For the second morning in a row, Tom’s alarm went off at 6:00am in our Prairie Village, Kansas rented home. It was Wednesday July 31, 2024 and our day was jam-packed with activities, although my photographer and I had a separate agenda compared to the others. While Vicki and her son’s family had tickets for a VIP tour of Kauffman Stadium, which was slated to start at 10am, Tom had a laundry list of historic sites in three different cities he wanted us to visit. And at the end of the day, or at least by four o’clock, everyone was supposed to meet at Worlds of Fun for the baseball tournament Opening Ceremony, which was scheduled to kick off at 6:00pm.
It seemed very strange, but since no one else was in the Jeep that morning, I got to ride in the front passenger seat – albeit I was still in my padded camera case. The first site of the day was the Harry S. Truman Farm Home, which was located in Grandview, Missouri; some ten miles south of Prairie Village.
That morning, I was excited to go back because the historic farmhouse was closed during our first visit on July 23, 2016. The National Park Service, which operates and maintains the site, had been conducting extensive renovations to the building. Those improvements, along with staffing issues, kept the farmhouse closed to visitors for a long time. Tom, Vicki, and I took a self-guided tour of the grounds during our visit eight years ago, but the doors to the home were locked shut. As a matter of fact, the place had been closed to the public for nearly a decade and had only recently re-opened in the past couple of years. Like most things our government is involved with, there never seems to be a sense of urgency or enough resources. Perhaps if the government paid the NPS rangers more, instead of producing more bombs, there wouldn’t be a shortage of staff members at historic sites.
When my photographer turned into the driveway and headed towards the Truman Farm, it appeared we were the first ones there. And that was understandable because we were a half-hour early – the site didn’t officially open until 9:30am. That early arrival was intentional – Tom had planned to use the extra time for exterior photos of the home and grounds without other visitors in the way.
For the next twenty minutes or so, I posed at a variety of locations around the historic home. It was a stroke of luck no one else was there yet as I was able to stand in the footsteps of our 33rd President without any issues. I had to hand it to my photographer, his brilliant plan of getting there early to avoid the crowd worked to perfection.
The historic, two-story wooden structure in front of me was built in 1894 after the original 1867 farmhouse had burned down. The house was originally owned by Harry Truman’s maternal grandmother, Harriet Louisa Young, and it was the centerpiece of her 600-acre farm. Truman first lived on the farm with his family when he was just four years old, but the clan moved to Independence and its city lifestyle in 1890. The Trumans returned fifteen years later to help old Grandma Young with the farm, and 22-year-old Harry left his banking job in Kansas City in 1906 to lend a hand as well. The future President lived on the Young farm for eleven years until he left in 1917 when he enlisted in the military. When his service to our country ended on May 6, 1919, Truman returned to the family farm until he married Bess Wallace seven weeks later.
During our time exploring the grounds that morning, one of the highlights for me was when Tom placed me onto the hand-operated water pump, which was where young Harry got his “common sense”, at least according to his mother Martha. As I stood on the white pump, it was easy to envision young Harry as he pumped the metal handle in rhythmic strokes until his bucket filled with water. Ironically, that may have been the extent of his manual labor. While life on the farm was hard work in those days, Harry preferred to supervise the hired hands or stay inside to read or play his piano. Oh, there were times when he may have pitched-in to drive the grain wagon or work on the bundle wagon when needed, but young Truman wasn’t like the other farmers. He usually sported a white Panama hat, and never wore bib overalls like everyone else had on in the fields.
Before we ended our self-guided tour of the grounds, Tom ventured to the “back forty” where he brought me to the Truman’s original henhouse. It was unfortunate the wooden structure seemed to be in disrepair and overgrown with weeds and other unsightly vegetation. I thought if my photographer could get his hands on a weed-whacker, he’d make structure more appealing for his photos. But there was no way Tom was going to pull the weeds out by hand because he was fearful of ticks, and I didn’t blame him. As fat as my photographer is, I figured the ticks were licking their chops when they saw him walk up. One thing was for certain, Tom surely didn’t need a blood-sucking hitchhiker to take back as a souvenir.
