Washington to Delaware most every day.

With our photo-op at Independence Station finished, Tom and I returned to the vehicle where Rory was waiting for us. Although the nine-year-old never complained once about how long we took or how hot it was inside the Jeep, Rory did mention he saw an unidentified four-legged creature in the nearby brush that freaked him out. In my mind, that meant one thing – the kid will be close to his grandfather’s side for the rest of the day.

When Tom told his grandson we were headed to the Truman Memorial Building next, I was excited because the two of us had never been there before. Of all the Truman sites in Independence, this one seems to fly under the radar compared to the rest, even though the future President spearheaded the effort to have the building erected in 1926 as a memorial to the World War I heroes who lost their lives in the war.

After a five-minute drive from the train station, my photographer parked the Jeep along West Maple Avenue. We were directly in front of the three-story brick building and at the spot where we needed to be. As I looked through the windshield, it was as though I could see President Truman standing behind a podium as he spoke to the assembled crowd in the street. Tom, Rory, Little Abe, and I were transported back in time to November 6, 1950 when President Truman delivered a speech as he helped dedicate the Liberty Bell. It wasn’t the original symbol of freedom in Philadelphia, but instead was a replica bell presented to the city of Independence by the people of Annecy, France as a token of friendship.

Seconds after Tom finished snapping the last photos of me posing outside of the Truman Memorial Building, a woman approached my photographer and asked him the million-dollar question, “What’s up with the bobble head?” At that moment, I noticed the concerned look on Rory’s face as he thought his grandfather was once again in trouble. However, when my cameraman explained what we do on a regular basis, the woman asked if we’d like to see Truman’s army uniform that was on display in the building’s small museum. It turned out Cathy worked inside the building, and she led us on a short walk around the corner to the public entrance.

Once inside, Tom, Rory, Abe, and me were on our own. We made it to the museum on the second floor of the building where we saw numerous military uniforms on display, but none of them looked like they were from the first World War. We also found a small display case dedicated to President Harry Truman, but his uniform wasn’t there either. Eventually we discovered the uniform was no longer on display in their museum and Cathy simply didn’t realize it was gone.

Back downstairs on the first floor, Cathy introduced us to Gloria Smith, who we discovered was the President of the Jackson County Historical Society. Gloria was in the Memorial Building with a group of school children who were on a field trip. The president asked my photographer if we’d been to the courthouse yet, and when Tom told her about our bad experience with the rude clerk there, she became instantly agitated. “Let me make a telephone call right now. You’ll get inside Truman’s courtroom; I’ll make sure of that.” Seconds later, Gloria smiled and told my photographer he needed to meet a woman named Erin at the courtroom entrance in five minutes and she’ll let us in. I couldn’t believe my resin ears – talk about being in the right place at the right time. Had our luck suddenly changed?

We had no time to waste, even though the Truman Courthouse was only two blocks away. After Tom had parked and we rushed to get inside the building, Rory became concerned about the visit. “Pa, is this where we saw all those sketchy people? Did they commit a crime and are they going to jail?” Old Gramps assured the boy there was nothing to worry about, just as the four of us disappeared into the bowels of the historic courthouse.

As we walked past the line of “sketchy” people, I noticed Rory appeared very antsy. But the lad’s anxiety disappeared as soon as he saw Erin Gray, who unlocked the door to the courtroom and let us inside.

Ms. Gray is the Director of Archives and Education for Jackson County, and she seemed genuinely interested in our quest to visit Presidential sites. During the next twenty minutes, Erin led us on a tour of the courtroom and Truman’s office where the friendly young lady allowed me to pose wherever my photographer set me. Erin also answered all of my companion’s questions, even when Rory asked if the “sketchy” people in the hallway were waiting to go to jail.

It may have been eight years in the making, but Tom and I, along with Rory and Abe, were finally inside the Truman Courtroom – and what a thrill it was. This was Harry Truman’s domain and where he got his start as an elected official after his clothing business failed in Kansas City. When Truman left the courtroom in 1935, he went to Washington D.C. as a United States Senator. Ten years later, Truman was Vice President under FDR and became the 33rd President of the United States on April 12, 1945 when Roosevelt died.

Harry Truman was elected presiding judge for Jackson County in 1926 after serving one term as county judge four years earlier. For eight years, from January 1, 1927 to 1935, Harry Truman was in charge – although it was a job similar to a county clerk today. His task wasn’t easy, however, as Truman managed Jackson County’s finances through the Great Depression. During his time as an elected county official, the retired farmer never forgot his roots and made sure the roads for the local farmers were in good shape. He truly cared about the citizens he served, which is a concept our elected officials should try today. Truman proved to be a great and efficient leader, and he took full responsibility for every decision he made. In other words, ‘The Buck Stops Here’. Truman’s efforts didn’t go unnoticed, and he quickly began his ascent further up the political ladder all the way to the White House.

