I felt rested and somewhat lucky when Tom’s alarm went off at 5:50am on Tuesday August 11, 2026. After watching a rotating wall cloud approach our Holiday Inn Express in St. Albans City, Vermont the previous evening, I knew in my resin heart that we had once again escaped a very dangerous situation; one that was likely caused by the ‘Curse of the Titanic.’ The news reporter we saw on TV that morning indicated that most of the tree damage and downed wires from the intense storm was located on the Eastern section of St. Albans City and on a direct line towards Fairfield, Vermont. As it turned out, Fairfield is the alleged birthplace of President Chester Arthur and was the first site my photographer had penciled in on our day’s agenda.
Once my two companions had readied themselves for the day, we were on the road just before eight o’clock. The morning’s temperature was a cool 65 degrees, and Vicki was navigating the Jeep under mostly cloudy skies as we made our way from the hotel towards the small town of Fairfield, which was a little over six miles away.
The three of us encountered two surprises at the outset of our journey. First, we didn’t see much storm damage whatsoever. While Tom and I had hoped to see dozens of uprooted trees, downed powerlines, and visual evidence of near-tornadic winds, all we saw that morning was a couple of smaller branches that had fallen to the ground and areas where some freshly downed leaves had been blown onto the road.
And second, my photographer and I couldn’t believe the size (or lack of size) of Fairfield, Vermont. While the small town boasts a population of just over 2,000 residents and a few small businesses, Vicki had driven through it before Tom realized the extremely small community was, in fact, Fairfield.
But where was the birthplace of President Chester Arthur? Had we missed it when we blinked our eyes?
It turned out the 21st President was allegedly born in the town’s Baptist parsonage, where his parents, the Reverend William Arthur and Malvina Stone Arthur, had lived. That site, which was our first intended destination of the day, was located roughly five miles Northeast of “downtown” Fairfield.
But the “true” story of Chester Arthur’s alleged birth on October 5, 1829 is somewhat muddied, shrouded in a ton of mystery, and is very controversial. One thing was for certain; I wanted to pose on the site where President Arthur was born. However, that may not be as cut and dry as one would think.
The President’s father, William Arthur, moved to Dunham, Quebec from Northern Ireland in 1818-19 where he taught school at the Free School of Royal Frontier. While there, he met Malvina Stone. Soon after, the couple eloped in Vermont but were re-married at the Episcopal Church in Dunham on April 12, 1821 so the bride’s parents, George Washington Stone, Sr. and Judith Stevens Stone, could attend the wedding ceremony.
Following their marriage, Malvina Arthur gave birth to four daughters from 1822 to 1828. That’s right, Mrs. Arthur was spitting-out kids at a rate of one every 18 months or so. Then, on March 16 or 18, 1828, the Arthur’s first son was born – he was named William Chester Alan Arthur, who entered the world at the home of George Washington Stone in Dunham, Quebec.
Two years later, a second son, Chester Abell Arthur was born in Fairfield, Vermont; but sadly, young Chester died in infancy in the Summer of 1831. Then, while living in Hinesburg, Vermont, Malvina gave birth to William Arthur, Jr on May 28, 1834. To avoid confusion, the name ‘William’ was dropped from their first son’s name; at which time he was known only as Chester Alan Arthur – the same Chester Alan Arthur who was born in Dunham, Quebec; and the same Chester Alan Arthur who became our 21st President in 1881.
When Chester Arthur’s political career rose to the heights of being on the James Garfield ticket in 1880 as the Vice-Presidential nominee, the subject of nationality was brought to light by the rival Democratic Party. After all, the United States Constitution specifically states, “No Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the Office of President; neither shall any Person be eligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty five Years, and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United States.”
But where was the concrete proof – or the proverbial smoking gun? Since birthing records in the late 1820s weren’t like they are today, there was only speculation that the certification of President Chester A. Arthur’s birth, which likely occurred in Quebec, was intentionally or mistakenly switched with Chester Abell Arthur’s birth, which did happen in Fairfield, Vermont. And in 1834, the shell-game continued when another William Arthur was born, which was the moment the President’s original first name of ‘William’ was dropped forever.
