13: HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW

It was early morning on July 6, 2014; just two weeks after my last tour of duty. I was in my usual spot in the Avenger; safely packed away in my camera case that sat securely on the car’s back seat. By 10:30am, I found myself standing in front of the first Presidential site of the trip – the home of Benjamin Harrison in Indianapolis, Indiana. After being removed from my usual refuge, I was carried along a brick pathway and into the front yard of our 23rd President’s three-story mansion.

During Harrison’s Presidential campaign in 1888, he would give informational and inspirational speeches to people who had gathered in the street in front of his house.  Ironically, the media called his oratories “front-porch speeches”, although the magnificent porch that was there now was not added to the home until 1896 – which was three years after he had left office. In my mind, I knew that I had to pose for a photo while standing on that magnificent wrap-around porch; just in case there was a slim chance that I could hear Harrison’s voice.

Standing near the place where Benjamin Harrison addressed the crowds during his Presidential campaign was cool; but I wanted more. I just had to go inside; I wanted to see the bedroom where Harrison had died.

Due to a full agenda on that first day of the trip, we couldn’t afford a long tour. My photographer carried me to the front door and talked the elderly tour guide into leading me on a private visit to the upstairs bedroom of Benjamin Harrison. After getting carried up the elegant oak staircase, I was taken into the Master Bedroom of the mansion. Once inside the room, I couldn’t believe my eyes; I was standing in the bedroom where Benjamin Harrison had lived and where he died on March 13, 1901 at the age of 67 from pneumonia. Even though the bedroom was very large, it didn’t boast a lot of furniture. There were a few chairs, a couple of tables, and Harrison’s bed that was situated in front of a bay window. The bedroom also featured a hardwood floor with an elegant rug that ran down the center of the entire room.  Family photos adorned the walls; walls that were covered with a gold-colored wallpaper.  All in all, the Master bedroom appeared to be very stately; something that was befitting a President of the United States. As my photographer held me alongside the bed, which was the authentic bed that Harrison had died in, I was itching to stand on it. After seeking permission, the tour guide pulled back the colorful quilted blanket and said: “Go ahead, he can stand right here.”

A flood of emotions filled my resin-based body. Had my arms and fingers been able to move, I would have pinched myself to make sure that I hadn’t been dreaming. It’s one thing to visit a President’s bedroom and see his bed; but to stand on the very bed where he took his last breath was beyond words.

As we retraced our footsteps back down to the first floor, the tour guide had one more surprise for us. She pointed to an American flag that hung just outside of the home’s main parlor and said: “Right there, beneath that flag, Benjamin Harrison first received the news that he had been elected as our nation’s 23rd President”.

Finished inside the house, I was carried back out to the front yard for a rendezvous with my photographer’s wife Vicki who had chosen not to take the abbreviated tour. There was one final stop to make while we were in Indianapolis – Crown Hill Cemetery where Benjamin Harrison was buried.

The cemetery was easy to find as it was located about four miles north of Harrison’s house. While finding the burial ground was a piece of cake, finding Harrison’s grave proved to be more of a challenge. Crown Hill was enormous; it featured over 200,000 graves and 25 miles of roadways. Finding one grave out of nearly a quarter million was truly like trying to find a needle in a haystack, especially without a map. During that quest, my photographer experienced a COBS (Crabby Old Bastard Syndrome) flareup as I could hear him cussing while I was tucked away in the friendly confines of my camera case. It was the first such flareup since our Presidential site quest had begun a year earlier, but I thought it likely wouldn’t be the last. Then out of nowhere, we stumbled upon the final resting place of Benjamin Harrison – and by the sounds that were emitted from the front seat of the Avenger, it was just in the nick of time.

I was carried along the narrow path from the roadway to the ten-foot tall memorial that marked the final resting place of our 23^rd President.  The landscaping at the gravesite was impressive; with the plots of the President, his two wives, and his son outlined with a type of resilient vegetation.  Where there was no vegetation, the ground was covered with black mulch.

In an effort for me to stand on the ten-foot tall granite marker that signified the burial place of Benjamin Harrison, an attempt was made for me to hang by my ponytail from an ornate sculpted section of the tombstone. As I hung there for a split second, my photographer discovered that my hairpiece in back had become loose; it was in fact totally detached and it barely supported my weight. Had I not been immediately removed from the large memorial, I likely would have crashed to my death on the marble base below. Once my ponytail had been pushed back to its original position on my head, I was placed onto a smaller headstone that marked the actual grave of our 23rd President.

Although it felt as though my ponytail was secure, we quickly discovered that it wasn’t. After I had finished posing for photos on the small marker, I was positioned onto the foliage that blanketed the gravesite. But as soon as my base dug into the hard leaves, my braid completely fell off and disappeared into the greenery. There was no doubt that I looked terrible in short hair; plus I was concerned that people might confuse me with Monroe or Polk – I simply couldn’t afford to lose my ponytail. Since we didn’t have a clue to where we could find a hair salon for bobble heads, I would be in danger of losing my queue for the duration of the trip unless my photographer could come up with a hair-brained idea.

Just as we finished our time at the grave of Benjamin Harrison, Vicki noticed some movement a short distance from the Presidential site. As we silently stood motionless, a doe and two fawns walked from behind a large tombstone and into full view. For the second consecutive time in two different cemeteries we were privileged to witness the beauty of nature. At that moment, a goofy thought popped into my resin brain: I had wondered if we might see a deer at President Truman’s grave in Missouri. After all, the buck stopped there!

With my ponytail once again back in place, we left Crown Hill Cemetery and headed out of Indianapolis towards Louisville, Kentucky; a destination that was about 120 miles to the south and would feature the 7th Presidential gravesite of my bobble head career. ‘Hair’ we come Zachary Taylor!