At precisely six o’clock in the morning on Sunday June 11, 2023, Tom’s alarm rang in our room at The Tides Motor Inn near Bayville, New York. I woke up with a smile on my face, sparkles in my two painted eyes, and a bounce in my neck spring. I was in a very good state of mind because I didn’t see any cockroaches romping through the room during the night, and I also didn’t hear the sounds of rhythmic wall-banging from the room next to ours. But there was even a better reason for my happy disposition – we were headed back into downtown Oyster Bay to visit a small handful of Theodore Roosevelt sites we had bypassed the previous evening.
Before we left the motel, I overheard Tom and Bob as they made a major change to our agenda. Originally, my photographer had scheduled time on that Sunday morning to visit Liberty Island. But following the white-knuckled ride we encountered near New York City the previous day, my camera guy said there was no way he wanted to drive across Manhattan Island, especially since we didn’t have tickets to visit Lady Liberty’s crown. Instead of tackling the Big Apple and its concrete jungle, my companions decided to make a return trip to the same cemeteries we had visited on Saturday morning to see the historic gravesites we had missed.
My photographer and Bob Moldenhauer had our Ford Explorer all packed, and the three of us were headed down the road towards downtown Oyster Bay, which was less than five miles to the south. Once we arrived in town, I noticed how peaceful and quiet the area was. But then again, it was eight o’clock on a Sunday morning.
Our first Roosevelt stop was at an odd-shaped gray structure, which is now home to the Gallego Financial Group of Raymond James. Built in 1851 and originally called the Nassau House, it became known as the Octagon Hotel in 1887. After Theodore Roosevelt was elected Governor of New York in 1898, he maintained a small office on the second floor of the hotel. But due to the hustle and bustle of the Octagon, however, Roosevelt soon relocated his office to the Oyster Bay Bank building located on the next block.
For several minutes, I posed for photos near the exterior of the eight-sided building. While Roosevelt resided in the Governor’s mansion in Albany during his single two-year term, he likely spent some of his time at Sagamore Hill as well – even though Oyster Bay was roughly 175 miles from the State Capitol. While in town, TR may have met his staff in the Octagon a time or two before his office was relocated to the bank building on Audrey Avenue.
When we finished our short visit at the Octagon Hotel, we headed out on foot to the Oyster Bay Bank Building, which was located just a block away on Audrey Avenue. When Governor Roosevelt realized his staff’s office in the Octagon was too small, he rented larger office space on the second floor of the bank building and relocated his staff there.
The Oyster Bay Bank Building was built in 1891 and was the first bank in Oyster Bay. While the actual bank occupied the first floor of the original 3 1/2-story brick structure, doctors, lawyers, and other businesses leased space on the building’s second floor. The third floor of the bank building was home to the Masons of Matinecock Lodge #806. Theodore Roosevelt was initiated into the Matinecock Lodge on January 2, 1901, and was raised a Master Mason on April 24th, just one month after he became Vice President of the United States. As often as his busy schedule permitted, TR attended Masonic meetings in the building. To date, fourteen U.S. Presidents were freemasons, including both Roosevelt’s. The last President to be initiated into a Masonic lodge was Gerald Ford, who took the oath in Grand Rapids, Michigan in 1949.
While Tom photographed me near the exterior of the tall building, which is now home to the Global Finance Exchange group, I took a moment to look up at the third story of the historic structure. Not only did Theodore Roosevelt spend time inside that building, but he walked through the entrance as Vice President when he became a Master Mason.
I really enjoyed seeing the Oyster Bay Bank Building as it was the site where Theodore Roosevelt had been involved with the freemasons in town. He attended meetings whenever he could and took part in all of their “Secret Squirrel” shenanigans the Masons get involved with. Throughout the years, the freemasons have said they are not a secret society, but rather a society with secrets. As a matter of fact, they are known for their secret handshakes, passwords, and hand gestures that indicate whether or not someone is a true freemason. But even though I only know one hand gesture and I refuse to where an apron, I was still awestruck to stand outside the building where TR followed in the freemason footsteps. The same footsteps set forth by some of my favorite Presidents, including George Washington, James Monroe, James K. Polk, James Garfield, and William McKinley.
