The morning of July 15, 2020 got off to the usual 6:00am start as my companions got themselves ready and our Ford Edged packed for departure. During normal times, hotel breakfasts aren’t great; but during the COVID-19 pandemic, the morning food consisted of pre-packed pastries and cellophane-wrapped fruit. It was hard to complain, however, as we had been on the road for a week and neither of my companions had shown any signs of flu-like symptoms associated with the virus. I had to admit, Tom and Vicki stuck diligently to their pre-trip game plan of sanitizing our hotel rooms before settling in for the night and they had not eaten inside a restaurant yet. I was a little concerned about that day’s activity as we were headed into the epicenter of the virus that had gone wild just four months earlier – the area just north of NYC as well as parts of New Jersey.
We left the town of Southington, Connecticut at 8:10am, which began our southwestern drive that ended 70 miles later at the Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Hawthorne, New York. Even though we were just over twenty miles north of Yankee Stadium, Tom had his sights set on visiting the final resting places of two former Bronx Bombers – Babe Ruth and Billy Martin. Once Vicki had driven into the large burial ground, we rode around blindly in search of section 25. When we finally located that area of the cemetery, it was the grave of Billy Martin that we saw first – which was good because my photographer knew that Ruth’s grave was within walking distance of Martin’s.
Tom carried me from the SUV and placed me onto the polished granite tombstone that marked the grave of former Yankee player and manager Billy Martin. The fiery Martin died at the age of 61 on Christmas Day 1989 after he drove intoxicated and crashed his car into a culvert near his own driveway. While I stood on the marker, I couldn’t help but think about what Billy Martin did to end the career of Detroit Tigers’ rookie Ike Blessitt in the spring of 1973; a vengeful move that ruined the life of the blossoming star. In my mind, that single-car accident in ’89 was a fitting end to a famous player who some loved and many hated – including my photographer after he met and talked with Blessitt in 2019.
The best part of visiting the grave of Alfred Manuel Martin was Tom knew it was within 150 feet of where Babe Ruth had been buried. A few minutes after my photographer and his wife set out on foot in different directions in search of the “Sultan of Swat’s” grave, Vicki yelled out that she had found it. Sure enough, as soon as Tom carried me to the ornate granite monument that depicted an image of Jesus blessing a boy in a baseball uniform, I knew we were at the right spot. The telltale sign was the number of baseballs, bats, hats and other mementos of the game that were strategically placed on or near the monument. While I wasn’t happy when my photographer placed me on the headstone of Billy Martin, it was an honor for me to stand on the tomb of the great Babe Ruth. Don’t get me wrong – George Herman Ruth had some flaws as well; but the fact that he loved kids, loved the game, loved hot dogs, and was larger-than-life as the biggest name in the history of the sport made that moment special for me.
The “Great Bambino” played in the Major Leagues from 1914 to 1935 and held the all-time career home run record of 714 until Hank Aaron eclipsed the mark in 1974. In November of 1946, Ruth was diagnosed with an inoperable tumor; and although he was never told he had cancer, ‘The Babe’ died in his sleep at the age of 53 from throat cancer on August 16, 1948. As I stood on his tombstone and looked down at the dozens of baseballs left there by fans around the country, I thought about the Presidential connection that Ruth had. On June 5, 1948, just over two months before his death, Babe Ruth met future President George H.W. Bush at Yale University. Babe had visited the university to donate a copy of ‘The Babe Ruth Story’ to the college’s library. Since Bush was the baseball team’s captain, he received the manuscript and shook hands with the “gaunt and hollowed out” Yankee legend.
As Tom carried me back to the Edge that was parked near Billy Martin’s grave, I thought about something that my photographer once said. He mentioned that while Babe Ruth was the greatest player of his era, he would likely only be better than average today. Ruth would likely still hit a shade over .300 instead of his career average of .342. Instead of belting 60 home runs, he would only hit 30 to 40 dingers in a season. And because he was chubby and seemed out of shape, Ruth would be a designated hitter rather than patrolling right field at Yankee Stadium. Then I thought to myself: “Everything Tom said was true – but since “The Babe” would be 125 years old today; that’s not too shabby.”
My photographer and his wife had planned to visit another grave at Gate of Heaven Cemetery, but when we arrived at Mausoleum 1 and searched for roughly 30 minutes, we came up empty-handed. They knew the final resting place of actor James Cagney was located inside the enormous tomb, but the numbering system inside was poor and there was row upon row of identical-looking crypts from the floor to the ceiling. As hard as Tom and Vicki searched, they never found it – “The dirty yellow-bellied rat!”
