The final Presidential stop of July 7, 2014 sent us south of Nashville for over 40 miles and into the heart of Columbia, Tennessee where we found the ancestral home of James K. Polk. Even though we drove a long distance to visit this site, I didn’t anticipate the home to be anything more than an old building filled with period pieces. At the very least, I figured, we would capture some good images as I posed alongside the historic home.
The two-story brick home was L-shaped and was built by Samuel Polk in 1816. Samuel’s son James, the future President, lived in the house on and off until 1824. The historic building appeared to be well-kept, but since the 11th President had only lived there as a young adult who had just entered into law and politics, my photographer had decided that we would not venture inside to see antiques.
As soon as I was carried into the backyard, however, the perceptions of the Polk house had begun to change. Located where the brick pathways met in the center of the yard, I saw a large, ornate three-tiered iron fountain that had water trickling down from the top tier into the basin below. It turned out that the fountain was originally from the President’s property in Nashville and had been moved to Columbia when Polk Place was demolished in 1901. Right away I knew I wanted to stand somewhere on that historic fountain; but I was concerned about getting wet and falling into the basin to my death. I also wasn’t sure what effect water would have on my painted resin body. When my photographer carefully placed me on the lower tier, I immediately thought of our 11th President and the fact that he likely had touched that very fountain with his own hands. Polk may have even washed some early 19th century bird poop off that fountain as well.
The Polk Place fountain was an unexpected surprise. Were there any other surprises, or hidden gems, that I might miss should I not venture inside? I needed to find out.
There were two elderly women inside the back entrance to the home; each were dressed in period clothing. Both were very friendly and they were interested in some of my stories that were spawned at other Presidential sites. The ladies especially loved hearing the tale of me losing my head near Garfield’s tomb and they agreed that it sounded like a possible spiritual encounter. Before my photographer handed over any cash for a tour ticket, he needed one question answered: “Are there any authentic Polk artifacts inside this house? I am not a fan of period pieces; I can see those in an antique shop.” When the women assured us that there were not only authentic Polk pieces in the house, those furnishings and artifacts were ones that James had used while he resided in the White House. He couldn’t buy a ticket fast enough.
We stepped into the home’s living room; which was more like a leap into history. Most of the furniture in that room, including several chairs and a stand-alone table, were not only owned by James Polk; he used them in the White House when he was President.
My photographer placed me onto the wooden table, which was about three to four-foot tall and had three legs. The table top was round and had the Presidential seal emblazoned onto the face. I believe I was allowed to stand on the table because the surface was covered with glass. I sure wouldn’t have wanted to leave footprints on a 170-year old piece of furniture.
In another small room, I was introduced to Polk’s smoking jacket; and of course, I just had to touch that piece of clothing. What I found interesting about that particular black jacket was the fact that it was the lone surviving piece of clothing from Polk’s life. It had been reported that due to the cholera epidemic that had claimed the President’s life in 1849, all of his personal clothes were burned. All, that is, except for that smoking jacket.
The next room, which was billed as the President’s office, was a place where I found a small bed that Polk once slept in. The narrow bed was covered with a red, black and gray wool bedspread. There were other period pieces in that particular room, but I was only interested in the authentic furniture. Even though I wasn’t tired, I took a moment and stood on Polk’s bed; wondering what went through Polk’s mind as he laid there. I wanted to lay on that bed, too, but my hips and knees don’t bend very well. To be honest, my joints don’t bend at all. At times it sucks to be a bobble head!
In the final section of my house tour, it appeared the curators had turned that area into a museum. There was a handful of artifacts from Polk’s Presidency; including some dresses that his wife Sarah had worn. But the piece that sparked my interest the most was the Bible that was used during Polk’s inauguration on March 4, 1845. That historic book was kept behind glass, which was likely a good idea as it kept bobble heads like me from touching it.
I loved my tour of the Polk house. It was simple, yet featured some historic and authentic relics; and the guide was willing to let me touch some of the stuff. It doesn’t get much better than that!
An hour earlier, I had little to no expectations of the Polk home; it was planned to be a mediocre stop at best. But once I was there and had spent some time exploring, it turned out to be a worthwhile visit. I was still pumped up and my Presidential juices were flowing as I bid farewell to the fine folks in Columbia. There was no doubt that the Polk House was a true hidden gem and I was proud to have visited that historic Presidential site.
My Presidential agenda had been fulfilled for the day and it was time to head for Nashville. I was excited to meet LuAnn Reid; as she was not only the owner of the cottage that we had planned on staying at, she was also a songwriter-turned-realtor who had a hit song recorded by Kenny Chesney called ‘On the Coast of Somewhere Beautiful’.
The ride from Columbia took nearly an hour and by 3:30pm we had arrived at the Sylvan Park area of Nashville where the cottage was located. LuAnn was there and showed us around the cottage; she even told me that I was the first bobble head to stay at her place. Then I wondered – would LuAnn write a new song called ‘Resin-ate’.
The cottage’s location seemed perfect; we were in a quiet, residential neighborhood that was less than five miles from downtown Nashville. In the past year, I had visited a handful of sites that featured a log cabin where a President was either born or had lived. Now it was my turn to live in a cabin; albeit for only a few days.