The three of us returned to the Explorer around 8:30am and we began the drive to the final Roosevelt site we had planned on visiting in Oyster Bay. It turned out that final stop wasn’t a historic site, but instead was a fairly new statue that depicted our beloved Rough Rider on horseback. Some statues to famous people reside in parks or in front of important buildings within a city. But in Oyster Bay, the huge likeness to their native son Theodore Roosevelt was located on a triangular traffic island in the middle of the busiest intersection in town.
The 12-foot-tall bronze statue, called ‘Rough Rider’, was cast in Tacoma, Washington and arrived in Oyster Bay in time for the dedication ceremony on October 29, 2005. The statue was originally placed near the front of the Boys and Girls Club. However, five years later, the large statue was moved across the intersection onto the traffic island where I posed with it on that bright, sunshiny Sunday morning.
It was time for the three of us to leave Oyster Bay and I knew one captain who was sad to say goodbye to his brown dirt cowboy. I stood in my camera case on the back seat of the Explorer while Tom began the 47-mile drive back to Hawthorne, New York. My resin heart was breaking and there was nothing I could do about it except think of some melodic words I once heard crackle on Tom’s stereo speakers. “I held a dandelion, that said the time had come. To leave upon the wind, not to return, when summer burned the earth again. But that’s okay, there’s treasure children always seek to find. And just like us, you must have had, a once upon a time.” For me, the historic town that sits comfortably between the peninsulas of Cove Neck and Mill Neck will always be “my once upon a time.”
My photographer and Bob were extremely pleased to find the traffic situation as we headed west off Long Island and then north through The Bronx was a non-factor. Instead of the drive taking two hours and fifteen minutes like it did the previous day, we arrived at Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Hawthorne after only one hour and twenty minutes on the road. While the three of us had no intention of visiting Babe Ruth’s grave again, time constraints on Saturday prevented us from searching for the final resting place of famed actor James Cagney, and that was the primary reason for our return visit to that cemetery.
Luckily for us, Cagney’s remains were interred in the Saint Francis of Assisi Mausoleum, which was just inside the main entrance to the Gate of Heaven Cemetery. After Tom parked our SUV, he carried me up to the large mausoleum that originally opened in 1969. Immediately, my photographer and Bob went to work trying to locate the crypt of the actor – something that turned out to be harder than it should have been. The mausoleum featured a central chapel with eight separate wings emerging out from it. To me, the entire building reminded me of a giant asterisk and Cagney’s final resting place was somewhere in a wall of one of the asterisk’s spokes. Finally, after a ten-minute frantic search, we found it – and I felt like a “Dirty rat, you see. A dirty, double-crossin’ rat!”
While James Cagney was only five-foot, five-inches tall in stature, he was larger than life on the silver screen with a career that spanned some sixty-five years. Cagney was nominated for three Academy Awards during his illustrious career; he took home the Oscar once for his 1942 performance in the musical ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ where he portrayed George M. Cohan. When James Cagney died at the age of 86 on March 30, 1986, President Ronald Reagan spoke during the eulogy.
When Tom held me aloft in front of the large crypt that contained the remains of the actor, and his wife Frances who died in 1994, I was suddenly struck with a huge sense of American pride. And that surprised me. After all, I’ve been to the graves of all 39 deceased Presidents, as well as thousands of other Presidential sites around this great land of ours. I’m not only the most famous bobble head in the world, but I’m also likely the most patriotic one as well. But on that Sunday morning at the Saint Francis of Assisi Mausoleum, I was a “Yankee Doodle Dandy, a Yankee doodle do or die. A real live nephew of my Uncle Sam, born on the Fourth of July.”
