136: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF ANDREW JOHNSON

Tom’s alarm went off at 6:15am on Saturday May 15, 2021, which was a tad bit later than usual. But since we were only two blocks from our first site of the day, my photographer enjoyed the extra 15 minutes of sleep. When Mongo returned from his early morning run around Greeneville, Bob said he saw a sign that indicated the nearby Dickson-Williams Mansion had once played host to three Presidents – Andrew Jackson, Andrew Johnson, and James K. Polk. That’s all my photographer needed to hear; before I knew it, I was standing on the front porch of the historic mansion.

In 1815 the first postmaster of Greeneville, William Dickson and his wife Elizabeth, wanted to have a home built for their daughter Catherine. The mansion was completed in 1821 and two years later Catherine married Dr. Alexander Williams; the loving couple lived in that elegant home for the remainder of their lives. During their time there, the couple entertained a ‘Who’s Who’ of historical figures, including John C. Calhoun, Davy Crockett, Henry Clay, and Marquis de Lafayette. But the reason my photographer had carried me up onto the large front porch was because of the three Presidents who had also visited or stayed in the house. It was said that President Polk would often stop to visit Dr. Williams during his travels to and from Washington – and Ol’ James K is one of Tom’s favorites.

Tom and I returned to our room at the General Morgan Inn; a few minutes later, he and Mongo brought their gear down to the Rogue. My photographer wanted to be first at the Andrew Johnson Visitor Center so he could snag the 10am tour tickets for the Johnson Homestead. But after we wound our way through the vendor’s tents along College Street and got to the Center, the NPS Rangers gave us the news: Due to the festival, there were no time-stamped tickets and the Homestead was open for self-guided tours only. From an opening in the camera case, I saw a huge smile break-out on Tom’s face – “self-guided” was music to his ears. In my photographer’s mind, that was an open invitation for him to place me on to, or next to, items owned or used by Andrew Johnson – and quite frankly, I loved that philosophy.

It took some effort for Tom and Bob to make the two-block uphill hike to Andrew Johnson’s Homestead, but once we arrived, there was no one else touring the home. As soon as NPS Ranger Sherri Ramseyer unlocked the doors, the three of us had Andrew Johnson’s home to ourselves. The two-story brick home was purchased by Johnson in 1851, but his political career kept him away from Greeneville for most of the following two decades. During the Civil War, the Johnson Homestead was occupied by soldiers, who left the place in a state of disrepair. When Andrew and his wife Eliza returned to Greeneville after his Presidency, they renovated their home and lived there for the rest of their lives.

On our self-guided tour, Tom carried me from room to room inside the elegant home that had been renovated to look like it did in the early 1870s. Although I was able to stand on a marble-topped dresser in the President’s bedroom, as well as a small bureau in the home’s entry-way, I wanted more. And it goes without saying that my photographer wanted more as well. When we returned back outside to the porch where Sherri waited for us, Tom proceeded to work his magic and quickly popped the question: “Would there be any chance that you could place this bobble head onto Andrew Johnson’s bed, next to his top hat, for a photo? It would mean the world to me.” While Ramseyer hesitated at first, then gave it more thought about potential ramifications she might face, she finally said “okay”. The three of us followed Sherri back into the home, she unhinged the roped barricade, and then carefully placed me onto Andrew Johnson’s bed; I was only a few inches from his black Beaver top hat that had been positioned close to the pillows. As I proudly stood on the comforter that was made in the 1860s, I looked around the room and absorbed where President Andrew Johnson once slept. I’m sure he also spent many nights lying awake there as he wondered about the future of our nation and whether or not the scars from the Civil War would ever heal.

My photographer and I couldn’t thank Sherri Ramseyer enough for allowing me to stand on Andrew Johnson’s bed. Back outside, the three of us spent our final 20 minutes at the Homestead walking the grounds and talking to a handful of women who were weaving baskets behind the house. When Tom, Bob, and I returned to the Visitor Center, we spent some time in the museum and at the Andrew Johnson Tailor Shop before we walked across the street to see the President’s original Greeneville home. Once again, vendor’s tents were a hindrance to my photographer as he did his best to capture images of me at the early home of Andrew Johnson. Worse than that, however, was the fact there were thousands of people attending the Iris Festival, all were in a small area and none of them were wearing face coverings; it also went without saying that social distancing was out of the question. One word ran through my resin-filled mind: Super-spreader. I was extremely happy that Tom, Mongo, and I had all been vaccinated; but I was willing to bet that not everyone who was crammed all along College Street had received their shot.