The official Chester Arthur Historic Site was located in the middle of nowhere along what’s known as Chester A. Arthur Road, which was a two-lane paved highway that was surrounded by a thick forest on both sides of the road. Once Vicki had pulled the Jeep into the gravel parking area across from the site, Tom carried me across the desolate road and onto the hallowed ground that had been carved out of the dense foliage. According to the wording etched onto the large granite monument in the center of the property, which had been placed at the site in 1903 and dedicated by Robert Todd Lincoln, Tom and I were standing at the birthplace site of President Chester A. Arthur – even though we were still a little over 12 miles South of the Canadian border.
Let’s say, for argument’s sake, the Democrats were wrong in 1880, and Chester Arthur was in fact born in Vermont. Over the years, local historians had uncovered evidence that the site where Tom and I were standing was the President’s boyhood home site and not the place where William, or Chet, or whatever his parent’s called him, was born. The newly discovered records revealed William Sr. and Malvina, along with their five kids at the time, didn’t move to the cottage that sat on this site until 1830, the year following the future President’s alleged birth. But unfortunately, the location of that place was lost to time and there is no record as to where it once stood. I found it ironic the actual birthplace location is still shrouded in mystery nearly 197 years later. In my mind, it was likely to help cover-up the fact that Chester Alan Arthur was the first and only Canadian-born President of the United States.
Reverend William Arthur had become a Baptist preacher in 1828 after emigrating from Northern Ireland to Dunham, Quebec as a young man. During his time spreading the word of the Lord, which spanned some 35 years, William was a fiery and often quarrelsome preacher whose style was filled with strong and sometimes violent emotions.
Arthur’s first gig as a preacher was at the North Fairfield Baptist Church where he led the small congregation for four years, ending in 1832, when he left Fairfield and moved his family to Williston, Vermont.
After Tom and I had spent about 20 minutes on the grounds once believed to be Chester Arthur’s birthplace, it was time to go to church – even though it was Tuesday morning. The drive was a short one for my photographer’s wife; and after only a few minutes on the road, she pulled the Jeep onto the grounds of the Grace Community Church, which sat on a hill high above a narrow gravel road. I found it strange to not see a driveway, parking area, or any type of walking path. When Tom removed me from the camera case, all I saw was a small, brick church and a nearby Porta-John, which my photographer “baptized” shortly after our arrival.
I was confused as to why we stopped at this church instead of the North Fairfield Baptist Church. As it turned out, this place of worship was in fact known as the North Fairfield Baptist Church. The active Baptist congregation in the area dissolved in the early 1970s and the building became utilized for seasonal, independent worship services for the community, at which time it was “unofficially” re-named the Grace Community Church.
Did that mean the building in front of me was the Baptist Church where Reverend William Arthur had once preached; and where his son, the future President, likely worshiped with his family. Not so fast, muchachos.
During the four years when Reverend Arthur led the Baptist congregation in North Fairfield, the church was a small, wood-frame structure that had been constructed on this site in 1828. Unfortunately, that building was demolished in the 1840s and the brick building I was posing near was erected in its footprint.
While I’ve always believed Chester Arthur was one of our most insignificant Presidents, my conviction was solidified during our attempt to visit the sites associated with Arthur’s first few years of life. The President’s birthplace site turned out to be a childhood home site – only to find the original cottage had been lost to time. Information about Arthur’s actual birth site in Fairfield, including the location, has also been lost over the years – perhaps intentionally to cover-up the truth about Arthur’s possible birth in Quebec. And the wooden church where young William Arthur listened to his old man preach about the Bible and talk about the evils of slavery had been replaced by a newer structure a little over eight years after the Arthur’s left town.