Just as we returned to our vehicle after paying respects to James Cagney, Bob said he wanted to spend a few minutes to search for the gravesite of Dorothy Kilgallen, a television game-show panelist and controversial journalist. The reason for Mongo’s interest in Kilgallen was due to her mysterious, sudden death on November 8, 1965, and the possible connection that her demise had with the Kennedy assassination conspiracy.
Following the murder of President John F. Kennedy in Dallas on November 22, 1963, Dorothy Kilgallen became publicly skeptical of the Warren Commission’s investigation into the assassination. Exactly three months after JFK’s death, the journalist had a conversation with Jack Ruby and Dorothy published her discussion in an article she wrote for the New York Journal-American. Kilgallen also obtained a copy of Ruby’s testimony he gave to the Warren Commission, which she published on the front pages of three national newspapers. The likely scenario of what eventually happened to Dorothy Kilgallen was the CIA grew tired of her personal investigation and transparency – and they needed to silence her. And the CIA did just that, by killing her with a combination of alcohol and drugs just over three years after they did the same thing to Marilyn Monroe.
While I saw the final resting place of Dorothy Kilgallen after our lengthy search ended near the back of the cemetery, for some reason, Tom wouldn’t let me pose on her grave marker. Instead, I stood off to the side and watched Bob Moldenhauer pay his personal respects to the journalist who knew too much.
At roughly 10:30am, we finished our visit at the Gate of Heaven Cemetery. For a fleeting moment, as we headed for the main gate, my companions thought about making another stop at the grave of Babe Ruth. After all, Tom was driving right past it. However, because of the handful of gravesites we had wanted to visit in nearby Kensico Cemetery, plus we still needed to find the final resting place of Jeffrey Miller at Ferncliff Cemetery, Tom and Bob decided to intentionally walk the Great Bambino and pitch to the Iron Horse instead. Also tucked away in the back of their minds was our scheduled 3pm VIP tour of Grover Cleveland’s birthplace, which was located about 45 miles away in Caldwell, New Jersey.
While it took a ton of effort to locate the gravesite of Lou Gehrig the previous morning, we had no issues finding the final resting place of the Iron Horse on our return visit to Kensico Cemetery. I was happy my companions decided to revisit Gehrig’s gravesite as we had been rushed the previous day due to time pressure centered on Sagamore Hill. Thankfully, my companions afforded me another opportunity to properly pay my personal respects to Gehrig, however, there were four other gravesites Tom, Bob, and I had planned on visiting at Kensico. Those four celebrities included three Hollywood stars and an author, but once again, our clock was ticking.
While it seemed great to re-visit the grave of Lou Gehrig, I couldn’t wait to get to the next burial site. But once again, even with the map Bob had kept from the previous day, we had some difficulty finding the next gravesite. My companions grew more agitated with every passing minute as the roads within the cemetery weren’t well marked and their map wasn’t overly detailed. But they refused to give up the search.
Finally, after a long ten to fifteen-minute search, we found the gravesite of Mary William Ethelbert Appleton Burke. When Tom placed me on the small marker, however, the name inscribed on the bronze plate read Billie Burke Ziegfeld. While that name might not ring a bell with some folks, Billie Burke was the actress who played the role of Glinda, The Good Witch of the North in the 1939 classic movie ‘The Wizard of Oz.
When Tom placed me on the granite and bronze slab that was imbedded flush to the ground, I noticed there was a large, life-sized bronze statue of a woman located a short distance from the plot. At first, I wondered if the statue might be a likeness of the Witch of the North, but that would’ve been too perfect. Instead, it turned out to be a figure of a seated woman deep in thought as she gazed skyward. The statue was created by R. Aitken and was commissioned by Burke in memory of her mother.