After Tom snatched me from the wooden chicken coop and placed me back in the camera bag, the two of us returned to the Jeep where we waited for the home to open up for tours. I was surprised a NPS ranger hadn’t arrived yet, although he or she still had five minutes to get there on time. We waited; and waited some more; and when the clock hit nine-forty, Tom decided to see if the door to the house was unlocked. That was the moment Tom was hit in the face with a huge dose of reality – a small sign near the door stated the Truman Home was open to the public only on Friday and Saturday. It was obvious by the look on my photographer’s face he felt like Clark W. Griswold when he arrived with his family at Walley World, only to discover the theme park was closed. It turned out when Tom used the NPS website to set his agenda, he had confused the Truman House in Independence, which was open on Wednesday, with the Truman House in Grandview, which was not open. That meant one thing – we would be coming back on Friday morning for another Harry Truman pilgrimage before driving to Bo’s baseball game in the afternoon.
Although the two of us never made it inside the Truman home in Grandview, our next opportunity was to get inside the President’s home on North Delaware Street in Independence, which was where Tom was headed next. But to do that, we needed to obtain free tickets at the NPS Visitor Center, which was located about two blocks north of the Jackson County Courthouse.
Once he made the drive into Harry Truman’s hometown, my photographer was very confident when he carried me into the Visitor Center at 10:15am. I was excited as well; I knew we’d be back inside the President’s house in a matter of minutes. But our enthusiasm was quickly dashed when the NPS ranger said in a matter-of-fact tone, “The next available tour is at two o’clock.” Since Tom had planned to be in the Liberty, Missouri area at that time, primarily because we needed to be close to where the baseball ceremony was being held, he declined the tour tickets. However, things may have been different had the photography policy changed since our last visit in 2016. During that visit eight years earlier when Tom carried me through the home, photography was prohibited. But like we’ve witnessed at other Presidential homes where the same policy was once enforced, that ridiculous rule was changed over the past few years.
Tom had almost walked out the front door but returned to ask about the photography rule. When the ranger said visitors were not allowed to take pictures inside the house, I felt my photographer’s demeanor instantly change. To him, those words were like fingernails on a chalkboard; and this time, since his wife wasn’t standing next to him, Tom didn’t hold back with his opinionated feedback.
“I don’t understand that rule whatsoever. I’ve been allowed to take pictures inside historic mansions like Monticello, Mount Vernon, Sagamore Hill, and even the White House, and now you’re telling me in this day and age that photography is still prohibited inside Truman’s house. That’s such an asinine policy. What’s the reason this time? Let me guess, the camera’s flash will damage artifacts, wallpaper, and artwork? Believe it or not, today’s equipment is able to capture good images without a flash. I’m curious to know why the National Park Service has such an asinine rule in place at this house.”
It was easy to see the ranger was annoyed by Tom’s interrogation, but he kept his cool. “It’s because the rooms inside the home are small and we don’t want people trying to jockey for position to get their pictures. There just isn’t enough room for that.”
My photographer wasn’t about to leave the building without sharing his feelings, whether the ranger liked it or not. “That has to be the most ridiculous reason I’ve heard yet. Hopefully someday the National Park Service will get their act together and find a way to allow visitors to take pictures. It’s disappointing and disheartening to those of us who want to capture the moment with a photograph at a historic place.” And with that, Tom walked out the door.
In my mind, that was ‘Strike Two’, and we were on the verge of being struck out by Harry Truman. But our luck was about to change. As Tom carried me past a large brick building located next to the Visitor Center, the two of us saw a sign near the sidewalk which read, ‘Tour the 1859 Jail Museum – View the cells that held Frank James and William Quantrill.’ While neither of us knew who William Quantrill was, we sure in the heck-fire heard of Frank James and my photographer couldn’t get inside that building fast enough – especially when he heard the place was haunted.