Although it seemed like Chester Alan Arthur’s time in Northern Vermont was intentionally erased at one point in time, my photographer and I weren’t about to give up hope of finding out the truth. It was time to head for the border – and I’m not talking about going to Taco Bell where explosive diarrhea from their lettuce has been the highlight of most nightly news broadcasts for a while.
Instead, the three of us were headed for Dunham, Quebec where Tom planned to visit the church where William Arthur and Malvina Stone were married in 1821. While in town, my photographer had also hoped to find a historical center, library, or chamber of commerce where he might learn the location of George Washington Stone’s home, which was the “likely” birthplace of President William Chester Alan Arthur.
I was excited to visit Quebec, which was only twelve miles North of the Baptist Church in Fairfield. Once again, I was venturing into unknown territory as the La Belle Province, as Quebec is known as, was a new province for me. Unlike America, where there are fifty states, there are only ten Canadian provinces and three territories – and I had already stepped foot in Ontario, New Brunswick, Alberta, and British Columbia during past trips.
As soon as we had successfully crossed into Quebec after the anticipated interrogation by the Border Services Officer went off without a hitch, the three of us quickly realized we had a problem. All of the signs and billboards along the roadside, including the signage on every building we passed, was written in French. I laughed to myself because I knew my photographer was totally uncomfortable by the language barrier. In fact, during the first few minutes of our time in Canada, I heard Tom say to his wife in a sarcastic tone, “I’m not sure why everyone in North America doesn’t speak English. After all, English is the same language spoken by Jesus.”
In the past, when the three of us had driven into Canada, all of the road signs were bilingual – written in both French and English. But not in Quebec – or at least in the part we were headed through. Generally speaking, Canadian people are some of the friendliest folks anywhere and are usually very welcoming. But on that day, as we drove along the main route towards Dunham, Quebec, my companions and I didn’t have a warm and fuzzy feeling about our surroundings. As for me, it felt as though we had landed on another planet.
After Vicki had reprogrammed the Jeep’s speedometer to show kilometers rather than miles, which she did because my lead-footed photographer’s wife didn’t want to get caught speeding in Quebec, the 12.87-kilometer drive to Dunham went by in a flash – or should I say, “en un éclair”.
Eight miles after entering Canada, my camera man’s wife pulled our vehicle into the horseshoe-shaped parking area in front of the All Saint’s Anglican Church at precisely 9:35am. Upon our arrival, I laughed when I heard Tom say, “The Arthur’s surely didn’t like to hang out in very large towns. Dunham isn’t much bigger than Fairfield; and that town in Vermont was only a small speck on the map.”
At nearly 3,600 inhabitants, Dunham was almost twice as large as Fairfield. But unfortunately for us, there didn’t seem to be an overabundance of places where Tom felt comfortable to ask locals about the house once owned by George Washington Stone, the maternal grandfather of Chester Arthur. Since there didn’t seem to be any museums in Dunham, and Tom didn’t realize the place called the Bibliotheque De Dunham, which was closed that day anyway, was actually the town’s library, our only hope of finding the location of Chester Arthur’s birthplace likely lied within the beautiful stone walls of the church where the President’s parents were married.
But there seemed to be another problem – the date above the church’s wooden front doorway read 1847, which at first seemed strange because William Arthur and Malvina Stone were married in 1821. Tom and I were confused – was this the church where the future President’s parents had tied the knot, or were we in the wrong place? It turned out the church in front of us was built on the site of the 40×50-foot wooden church that was once home to roughly 390 worshipers, including the Arthur and Stone family, from 1821 until the current church was constructed in 1847.
Even though William Arthur didn’t marry Malvina Stone within the walls of the stone structure in front of us, I figured Chester Arthur came to this church for the funerals of his maternal grandparents who died in Dunham and were buried in the cemetery that surrounded the historic place of worship.
After I had posed for a handful of photos near the exterior of the church, Tom made a last-ditch attempt at finding someone who might possess knowledge of the whereabouts of the Stone house located in or around the Dunham area. But unfortunately for my photographer and me, all of the doors to the building were locked tighter than a “Vierge française” – which meant we had no feasible way of finding the actual birthplace of President Chester A. Arthur.