Located not too far from the grave of Billie Burke was the final resting place of a writer whose work Bob was very familiar with. Luckily, we found the grave of Ayn Rand with relative ease and before I could say ‘Alisa Zinovyevna Rosenbaum’, Bob trotted up the hillside to photograph her tombstone. Tom and I stayed in the Explorer while our friend visited the writer’s grave. I laughed to myself when I watched Bob’s enthusiasm at Rand’s grave because I knew my photographer wasn’t a huge admirer of authors. As a matter of fact, I doubt he’s ever read anything written by an American author, except for perhaps Dr. Seuss or Stan Lee. As soon as Bob returned to our SUV, we headed off to another section of the cemetery where my companions had their sights set on the grave of another famous actress. I hoped it wouldn’t take very long because I didn’t want to miss out on the birthplace of Grover Cleveland.
We had been inside Kensico Cemetery for nearly an hour, and during that time, we had visited only three gravesites. Our issues were once again caused by insufficient roadway markings, a map that left much to be desired, and the growing time pressure we faced due to our scheduled three o’clock home tour that was nearly 50 miles away.
Finally, after another lengthy search, we stumbled upon the final resting place of actress Anna Maria Louisa Italiano, who had changed her name in the early 1950s to Anne Bancroft “because it sounded dignified.” The monument above the actress’s grave was impressive – it was a white marble winged angel kneeling in solemn prayer on a large, inscribed marble pedestal. Throughout Bancroft’s illustrious acting career, which spanned six decades, she appeared on the silver screen nearly 60 times. Bancroft also performed on over 50 television shows. But perhaps her most well-known role, and the reason my photographer was intent on visiting her grave, was her portrayal as Mrs. Robinson in the 1967 romantic comedy/drama called ‘The Graduate’. The film was star-studded as Bancroft acted alongside Dustin Hoffman and Katharine Ross; while the movie featured a soundtrack composed of songs by Simon and Garfunkel. While ‘The Graduate’ was nominated for seven Academy Awards, including Bancroft for Best Actress, the movie won only one Oscar for Best Director, which went to Mike Nichols.
Anne Bancroft’s second husband, whom she married on August 5, 1964, was famed comedian, actor, writer, and director Mel Brooks. The couple remained married until Bancroft’s death from uterine cancer on June 6, 2005. Brooks’ most famous movie was Blazing Saddles. Not only did Bancroft have a small, uncredited part in the movie, that film was also the origin of Bob Moldenhauer’s nickname ‘Mongo’.
When Tom placed me on the monument that marked Anne Bancroft’s gravesite, I stood on the angel’s back just between her two wings. At that moment, I wanted to shout out: “Coo coo ca-choo, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know.” I also wanted to add the lyrics, ‘Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio’, but since Lou Gehrig’s grave was so close by, I couldn’t bring myself to think about Joltin’ Joe. Then I looked down towards the ground in the shadow of the monument, at the spot where Anne Bancroft was laid to rest eighteen years earlier, and I couldn’t help but envision the seductive woman in the movie. I thought to myself: “Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?” I couldn’t help it, that seed was planted in my brain, and it remained, within the sound of silence. Seconds later, Tom plucked me from the tombstone, and we returned to the Explorer.
“Hello darkness my old friend, I’m in the camera case once again. I felt like a stowaway, where I stood in total disarray, until I saw the bench, of Danny Kaye.”
It didn’t take long after we had left the grave of Anne Bancroft before I found myself at the last site of interest for us in Kensico Cemetery, and that was the final resting place of Danny Kaye. While that stop seemed to be a bit more special to Bob than it was to my photographer, Tom still had me pose on the entertainer’s grave marker, which was in the shape of a granite bench. I had never visited a more unique monument in all my travels. The best part of the design, at least to me, was how easy it was for me to stand on.
Danny Kaye, whose birth name was David Daniel Kaminsky, was a true entertainer by every sense of the word. He sang, and danced, and performed a physical type of comedy few had done before him or since. From the early 1930s to the late 80s, Kaye had a special place in the hearts of millions of Americans who grew up with his talent. He was so special, as a matter of fact, that Ronald Reagan awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom to the entertainer on June 23, 1987. However, there was one person missing at the ceremony in the East Room of the White House – and that was Danny Kaye.