The brick structure, known as the Jackson County Jail, was built in 1859 and was first used to hold people who refused to pledge loyalty to the Union, including Confederate guerilla leader William Quantrill. A second section of the building, known as the “Marshall’s House”, was where the jailors and their families took up residence. But the jail’s most famous inmate occupied a cell in 1882, and that inmate was the reason for our visit.
Following the death of Jesse James on April 3, 1882, his older brother Frank surrendered to Missouri Governor Thomas Crittenden. Frank was sent to Independence where he spent 112 days in the Jackson County Jail as he awaited trial for the murder of Captain John Sheets, who was killed by James during a robbery in Gallatin, Missouri. Even though Frank James was in the clink as a murder suspect, his cell featured a nineteenth century Club Med atmosphere. Frank’s cell was furnished with a Brussels carpet, fine furniture, and paintings. The alleged murderer was also allowed to roam freely around the jail, and he hosted card games at night. But his stay wasn’t free – Frank’s family paid 45 cents per day for the first 87 days of “confinement”, and the price was reduced to only 35 cents during the final 25 days.
When his multiple trials in two different states had finished in 1883, Frank James was acquitted of all charges. Frank retired from his life of crime, and he lived out his remaining years with his wife Annie and his son Robert outside of Kearney, Missouri.
At first, I thought the 1859 Jail Museum was going to be a hokey tourist trap where visitors can have their picture taken inside a prop jail cell. But I couldn’t have been more mistaken. When Tom carried me into the cell where Frank James was held, it was as though I could feel his presence as I stood on his bed. And when my photographer placed me on the dresser, I thought I saw the outlaw as he roamed the halls with a deck of cards in his hand. The jail was the real deal, and since Tom and I had already visited a handful of sites associated with Frank and Jesse James, the place turned out to be a hidden gem for the two of us.
I had walked in the footsteps and stood on the bed of Frank James for about a half hour, and although the historic jail has been reputed to be haunted, I never did see any ghosts, specters, shadows, apparitions, or phantoms. I did see one fat Tom, but I see that guy at every site, so I wasn’t surprised. Once I was bailed out of jail, the two of us returned to the Jeep where my photographer began the short drive to North Delaware Street where he planned to take “legal” pictures of Harry Truman’s house from the public sidewalk.
It was roughly 11:20am when Tom found a parking spot on the street directly in front of Truman’s home. A small group of visitors were gathered at the front gate as they waited for the National Park Service escort onto the grounds and into the home. As soon as the eight tourists and their ranger guide had disappeared into the house, my photographer carried me across the street and up to the wrought iron fence where I posed for a handful of images with the historic Truman home behind me. Even though we didn’t have a ticket to enter the house or get onto the grounds, it really didn’t matter much because I had been inside the home in 2016, even though I wasn’t allowed to pose for pictures. My only regret that morning was not being able to once again stand in the footsteps of President Truman, who was photographed with his wife Bess on the front porch.
As Tom and I went about our business at several different areas outside of the barricade, the two of us noticed two NPS rangers standing on the sidewalk which led up to the house. At that moment, I knew my photographer still harbored ill feelings towards the National Park Service for their policies when I heard him verbally bash the rangers during a video he recorded for his friend Earl McCartney. After he called them “flunkies”, questioned their gender, and said how much he despised the National Park Service, the two women opened the front gate so they could gain access to the trash receptacle. Not one to waste an opportunity, Tom sprang into action and asked one of the girls if they would allow him to set me on the sidewalk while the gate was open. My photographer said he wanted me to stand where the President was photographed with his daughter Margaret on her wedding day. The ranger smiled, stood off to one side, and said, “Go ahead, take your time and get a good shot.”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. Weren’t those the same rangers Tom had secretly chastised just a few minutes earlier? Then out of nowhere, our luck suddenly got even better when one of them asked, “Would you want to set your bobble head on the porch and take his picture there?” If I had a hinged jaw, it would’ve fallen onto the sidewalk and smashed into a thousand pieces at that moment. My photographer carried me up the sidewalk, set me down on the porch, and he took a half dozen images of me standing in the footsteps of Harry and Bess Truman.