Even though Harry Truman is the only President since William McKinley to never attend college, he used his integrity, life’s lessons, hard work, and confidence to become one of the best Presidents in American history. That’s why it was such an honor for me to stand in the footsteps of Harry S Truman; footsteps that were still on the floor in the building where his political career began.

Back outside in the afternoon heat, which at 1:10pm was nearly one hundred degrees, Tom decided it was time for us to go back to our home-away-from-home in Prairie Village, Kansas. We had gone nonstop since we arrived in Independence, and I could tell my photographer was physically out of gas. Plus, Tom wanted to end our sightseeing experience on a positive note for Rory.

Our morning had started out rough with the Gestapo-like interrogation at the Presidential Library. Then things continued to spiral downward after our first visit inside the courthouse, thanks to the rude staff member. When we combined the subpar human encounters along with the sites that were closed on that Tuesday, I thought our day was a bit of a disappointment.

But all of that changed as soon as we met Erin Gray during our second visit inside the Truman Courthouse. Seconds after she unlocked the door to the courtroom, Erin helped transport me and my companions to the year 1933 when Truman presided there as an elected judge. With a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind the director thought I was the handsomest bobble head she’d ever seen. While I was flattered by the attention, I was most impressed by how Erin brought Harry Truman to life for us with her passion and enthusiastic zest for history. It was the perfect way to finish our Truman experience in Independence – even though Tom had to end our courtroom visit by exposing his KISS tattoo for Erin.

With Tom behind the wheel and Rory still in the front passenger seat, our weary group of history travelers began the 21-mile drive back to our families. While I knew Rory said he had a lot of fun at the Truman sites, I could tell he was eager to see his parents again. But just as the historic Truman Courthouse got smaller in our rearview mirror, I heard my photographer shout out, “I see the old courthouse – I’ve gotta stop since we’re so close.” Sure enough, my old and spontaneous camera guy quickly pulled into a parking space along South Main Street, and before I knew what had happened, we were on foot headed towards the log building.

“Pa, how long is this gonna take? I’m hungry and I want to get home.” Tom assured his grandson the entire visit would last less than five minutes because he didn’t plan on going inside the building. My photographer and I had toured the same log courthouse in 2016, and during that visit, Tom didn’t find any historically significant artifacts inside for me to stand on. As a matter of fact, the place was likely closed because my photographer hadn’t made prior reservations to see the interior.

The two-room log courthouse was constructed by Algernon Gilbert in 1827, the same year the city of Independence was established. The structure served as Gilbert’s home and general store, which helped provide for settlers who traveled along the Santa Fe Trail. Over the next six years, Gilbert was persecuted for his religious beliefs and was forced out of Jackson County – at which time his home was turned into the first courthouse in the county. But the reason for our visit, however, was because Judge Harry S Truman presided within the log walls until he moved into the large brick courthouse following its renovation.

At first, the historic courthouse appeared to be closed, just as Tom had figured. But when my photographer carried me to the front of the building, both of us noticed there was a woman seated in a rocking chair beneath the overhang of the front portico. She appeared to be a historical interpreter, and the building was open to the public. Suddenly, my cameraman changed his mind and decided to take me, Rory, and Little Abe into the courthouse. And somehow, that decision quickly became a huge mistake.

Tom carried me onto the porch where the woman dressed in period clothing greeted us. The first thing she asked was the reason a Thomas Jefferson bobble head was in Tom’s hand. When my photographer explained to her what we do and mentioned some of the sites we’ve visited in the past, it was as though the woman didn’t hear a word he said. “Jefferson never visited this courthouse. I don’t understand the reason you’re bringing a Jefferson bobble head here.” Tom did his best to keep his cool, but I could tell his patience were dwindling quickly. He replied to her, “Jefferson is my favorite President and I bring this same bobble head to all the Presidential sites, no matter if the real Jefferson was there or not. It doesn’t make any difference – I write stories and take pictures of his travels.”

At the same time my photographer was in a verbal sparring match with the elderly woman, Rory was bored and raised Tom’s walking stick he was holding into the air. The woman snarled and snapped at the boy, “Don’t touch the ceiling with that stick. It’s dangerous.” Tom laughed at his grandson and said, “It’s good to see you got in trouble instead of me. Welcome to the club – wait until I tell your Nana!”

The four of us followed the woman into the courtroom where she began her spiel about the log building’s history. A minute or so into her rehearsed speech, a horse-drawn wagon with a huge group of school kids arrived in front of the building. The next thing I heard the woman say was, “Oh, my tour group is here. Go ahead and look around; take all the pictures you want. I have to go out and greet the kids.”

Tom didn’t waste any time as he wanted to get his photos before the children invaded the building. He immediately carried me to the fireplace, and he set me on the stone mantel. Suddenly, while my head was still wiggling, I heard a loud bellow from the doorway, “Don’t set that thing there. Please remove that bobble head from that fireplace right now.”

My photographer snatched me from the stone surface, put me back into the camera case, and he told his grandson we were leaving. When the woman realized she had just infuriated my cameraman, she said, “You can stay and take your pictures. Just don’t set it on anything.”