In 1983, Kaye had a quadruple bypass surgery on his heart, but during the procedure, he contracted hepatitis C from a blood transfusion. Four years later, on March 4, 1987, Danny Kaye died at the age of 76 from heart failure, internal bleeding, and hepatitis C. And unfortunately, he passed away less than four months before President Reagan’s medal ceremony at the White House.
Kaye’s remains were cremated and placed in the foundation of the bench where I was standing. Behind me, on the back of the bench, there were artistic friezes that featured a baseball and bat, an aircraft, a piano, a flowerpot, a UNICEF globe, musical notes and song sheet, and a chef’s toque – everything that related to Danny Kaye’s amazing life. When Danny’s wife, Sylvia Fine, passed away on October 28, 1991, her cremated ashes were interred in the bench as well.
Our morning at both Gate of Heaven Cemetery and Kensico Cemetery was filled with a lot of joyous memories – memories of people who entertained and educated Americans for most of their lives. But our lighthearted day was about to take a turn to a more serious side; and it wouldn’t take long, either, as Ferncliff Cemetery was located less than seven miles down the road near Hartsdale, New York.
Tom and Bob knew the final resting place of Jeffery Miller, one of the four Kent State students who died on May 4, 1970, was inside a mausoleum within the grounds of Ferncliff Cemtery. But when we arrived at the cemetery and went inside the mausoleum, my friends quickly discovered, after talking with a staff member, there was more than one mausoleum at Ferncliff. And wouldn’t you know it, we began our search in the wrong one.
Using the crude directions given to them by the cemetery staff member, my companions and I went through a pair of golden doors at the entrance to the second mausoleum – aptly called the Ferncliff Mausoleum. The place was huge, and the first thing I noticed was every hallway looked nearly identical with hundreds of crypts imbedded in the tall walls. To make matters worse, our search wasn’t confined to a single level – that mausoleum featured several floors that all looked virtually the same. To maximize their time and search efforts, Tom and Bob went in separate directions, but neither had any luck finding Miller’s crypt. They quickly discovered the individual Unit numbering system, which was a huge part of their written directions, was nonexistent in most places. My photographer carried me up and down several sets of stairs, and in and out of a countless number of alcoves inside the hot, humid, and fairly dark mausoleum. I had to admit, it was a little bit spooky as we walked alone inside the enormous building in search of a needle in a haystack.
In what seemed to be an eternal and futile search, I could tell Tom and Bob were fighting to not give up. After all, the three of us had visited the graves of the other three Kent State Massacre victims in the past, but because Ferncliff Cemetery was so far from Michigan, Miller’s final resting place had eluded us until that day. And unfortunately, I thought we’d be forced to wait longer as the clock was ticking down towards our three o’clock appointment. As my companion’s frustrations grew more obvious with every passing minute, I wondered in my mind whether or not our Guardian Angel of Luck would throw us a bone – no pun intended. That thought no more popped into my head when the two of us heard voices that sounded close to us. Seconds later, two women walked around the corner and headed towards Tom and me – the pair were staff members, and the girls said they were willing to help us locate the crypt of Jeff Miller. After our small group rendezvoused with Bob somewhere in the middle of the mausoleum, the women led us on a wild goose chase. We followed them through several hallways before we ended up at another unmarked Unit, Alcove, and Niche – but this time, they stopped. One of the women looked up towards the ceiling and pointed to a single crypt. “There he is – Jeffery G. Miller, May 4, 1970.”
Four months before Miller was murdered by Ohio National Guardsmen, he and his brother Russell were enrolled at Michigan State University. But when Russell graduated from MSU, Jeff decided to transfer to Kent State University where he quickly became friends with Allison Krause and Sandra Scheuer, among others. On May 1, 1970, students at Kent State, as well as students at many colleges around the country, began to protest President Richard Nixon’s decision to send American troops into Cambodia, which escalated the Vietnam War. But as soon Ohio Governor Jim Rhodes sent several units of National Guardsmen onto the Kent State campus to deter the student’s demonstrations, the situation grew ugly in a hurry. The well-organized, student-led event, which was originally meant to protest the Vietnam War, quickly morphed into a haphazard, chaotic effort by the kids to physically show their displeasure of the armed soldier’s presence on their campus. That tense moment in time, which turned deadly for four unarmed students, has been forever etched into the annals of American history.