When Tom and I had finished our time at the Truman House, my photographer had a bounce in his step, and I had zing in my spring. As luck would have it, we were in the right place at the right time with the right National Park Service ranger. But we weren’t finished walking in the footsteps of Harry Truman just yet, as the next site was located across the street from the Truman homestead.
The home of Joseph and Margaret Noland, a two-story structure with a huge front porch, was built in three stages from 1858 and 1910. The Noland’s had a nephew who lived on a farm about twenty miles away in Grandview. Yes, the same farm I had visited earlier in the morning. Occasionally, Harry Truman would come into Independence and spend the weekend visiting his favorite cousins, Nellie and Ethel, at their home. As it turned out, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl whom Harry had a secret crush on during his school years lived in the large white home across Delaware Street.
One day in 1910, as the story goes, Harry was at the house when the future President’s aunt had a borrowed cake plate that needed to be returned to the Wallace home. Truman jumped at the opportunity and volunteered – he walked across the street, through the front gate, and up onto the porch. When the front door opened, Harry Truman was reunited with the love of his life, 25-year-old Bess Wallace. And from that moment on, the courtship was on – even though Bess’ mother didn’t approve of their relationship.
Tom carried me up onto the porch of the Noland House where I stood and gazed across the street at the Wallace House. I wondered how many times shy Harry sat on the same porch and gazed across the street as well, hoping to catch a glimpse of his sweetheart.
When the two of us went inside the home, which was operated by the National Park Service and opened on a self-guided basis, I was less than impressed. Oh, I stood at the parlor window and looked at the Wallace House across the street; and I stood on the staircase that was likely used by Harry Truman during his weekend stays. During my tour, which lasted about five minutes, it quickly became evident as to why the NPS allowed photos there – there was nothing for Tom to photograph, except for me.
What began as a disappointing morning transformed into an amazing day, but it was 11:45am and time to move on to our next site. We had been served justice in Independence; now it was time to experience Liberty for all. Liberty, Missouri, that is – and I could take that to the bank.
Roughly thirty minutes after we left Independence, Tom had parked the Jeep across the street from a two-story brick building in the center of downtown Liberty. When the place opened its doors in 1858, it was known as the Clay County Savings Association. At first, I wondered whether or not my photographer was going inside to use the bank’s ATM machine. Or perhaps he planned on the two of us putting on Covid masks and robbing the place. As it turned out, the second idea wasn’t as far-fetched as it seemed.
At precisely two o’clock in the afternoon of February 13, 1866, two members of the James-Younger gang entered the bank and demanded money at gunpoint, while the rest of the gang, including 18-year-old Jesse James, allegedly remained on their horses as they lined the get-away route. At one point during the robbery, the gang members, one of which was Frank James, ordered the head cashier and bank clerk into the vault at gunpoint to retrieve the loot, which amounted to $62,000 in gold, currency, bonds, and tax stamps. When the robber’s feed sack was filled, the thieves closed the vault door with the bank employees inside. During the daring escape, gunfire erupted – and a stray bullet hit 19-year-old student George “Jolly” Wymore, who fell dead into the street.
The event, which lasted only fifteen minutes, was the first daylight armed bank robbery in the United States during peacetime, and it gave notoriety to the James-Younger Gang who continued their crime spree for the next ten years. The robbers were never brought to justice nor was the money ever recovered. The bank in Liberty settled with creditors for 60 cents on the dollar and closed its doors for good shortly after.
My photographer carried me through a side door entrance of the building, now known as the Jesse James Bank Museum – even though Jesse likely never set foot inside. After Tom paid the six-dollar entry fee, we were led into the actual bank by a friendly young woman who gave us a brief oral history of the place, including the 1866 robbery. For the next twenty minutes or so, after she had finished her spiel, Tom and I were left alone as we explored the bank’s interior. I posed in several key locations which played a role in the James-Younger Gang historic robbery, including the wooden floor in front of the vault where Frank James likely stood as he ordered the two bank employees to fill his feed sack with the loot.