For the past two hours, the three of us had been hot on the Chester Arthur birth trail – first in Vermont, and then in Quebec. But the closer we seemed to get to finding the truth, the more mysterious and elusive the trail had become. Original buildings had been replaced, and official birth records were lost to time. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the Democrats were correct in 1880 – Chester Arthur was the first and only President of the United States who was born in Canada. At the end of the day, however, I suppose Canada was better than Kenya, which according to the MAGA Trump supporters, was where Barack Obama was allegedly born in 1961.
For a fleeting moment, my photographer considered an attempt to locate the final resting places of George Washington Stone and his wife Judith, both of whom were laid to rest in the burial ground surrounding the historic All Saint’s Anglican Church. But since there were nearly 900 headstones to check, and the fact we had a long drive to Augusta, Maine before the State Capitol Building closed for the day, Tom decided it was time to throw in our cards and walk away from the dealer’s table. Our search for the elusive birthplace of our 21st President had come to an end – at least for now.
Rather than retrace our route eight miles to the South where we’d be back in the safety and sanctity of our own country within a few minutes, Tom opted to take us deeper into the twilight zone known as Quebec because his Siri GPS app said there was a more direct path towards Augusta. For almost two hours, Vicki navigated our Jeep along some of the most boring roadways we’ve ever been on. The only scenery we passed were trees, farmland, and hundreds of billboards written in French.
After nearly 85 miles of traveling non-stop through the Southern portion of Quebec, the U.S. Port of Entry near Canaan, Vermont finally came into view between the trees at 11:42am. And for the three of us, seeing that Customs Agent as he awaited our arrival was a sight for sore eyes and hearing his words “Welcome Home” was music to our ears. In fact, that moment reminded me of the scene in ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ when all of the captured Earthlings had walked out of the alien spaceship near Devils Tower. Tom, Vicki, and I had just left an alien world and had landed back home where we understood the language, and the distances and speed limits were registered in miles.
Even though we were back in the United States, we still had over 130 miles of winding, two-lane highways as we made our way towards Maine’s capital city. Once we had cut through the Northern portion of Vermont and New Hampshire, the mind-numbing drive across the entire Pine Tree State made the three of us realize why Maine got slapped with that lackluster nickname.
Finally, at roughly 3:10pm, we had made it to the parking lot near the South side of the Maine State House where Tom planned to kill two birds with one stone during our time in the area. Our first mission was to visit the interior of the State House before the building closed for the day at five o’clock. And our second goal was to see the exterior of the historic Blaine House, which was located across Capitol Street from the State House and was where President Theodore Roosevelt had spent the night in 1902. Unfortunately, the Blaine House, which has been the official Governor’s residence since 1919, was not open for tours on Tuesdays.
The three of us made our way to a couple of strategic locations near the exterior of the State House before Tom carried me through security and into the bowels of the building which has stood at that site since its construction in 1832. I was excited to finally see the Maine State House as it became the 44th Capitol Building of the 50 I had visited since 2013; with only the Capitols of Alaska, Hawaii, Arizona, Oregon, Rhode Island, and Connecticut left on my bucket list.
Once inside the building, my photographer had me pose in a few prime spots – he took me to the Rotunda, the House of Representatives Chamber, and the State Senate Chamber. But it was the last of those three areas where Tom got into a verbal confrontation with what he described as a “pencil-pushing, sh*t-for-brains Democrat” who told my camera guy he couldn’t wear his baseball cap inside the Senate Chamber.
The exchange between the two went something like this: “I’m sorry, sir, but you will have to remove your hat while you’re inside this chamber.” Tom was shocked and replied, “You’ve got to be kidding me right now. My hat isn’t hurting anything. It’s not offensive; and it doesn’t have a political message; it’s just a minor league baseball hat with Teddy Roosevelt’s face on the front. And quite frankly, I believe it’s my Constitutional First Amendment right to wear this hat wherever I want to wear it.”