At 12:24pm on Monday, May 4, 1970, all hell broke loose when at least 29 of the 77 Guardsmen ordered onto the campus by Governor Rhodes opened fire on a large group of unarmed Kent State students who were in an area near Taylor Hall and Prentice Hall. In just 13 seconds, an estimated 67 rounds of ammunition were fired at the students, including Jeffery Miller, who was standing in an access road leading to Prentice Hall. Miller was roughly 265 feet from the nearest soldier when he was hit in his opened mouth and killed instantly. Three other students were killed in the bloodbath as well, including Krause and Scheuer, while nine others were wounded; one victim was permanently paralyzed for life.
Due to the location of Jeff Miller’s crypt, which was nearly fourteen feet off the floor, I had a difficult time posing for pictures near the Kent State student’s final resting place. However, that didn’t keep me from thinking about that horrific day in 1970. Over and over, as I looked up at the small, tan-colored granite marker whose faceplate was etched with the names Jeffery G. Miller and Elaine B. Holstein, the shocking image of Miller lying face down in a pool of his own blood filled my resin mind. That photo, captured by John Filo, sent shockwaves throughout our entire country. When Jeff Miller died on that fateful day in 1970, he was only 20 years old. His only crime? Exercising his Constitution rights as an American. Miller was completely unarmed, although he picked up a live tear gas cannister and he threw it back towards the soldiers, who had originally launched it in his direction. Since the Guardsmen were at least 265 feet from Miller, the cannister likely fell harmlessly in the grass far from the nearest soldier. But that didn’t matter. Moments later, an unarmed American student on an American college campus was gunned down by an armed American soldier, on orders from a cowardly American governor to appease a callous American President.
There was a definite sense of relief in the Explorer after we left the Ferncliff Mausoleum. Tom and Bob had set a goal for this trip to visit the graves of all four victims of the Kent State Massacre, plus they planned on spending some time at Kent State University where the May 4th massacre unfolded. Once we had accomplished our mission of finding Jeffery Miller’s crypt and paying our respects to the slain student, we knew the remaining sites would be just a walk in the park, Kazansky. That’s because the three of us had visited all of those sites in the past couple of years.
Although the three of us were satisfied, there was also a sense of unfinished business at Ferncliff as well. After all, we left the crypts and graves of a handful of famous people behind. The famous celebrities interred at Ferncliff included Joan Crawford, Ed Sullivan, and Alan Freed – all whose remains were in the same mausoleum we had just visited. As a matter of fact, Judy Garland’s body was once interred in that mausoleum as well. However, at the request of her children, Dorothy from Oz’s remains were removed from Ferncliff in January 2017 and reinterred at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery in Los Angeles. While it disappointed me to not see the crypts of Crawford, Sullivan, and Freed, I was ecstatic when Tom and Bob didn’t force me to stand on the grave of Malcolm X – who was laid to rest in the cemetery following his assassination on February 21, 1965. Malcolm Little, or Malcolm X, or el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz, or whatever he wanted to be known as, was one of the most controversial figures of the 1960s. Malcolm X undermined the non-violent Civil Rights crusade of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and his assassination at the age of 39 was not a huge surprise. What was a surprise, however, was the CIA didn’t help Malcolm X experience an “accidental” overdose of alcohol and drugs.