As we headed out of Gate of Heaven Cemetery, I thought about the last thing that Ike Blessitt said to my photographer when they discussed Billy Martin. Blessitt said: “At the time, I was mad and very disappointed. But over the years, I’ve been able to forgive Billy Martin for what he did to me and my heart feels better for that!” While Ike may have forgiven Martin for blackballing the potential Tiger star, Blessitt’s story will stick in my craw forever.
We put about 45 miles behind us and at roughly 11:30am we arrived at our first Presidential site of the day – a two-story home that was once known officially as the Caldwell Presbyterian Church Manse. On March 18, 1837, future President Grover Cleveland was born in that home in Caldwell, New Jersey, which was a parsonage as Grover’s father, Reverend Richard Falley Cleveland, was the pastor of the Presbyterian Church. I found it funny that Grover’s first name was actually Stephen; the Reverend named his son after the former pastor of the church. When Grover was four years old, the family moved from Caldwell to Fayetteville, New York where he spent most of his youth. While the home serves as a museum to Grover Cleveland, it was closed to the public due to the virus – which prevented us from visiting the room where the future President was born. Even though I was extremely disappointed at not going inside the house, Tom photographed me at various locations around the property; which was better than nothing at all. Once again that dang COVID virus, which originated in China, had come back to bite me in the resin rear. I wore a mask on my face – perhaps I should’ve had a mask on my butt as well!
It was around noon when we left Caldwell and headed southeast for nearly 60 miles where we stopped in the small ocean town of Elberon, New Jersey. We travelled from the spot where one President came into the world and ended up at the place where another President left it. When we got into town, we soon found ourselves on a narrow street named after the 20th President who took his last breath there – James A. Garfield.
On July 2, 1881, President James A. Garfield was shot twice by Charles Guiteau in the Sixth Street Station of the Baltimore and Potomac Railroad in Washington D.C. Taken back to the White House, Garfield received treatment and constant examinations by doctor’s unsterilized fingers and instruments. As the heat in the nation’s capital became unbearable, it was decided on September 5th to transport the wounded President by train to the Francklyn Cottage – located on the Jersey Shore in the small town of Elberon, a section of Long Branch, New Jersey. Overnight, volunteers of the town built a rail spur from the Elberon Station to the oceanside mansion where Garfield was sent to recover. Upon arrival, the once 210-pound frame of Garfield had been reduced to 130 pounds and despite everyone’s efforts, the end seemed near. Sure enough, at 10:35pm on Monday September 19, 1881, the 49-year old James Garfield died at Francklyn Cottage.
Even though the cottage where Garfield died became an instant historical site, it unfortunately burned and was destroyed in the 1920s. In the 1950s, a small memorial was erected at the site of Francklyn Cottage; which was where Tom had placed me for our first images in Elberon. As I stood on the small granite marker, I thought about one of my favorite Presidents as he laid dying inside the cottage that once graced the property behind me. In the distance, I could hear the faint sound of the ocean’s waves as they crashed on the shore – those were some of the last sounds that President Garfield had heard as well.
Our stay at the death site of Garfield was short as Vicki didn’t have a great place to park the Edge. As a matter of fact, there was a moment when Tom was taking photos that another vehicle nearly rear-ended our rented SUV as the driver came around the corner quite fast and they didn’t see our stopped Ford. The next Presidential site, which was actually two sites and both were related to James Garfield, was located about a quarter mile from the Francklyn Cottage site. During that short drive, I heard Tom tell his wife that he wasn’t sure if he would be able to get us onto the site as some of the information he saw on-line showed the gate was locked and the site was closed to the public.
Vicki pulled along the shoulder of Ocean Avenue in front of St. James Protestant Episcopal Church that was also known as The Church of the Presidents. Although the iron fence that my photographer saw on-line still surrounded the property, Tom quickly discovered that the two of us were in luck – unbelievably the gate was left unlocked. My camera man didn’t hesitate to open the gate and he also didn’t waste any time capturing his images of me near the church. We also did a quick photoshoot at the small wooden cabin called the Garfield Tea House that was situated a short distance from the church as well.
The Church of the Presidents was built in 1879 and during the years following its construction, seven Presidents who made the Jersey Shore their summer vacation destination all worshipped within its walls – which was how the church earned its nickname. The seven Presidents were Ulysses S. Grant, Rutherford B. Hayes, James Garfield, Chester Arthur, Benjamin Harrison, William McKinley, and Woodrow Wilson. Of those seven Presidents, all but Grant were still in office during their time there. While my photographer and I considered ourselves lucky to get onto the property, there was no way that we could venture inside the church as its doors were locked tight; the building had been undergoing a major renovation since 2010.