The skinny pin-d*ck proceeded to inform us there was a legislative rule in place that prohibited the wearing of hats inside the chamber, and if Tom didn’t abide by the rule, he’d have to leave. That was the moment I knew my angry camera guy was on the verge of exploding into a verbal tirade; especially when I saw him fire his hat down onto one of the chairs in the room and then he glared at the staff member with his patented evil death stare. As for me, I wondered whether or not that rule was in place for Muslim women Senators who choose to wear their ridiculous hijabs inside the chamber. My point was moot, however, as there has never been a Muslim elected to the State Senate in Maine and only two “muck mucks” currently serve in the state’s House of Representatives.
A minute or two after Tom had calmed down, he set me on the President’s Desk in the Senate Chamber for a final photo. Then my photographer carefully put me back in the camera case and slowly walked back to the chair where he proceeded to place his baseball hat back onto his head – all the while staring at the Geek in the corner. As the two of us headed for the door in a slow, defiant walk, the young staff member said, “Thank you for visiting.” My photographer replied with a “Go eff yourself, along with the rest of your f*cked up rules.” That was another moment I was glad Vicki happened to be somewhere else in the building and wasn’t a witness to her husband’s exploits.
Tom, Vicki, and I made our way out of the State House and down the sidewalk along the West side of State Street. During the 200-yard hike towards the Blaine House, I listened as my photographer told his wife about the ignorant “hat rule” he had encountered in the Senate Chamber. The only part of the story he had modified was his verbal confrontation with the staff member.
When the three of us had arrived in front of the Blaine House, it quickly became obvious that Tom would have some difficulty capturing his photos. Not only was the sun angle bad, but there was a wrought-iron fence with a locked gate across the front of the house that would require some ingenuity on my photographer’s part. And since the grounds were inaccessible to the public at the time, there was no way possible for my camera guy to place me on the spot where President Theodore Roosevelt was photographed on August 26, 1902.
Built in 1833, the 28-room mansion in front of us was purchased in 1862 by James G. Blaine, the Speaker of the Maine House of Representatives, as a present for his wife Harriet. During Governor John F. Hill’s term in office, which lasted from 1901 to 1905, Blaine allowed Maine’s governor and his wife Laura to rent the large house because of its close proximity to the State House.
One year into his first term in office, Governor Hill hosted President Theodore Roosevelt for an overnight stay at Blaine House. Roosevelt was in the middle of a Summer speaking tour of New England, which took the President by rail to the towns of Biddeford, Portland, Augusta, and Bangor in late August. On August 26, 1902, TR was photographed as he stood on the front steps of Blaine House before he departed Augusta and headed for Bangor along with Governor Hill and Senator Eugene Hale.
After Tom and his wife had unsuccessfully attempted to open the locked gate, there was a brief moment when my photographer contemplated whether or not he could scale the wooden fence alongside the wrought-iron fence – even though he knew Vicki would never allow him to perform such a brazen, illegal stunt in broad daylight. And for once, I agreed with Vicki. Since the home was the official residence of Maine’s Governor Janet Mills, security would have been all over my camera guy like flies on a rotting deer carcass. There’s no way that Tom, with his bad knees and lack of agility, would have had the time to scale the fence, set me down on the porch where Roosevelt once stood, take a couple of pictures, and then get back over the fence without getting caught.
Finished at the Blaine House, and finished with our official sites for the day, Tom placed me back inside the camera case for the long hike back to the Jeep. Once there, I heard my photographer say to his wife, “I don’t want to waste a single minute of the day – we still have time to visit an antique mall before it closes at five o’clock. The Hallowell Antique Mall is located only about a mile or two South of here, and we’ll have about a half hour or so to shop once we get there.”