With my photographer behind the wheel, we left Ferncliff Cemetery just before one o’clock in the afternoon. That meant we had roughly two hours to complete the 45-mile journey to Caldwell, New Jersey where we had a tour of the Grover Cleveland Birthplace Historic Site lined up with a woman named Patty Hyland. When Tom originally scheduled the tour with Patty, she mentioned our group would likely be the only ones in the house, which was just fine with the three of us. My photographer and Mongo prefer a private tour whenever possible because they like having a historic place all to themselves. I was definitely antsy to get back to Caldwell as well, because during my first visit to Cleveland’s birth home in July 2020, the historic building was closed to the public due to Covid protocol. Another reason for my higher-than-normal enthusiasm came when I heard Tom talk to Patty on the telephone a week or two before we left on the trip. During their conversation, Ms. Hyland said she couldn’t wait to meet me, and she looked forward to taking me and my friends through the birth home, which was the only home museum in the country dedicated to Grover Cleveland.
Once we traversed the Hudson River via the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge, we made it to the Caldwell area with plenty of time to spare. As a matter of fact, we were far enough ahead of schedule that my companions stopped at a nearby McDonald’s for lunch. After Tom and Bob’s McBurgerfest feedbag was over, we made it into downtown Caldwell and pulled into a small parking lot just east of the home twenty minutes early. Since it seemed Patty hadn’t arrived yet, the three of us spent the extra time near the exterior of the home where I posed for a handful of photos.
The two-and-one-half-story wood frame house, also known as the Old Manse of the Caldwell Presbyterian Church, was built in1832. The home served as the Presbyterian church parsonage for the Cleveland family while Grover’s father, Reverend Richard Falley Cleveland, served as a pastor of the local church. The future President, whose birthname was Stephen Grover Cleveland, was born in a first-floor bedroom in the home on March 18, 1837. Grover, as he was called throughout adulthood, lived in the home for the first four years of his life. The Cleveland’s left Caldwell behind when the Reverend moved his family to Fayetteville, New York in 1841.
Just as my photographer and Bob had taken their final images of the home’s exterior, we heard a woman’s voice call out: “It’s almost three o’clock. If you’d like to come over here to the Visitor Center, I can get you checked in and we can start the tour.” Sure enough, it was Patty Hyland, who quickly processed the three of us into the registry before she led us into a room where a film clip was about to start. The first thing I noticed was the fact Patty didn’t seem overjoyed to meet us. As a matter of fact, when Tom removed me from the camera case and introduced me to our tour guide, Patty barely cracked a smile. She definitely didn’t make me feel special, and I was a bit disappointed in her initial reaction to meeting me. The excitement I heard over the telephone two weeks earlier was absent from her overall demeanor. Then I thought perhaps Patty meets bobble heads on a regular basis, and this wasn’t a special event – even though I’m the most famous bobble head in the world.
Just when I thought our visit couldn’t get any more disappointing, Patty came into the room before she started the movie and hit Tom and Bob over the head with a huge dose of bad news. Our tour guide said another group had called and they were joining us for the three o’clock tour. I knew my companions were fairly upset, especially when I heard Tom whisper to his friend: “Well, so much for our private tour.” When the group finally made their way into the Visitor Center where we had been patiently waiting, I noticed there were five people – three adults and two kids. My initial thought was: “Oh great, two young kids. Can this get any worse?”
It could, and it did. As we made our way over to the house on foot, my photographer asked Patty whether or not he could take pictures inside the home. In my mind, I figured his question was pointless because it seemed as though the ‘No Photography Rule’ had been lifted at every Presidential home in the past couple of years – well, every home except for Harding’s place in Marion, Ohio. Patty looked at my camera guy and said to him in a matter-of-fact tone: “You can take pictures, but only in the first room. There’s no photography in the rest of the house.” Once again, we were stunned. Just as our group walked up onto the small porch, I heard Tom say to Bob: “Hopefully, this first room is the bedroom where the President was born.” But it wasn’t. That first room was the kitchen – which was likely the most insignificant room in the entire home.
I posed for a few images in the kitchen before Patty led us into the Rear Parlor. As Tom held me, I looked around the room and envisioned a toddler named Stephen sitting on the floor playing games with his siblings. I felt helpless not posing for the camera, and I knew my photographer was chomping at the bit as well. But he patiently waited – until we saw the next room.