When we finished our photos of the church, Tom carried me over to a small ten-foot by ten-foot red cabin that stood roughly 150 feet from the church. It turned out the cabin was called the Garfield Tea House and it was constructed shortly after President Garfield’s death on September 19, 1881. A Broadway stage actor named Oliver Byron, who was also a local resident of Long Branch, purchased all of the spikes, ties, and planks that were used to construct the emergency railroad spur built to transport President Garfield from Elberon Station to Francklyn Cottage. Byron hired a carpenter by the name of William Presley to construct the cabin, which at the time was painted red, white, and blue and was made from the railroad ties. The actor thought his “Garfield Tea House” was a fitting tribute to the slain President since Garfield was born in a log cabin. The “Tea House” originally stood on Byron’s ocean-front property, but was relocated to the church property when the actor died on October 22, 1920. Tom placed me on the window ledge of the cabin where I posed for several photos. While it was cool to stand there, it didn’t have an emotional attachment with me as Garfield never saw the cabin. From that spot, however, I kept looking over at the church because I knew that President James Garfield had worshipped inside there just two weeks before he was shot.
Woodrow Wilson came to the area in 1916 and used Shadow Lawn on the campus of Monmouth University as his Summer White House. Shadow Lawn was located about 2.6 miles north of The Church of the Presidents and it took Vicki only a few minutes to get us onto the campus. From the parking lot, Tom held me in his hand as he hiked across the expansive lawn to the front of the huge mansion now called the Great Hall at Shadow Lawn. It turned out that the original Shadow Lawn, which was built in 1903, had been destroyed by fire in 1927 and was replaced by the larger building that stood in front of me. When Wilson leased the place, it was in that 52-room mansion where he learned of his re-election to the Presidency in 1916. While the two of us were disappointed to learn that the building in front of us was not the one where Wilson had stayed for roughly five weeks, but we were satisfied to know that the current structure had been built in the original Shadow Lawn’s footprint.
It was nearly 2:00pm when Tom and I returned to the Edge where Vicki waited for us. When his wife mentioned that it was time for lunch, my photographer suggested that since they were on the Jersey Shore that he would like to try his first Jersey Mike’s sub sandwich. I stayed in the Edge when Tom and Vicki donned their masks and went inside to order their sandwiches. When they returned, I laughed to myself when I learned that my gluttonous photographer bought a giant-size Mike’s Famous Philly – that darn sub was meant to feed four adults. But before they ate their lunch, however, my companions set out to find a place where they had a view of the ocean. Their first attempt was at Seven Presidents Oceanfront Park, but the cost to enter was $20 each and my cheap photographer refused to pay that much money to sit in the car and look at the water. Instead, they headed north for a block and luckily found a parking spot along Ocean Avenue where their view was hindered by the weed-infested dunes that blocked any chance of them seeing the beach or the ocean. But, it was free!
After “Snooki” ate her regular-size Original Italian sub and “Pauly D” wolfed-down his giant Mike’s Famous Philly in record time, the three of us left the Jersey Shore and headed westward across the Garden State. For me, it was exciting when we went over the Delaware River via the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Even though its nickname is The First State, Delaware became the 35th state that I had visited in the past seven years.
During a fuel stop in New Jersey, Vicki had booked a room for us at the Fairfield Inn that was located between Wilmington and New Castle, Delaware. We arrived at the hotel at roughly 4:45pm and my two companions were exhausted – especially my photographer’s wife as traffic was heavy at times during the day when we drove close to New York City and Philadelphia. After they registered at the Fairfield and had their belongings transported to the room, my travel-mates took an hour-long “power nap” once Tom had sprayed everything down with sanitizer. When they decided it was dinnertime, their first choice for a meal was a place called ‘Wings To Go New Castle’, but when we got there it appeared to be closed. Not wanting hot dogs from the nearby ‘Dog House’, Tom and Vicki decided to dine on the fine cuisine at Checkers; or should I say, they brought that fine cuisine back to the room. At roughly 9:00pm, the lights in the room went dark and I stood next to the television set and wondered what Presidential sites were in Delaware. In my mind there weren’t any; and I knew in my heart there likely wouldn’t be any in that state for a long time. It was true that 2020 Presidential candidate Joe Biden lived in Delaware, but there was no way in the world that he would be elected in November. No way!