I thought Tom was going to walk out without replying, but he couldn’t help himself. “Look, all I did was set him on the stone surface of the mantel, he wasn’t close to any of the decorations, and you yelled at me for doing that. Do you really think that bobble head was going to damage that mantel? I’ve been all around the country, and I’ve been allowed to set him on places that are more historically significant than anything you have in this building. This is ridiculous!”

And with that, my photographer carried me back to the Jeep – all the while I heard the woman as she pleaded for us not to leave. During our short hike back to Main Street, Rory chimed in, “I’m glad you got yelled at, too. But that old woman was mean, and I never want to go back there again. She yelled at me, and I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just holding your walking stick.”

During the half-hour drive back to our Airbnb in Kansas, I listened as Tom and Rory talked about their day in Independence. The nine-year-old said he had a great time, at least up until his encounter at the old courthouse. But the boy’s anxieties instantly dissolved when we returned home. Since the rest of the family members were still out and about, Rory was finally able to talk with Paisley, his “friend” of the female variety, on his I-Pad. As for my old and fat photographer – he took advantage of his alone time with a well-deserved cat nap.

When the rest of the gang had returned to the Airbnb, it was dinner time – which always seems to be an issue with Tom’s family because everyone can’t get on the same page when it comes to food. Vicki spoke up and said one of the influencers she follows on Instagram “highly recommended” a place called Torchy’s Tacos, which was located about two miles south of our location. I laughed to myself and thought, “Well, Vickster, with the amount of time you spend on Instagram instead of touring historical places with us, that place better have the finest tacos this side of Mexico City.”

Everyone piled into Tom and Vic’s Jeep for the ride to Torchy’s, but somehow the route Siri had mapped out proved to be a challenge. When we had to be re-routed a couple of times, that’s when the “signature” moment of the trip happened – and that highlight came directly from the mouth of my photographer. With no filter and very little regard for the fact his two grandsons were in the vehicle, Tom began to cuss at his AI tour guide, “Siri, what the hell are you doing, you stupid Cun….” Meghan stopped my photographer mid-word with an appropriate and timely “Oooooookay!”, which was followed by an eye roll and wry chuckle. Tom paused for a second and then continued with, “You didn’t let me finish. Siri, you’re a stupid… Country Weasel.” The entire Jeep filled with laughter and everyone poked fun at my photographer for his R-rated-to-G-rated flip flop.

As I watched our group of six eat their food, they complained because the tacos were expensive, small, and didn’t taste all that great. Near the end of the meal, I also heard Vicki backtrack on her influencer’s recommendation, “I should write and tell her what a bad experience we had at Torchy’s.” Tom shot back and said, “You should write and ask the Country Weasel if she gets compensated by Torchy’s for the recommendation – even though the food is high-priced and crappy.”

At six o’clock in the evening, our group decided they wanted to visit a place called the Brass Armadillo Antique Mall, which was located about 30 miles away in Grain Valley, Missouri. When we arrived, the place looked huge – and I figured we’d be inside for quite some time. And once again, I was right. For nearly two hours, Tom carried me around the endless aisles as he searched for more useless junk to add to his never-ending collection. The place was a treasure-trove of collectibles, including sports cards and an endless supply of Kansas City Chiefs and Royals memorabilia. But when we returned to the Jeep for our trip back to The Land of Ahs, Tom was once again emptyhanded – except for me.

It was dark when we arrived at our Airbnb at nine o’clock and the cicadas in our Prairie Village neighborhood were louder than ever. Once inside the home, Tom placed me alongside my tiny Jefferson where the two of us spent the night.

When the lights were extinguished and Tom went into his bedroom, I was left with only my thoughts, and little TJ, to keep me company. Although it was a memorable day as my photographer passed the Presidential torch to his grandson Rory, it was mentioned Tom and I would be on our own the following morning. Our “alone time” was made possible when the rest of our group had secured reservations for a tour of Kauffman Stadium where the Kansas City Royals play baseball. Instead of going along with the family, Tom had plans for the two of us to visit more historical sites – including the Truman Farm in Grandview, Missouri.

But there was also a time crunch we’d likely encounter on Wednesday afternoon as the Opening Ceremonies for Bo’s baseball tournament was scheduled to start at six o’clock and Tom had tickets to be there. Those festivities weren’t being held on the baseball fields, which would’ve made a lot of sense. Instead, they were being conducted at a theme park known as ‘Worlds of Fun’, which was located about ten miles northeast of downtown Kansas City.

As I listened to the ticking of the living room clock, my resin mind became a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought, cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives. And nothing made me smile more than a little Country Weasel ditty.

“Almost heaven, Kansas City. Chiefs and Royals, and the river Missouri. Life is old there, older than the trees. Younger than the mountains, growin’ like the breeze. Country roads, don’t take me back, to the place where there’s evil. Independence, the old courthouse, it’s the home, of the Country Weasel.”

** This post is dedicated to Erin Gray for taking the time to guide us on an impromptu tour of the Truman Courtroom. **