My ears perked up when Patty pointed out the small bedroom just off the Rear Parlor. She told our group it was “The Birth Room” and Grover Cleveland was born in that room on March 18, 1837. As a matter of fact, I also saw a small cradle in the room that Patty said was used by Ann Cleveland to rock baby Stephen to sleep. My quick-witted, or dim-witted, photographer spoke up and said: “Was this the room where the phrase ‘Cleveland rocks’ originated?” While his humor sparked a chuckle from Patty, Bob looked at him and just shook his head. Seconds later, while the others in our group stood at the doorway and looked into the historic bedroom, Tom pulled Patty aside as they waited in the parlor. That’s the moment my photographer made his move as he quietly whispered: “This room is very important to me and for what I do with the bobble head. Would you please consider letting me take a picture of Jefferson in the Birth Room? I won’t use a flash, and I’ll try to be very discreet.” Our tour guide smiled and said: “Since what you do is for educational purposes, yes, you can take pictures of your bobble head in that room.” Patty had done a complete “one-eighty” from when we first met her. In my mind, she was under the influence of our Divine Angel of Luck who always seems to help us in our time of need. And this time, she arrived right on cue.
Whether it was Tom’s “Cleveland Rocks” comment or a gentle persuasion from our spiritual helper, that moment broke the ice for the remainder of our visit. After I posed for a couple of images in the small bedroom, our group went into a front room that had been transformed into a museum dedicated to the life of President Grover Cleveland and his wife Frances. While the museum was small in size, it was huge in authentic Cleveland artifacts. As a matter of fact, the room was a treasure trove filled with so many amazing pieces it caused my resin head spin and forced Tom to ask Patty once again for her blessing with his photos, which she graciously obliged.
I had to admit, I felt privileged posing near the displays dedicated to not only President Cleveland’s amazing life, but to his young wife Frances Folsom as well. Tom and I were like kids in a candy store as I posed for dozens of pictures, until out of nowhere, a twelve-year-old girl in our group spoke up: “You do know you’re not supposed to take pictures inside here.” The awkward silence was deafening. I knew my photographer was instantly angered, but he kept his composure – only because she was a kid. He looked the youngster right in the eye and said in a light-hearted tone: “Thank you. I appreciate you keeping an eye on what I’m doing.” I heard the sarcasm in his voice, and so did Patty, who quickly informed the child that she had given Tom permission to take pictures in the home because his images of the bobble head were for educational purposes. Since he had not captured any pictures inside the Rear Parlor, Tom carried me back into that room where I posed for several more photos. Give that guy and inch and he’ll take – a photograph!
While our tour of the Grover Cleveland birthplace manse started out differently than the three of us had hoped, our visit finished with a flourish that could rival most Presidential homes. It was a true honor for me to see and pose in the room where one of the most underappreciated Presidents in our history got his start in life. And when I say underappreciated, I mean a President who tried to fight corruption and do what was right for the American people without regard to his own political party’s interest. Perhaps our politicians today could learn a lesson or two from Grover Cleveland, the only President to serve two non-consecutive terms in office.
As the three of us walked back to the Explorer at roughly four o’clock, I could tell my photographer was still slightly irked after getting verbal chastised by a twelve-year-old girl. I laughed to myself when Tom said to Mongo: “I bet that kid is a whistleblower at school and she likely gets her butt kicked a lot, too.”
When Grover Cleveland left the White House in 1897, he returned home to Westland, his mansion in Princeton, New Jersey. And since that city was only 50 miles to the south of Caldwell, Tom and Bob decided to follow in “Grover the Good’s” large footsteps all the way to Princeton as well.
** THIS POST IS DEDICATED TO PATTY HYLAND, OUR TOUR GUIDE AT THE OLD MANSE OF THE CALDWELL PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, FOR GRACIOUSLY ALLOWING ME TO POSE FOR PICTURES INSIDE THE HOME **
Yet another great day of the summer trip of 2023! You made the right choice to skip Liberty and spend that time at the cemeteries. Our Guardian Angel got us through several rough spots during the day and we accomplished what we set out to do and then some.