I laughed to myself because Tom didn’t have to axe his wife twice whether or not she wanted to go. In fact, Vicki’s foot had pressed down on the gas pedal before my photographer had begun barking out the directions to the antique store. It was a shame, at least in my mind, that Tom’s wife isn’t as enthusiastic about visiting Presidential sites as she is about going shopping at a dime-a-dozen antique store.
We pulled into the parking lot of the antique mall at precisely 4:30pm. I chuckled to myself because once again, my photographer was right. A sign on the door indicated the place closed at five o’clock, which meant we had exactly 30 minutes to browse the endless aisles of useless junk inside that store.
For thirty straight minutes, Tom searched the endless aisles of the Hallowell Antique Mall, looking for something to bring back to Michigan. But when he found no KISS albums, baseball memorabilia, or Presidential collectibles, the two of us returned to the Jeep emptyhanded where we waited for Vicki to return – which happened shortly after five o’clock.
Once my photographer’s wife had used her phone to make their hotel reservations, which was at the Best Western located on the North side of Augusta, my companions decided to have dinner before they hunkered down for the night. There were the usual fast-food joints near the hotel, as well as an Olive Garden located across the street from the Best Western. But since Tom loathes that Italian eatery with every fiber of his chunky body, my two travel mates settled to dine at the Red Robin, which features its signature cuisine of gourmet burgers.
But when we were seated inside the Red Robin, my photographer stunned Vicki and me when he ordered a salad and a root beer float for his meal. Oh, Tom also munched his way through an appetizer of pretzel bites he shared with his wife.
When their non-hamburger Red Robin meal was finished and we had made it to the hotel, the three of us were unpacked and into our room at the Best Western at a few minutes before 6:30pm. Both Tom and Vicki were extremely tired from a long day of sightseeing in two different countries, which caused both of my companions to hit the sack at ten minutes past seven o’clock.
From my position alongside the television where I stood alone with my thoughts, an alarm suddenly interrupted the rhythmic snoring that emitted from Tom’s bed. At first, I was confused – it wasn’t morning yet. It turned out my photographer had set his alarm for 9:00pm so he could watch his weekly show The Secret of Skinwalker Ranch. But when Tom was unable to find the History Channel on the room’s TV set, my disappointed camera guy shut off the television and was fast asleep ten minutes later.
Throughout the night, I couldn’t help but think about the historic sites I would encounter the following day. I knew there were a couple of Presidential sites in Bangor, Maine, which was roughly 75 miles to the North of us. But for some reason, I wasn’t overly excited to step foot in Bangor. That was primarily because Tom had said that city was somewhat dangerous, very DEI; and likely a complete shit hole. But those qualities weren’t going to stop the three of us from visiting there. I hoped my overly opinionated camera guy was mistaken about the city of Bangor, and we can get in and out of there unscathed.
And that’s not all – if we are able to make it out of Bangor in once piece, we’ll have nearly 500 miles of roadway to traverse from Central Maine, across the border into a new time zone, and through two Canadian Provinces before we end up at our final destination of the day – Nova Scotia.
As I tried to relax during the night, the visions of Vicki hitting a moose, or a French Sasquatch, during our long drive through the wilderness of Eastern Canada had filled my hallow head. But when I realized that catching a glimpse of either critter in the wild was extremely rare, and English was spoken in both New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, I was finally able to settle down. Then suddenly, out of the blue, the lyrics to the Canadian National Anthem, complete with a French Sasquatch twist, settled into my resin brain and it resided there for the remainder of the night. To me, that was no nightmare – it was likely the ‘Curse of the Titanic’ reminding me it was still around.
Ô Canada,
Terre de nos aïeux!
La véritable légende du Sasquatch, et tout ce qu’il commande.
Les yeux brillants, nous le voyons se lever,
Le Grand Nord, fort et libre!
Des quatre coins du monde,
Ô homme poilu, nous montons la garde pour toi.
Que Dieu nous garde tous, glorieux et libres!
Ô Canada, nous montons la garde pour le Squatch.