When Tom walked out of the bank at one o’clock, he carried me in his camera case that was slung over his shoulder. My photographer didn’t have a feed sack filled with stolen loot, nor did we hear the sound of gunfire. And unlike Frank James and his friends did 158 years earlier, Tom walked out of the building with six bucks less in his wallet than what he had when we went inside.
While our getaway Jeep was parked across North Water Street from the historic bank building, my photographer decided to take me across the village square to a diner called ‘Huey’s on the Square’ where he had lunch. As the two of us sat alone in a booth, I watched in disgust as Tom shoved a BLT sandwich and a large salad into his face like a lumberjack feeds a woodchipper.
With a little extra time to kill before we needed to meet the family at the Worlds of Fun theme park, Tom decided to go on a treasure hunt at the Happy Rock Antiques shop in Gladstone, Missouri. We walked the aisles for nearly an hour, and although the air conditioning inside the large building felt great, the two of us left emptyhanded.
The afternoon temperature had reached triple digits when we arrived at the massive theme park. The next major hurdle my photographer had to accomplish was to locate his family, which turned out to be like finding a needle in a haystack. There were two sections to the entire park – one featured roller coasters and other similar rides, while the baseball Opening Ceremony was scheduled to take place in the water park section known as Oceans of Fun. But after we were parked in a sea of vehicles, Tom made the extremely long hike into the venue where we experienced everything but fun.
After wandering around blindly through Oceans of Fun, we finally rendezvoused with the rest of our family. While we waited patiently for the ceremony to start, Tom and I sat in the shade on a beach chair where we watched a countless number of people of all ages, shapes, sizes, and swim attire walk past. During the 90-minutes we “people watched”, Tom stayed incognito as he didn’t want to get caught gazing at some of the attendees. As for me, I didn’t care if I got caught – although there were a few times when I thought my painted eyes would be blinded by the hideous view. And I think that may have happened to my photographer as well.
At roughly five-thirty, we made our way to the area where the Opening Ceremony was schedule to take place. It was extremely hot, no one knew where to go, and the event was quickly turning sour. As a matter of fact, several people needed medical attention as they collapsed from heat exhaustion.
As confusion transformed into chaos, a lot of the parents, players, and coaches began a mass exodus from the ceremony only minutes after it began. While Bo and his father made it into the amphitheater where the event was held, they left before it had finished as well. My photographer’s son said it was the most unorganized fiasco he had ever witnessed, which was a huge disappointment. At no point were any of the players, coaches, or teams introduced, which was what everyone believed was the sole purpose of the ceremony.
During our long trek out of the park, I heard people from all over the country as they verbally criticized the event. As for my photographer and his family, we were left with the hope the baseball tournament would be more organized. If not, we might be in for a long four days of agony.
While it was only a 20-mile drive from the theme park back to our Airbnb in Prairie Village, Kansas, it seemed to take forever to get there. Traffic was snarled outside of the Worlds of No Fun, and the congestion didn’t get much better in downtown Kansas City. By nine o’clock, we made it back in one piece, albeit exhausted from getting freshly roasted like a bag of ballpark peanuts.
Before everyone settled down for the night, I stood next to Little TJ on the fireplace mantel while I watched Tom eat a Jersey Mike’s sub his wife had brought home earlier in the day. When the lights were extinguished at ten o’clock, I heard the rumble of distant thunder. Within the hour, a tremendous storm hit the area – a storm that produced strong winds, heavy rain, lightning, and potential damage to anything in its path. At one point, I heard severe storm alerts go off on several cell phones, but no one in the house seemed overly concerned.
As for me, I was very concerned because we were in Kansas, smack dab in the Land of Ahs and Tornado Alley. And for the next half hour or so, I wondered whether or not we should head for the basement. But I stayed put, hoping the house would hold together during night. And it did, at least for one night.
“Oh, Auntie Em – there’s no place like home!”