The three of us made our way back to the vehicle where Tom attempted to drive back to the Andrew Johnson National Cemetery. He had to be innovative and find a new route to the burial ground as Main Street was closed due to the festival. After discovering an alternative path through downtown Greeneville, Tom and Bob found their way up Monument Hill to the cemetery and once again I was standing in front of the gravesite of our 17th President Andrew Johnson. I’ve been to all 39 Presidential gravesites and Johnson’s final resting place has always impressed me – it’s definitely one of my top five favorites. The beautiful white marble monument on the hilltop, set against the blue sky, was breathtaking. As I stared at the monument from outside the fence that surrounded the Johnson family plot, I couldn’t believe that I stood on that elaborate tombstone the night before. Then out of nowhere, Bob asked if I’d like to stand there again. I was shocked, and I knew that Tom was stunned as well, because we no longer had the veil of darkness for the covert operation. After he easily scaled the fence, Mongo carefully placed me next to the President’s name plate on the monument where I posed for a few photos. But that wasn’t good enough for my “hard to please” photographer. Oh no; he had Bob set me higher. My cameraman’s friend climbed up and placed me alongside the bowling trophies that were about ten feet off the ground. I had to admit the view from that spot was spectacular, although I worried that authorities would arrive and Bob wouldn’t be able to quickly, or discreetly, retrieve me from that height. Luckily no one came; I was able to pay tribute to our 17th President and I knew in my resin-filled heart that Andrew Johnson would’ve approved.

We finished our visit at Andrew Johnson’s grave around noon and Tom had one last stop he wanted to make while in the area. My photographer had arranged to meet up with his good friend Russell Emmette and his family at their house, which was located roughly five miles from downtown Greeneville. When we arrived at his Carriage Lane address, or close to it, I watched from the car in amazement as Tom and Bob walked up to the wrong house and rang the doorbell. After a quick phone call was made when no one came to the door, it turned out that we had missed Russell’s house by about two hundred feet – the Emmette’s lived next door. The three of us visited with Russell, his wife Amber, and their daughter Chelsea (Cheddar) for about 45 minutes before we headed out to our next Presidential site. During our visit, however, Cheddar had requested to see “the famous bobble head”, but when I was introduced to her, I was surprised that Tom didn’t capture an image of Chelsea holding me. It would’ve been an opportune time for the two of us to say “Cheese”!

From the Emmette’s home, we headed east for roughly 20 miles until we arrived at the quaint little town of Jonesborough – which is the oldest town in Tennessee. But quaintness and oldness, nor Tennessee moonshine, were the reasons for our visit. The three of us had our sights set on a small, weathered cabin that stood along Main Street in the middle of town. That cabin was called the Christopher Taylor House, which was built in 1777 about a mile outside of town and was moved to its present location nearly 200 years later. You might be saying to yourself right now: “The Taylor that was President was Zachary, not Christopher. Why the fascination with that dilapidated old cabin in eastern Tennessee?” It turned out that Andrew Jackson, our 7th President, lived in the two-story Christopher Taylor House during his stay in Jonesborough back in late 1788 while he practiced law in town. As luck would have it, the house was also reputed to be haunted by Jackson as well. Local legend holds that the ghost of Old Hickory appears from time to time; he walks up to the front door and disappears into the building. That story was the main reason I was scared stiff when Tom placed me in front of a small opening at the bottom of that front door. As I stood there, I had the uneasy feeling that someone was watching me and poised to pull me through that opening. During my short stay at the cabin, however, I never saw or heard anything out of the ordinary – except for a loud air release caused by an Old Oak Tap Room burger that Mongo had eaten the night before.

While I was doing my best to dodge ghosts on the porch of the Christopher Taylor House, Bob discovered a historical marker that mentioned the Chester Inn, located next to the cabin, was once visited by three Presidents. That was all my photographer and I needed to hear. The historic Inn was built in 1797 by Dr. William P. Chester of Lancaster, Pennsylvania and has been continuously occupied as an Inn, hotel, and an apartment house since. But the cool part of the history, at least in my eyes, was the fact that President Andrew Jackson held a reception for his friends on the porch of the Inn in the Summer of 1832; which would’ve been about the time that Old Hickory was likely preparing for his second term campaign. Once Tom had taken me across Main Street with the Inn used as a photographic backdrop, we ventured up onto the porch for another series of images. As I stood there, first on a window ledge and then on a porch handrail, it was as though I could see President Jackson as he whooped it up with his friends. When I was finally finished posing for the photos, the three of us ventured inside a small museum that was on the lower level of the Chester Inn. When we discussed the potential artifacts in the museum with a lady working inside, we were informed that there was nothing on display that was associated with any of the Presidents. We weren’t surprised, nor were we disappointed. The Chester Inn was an incredibly cool historic site, and I was honored to have paid it a visit.

Although the Christopher Taylor House was our intended Presidential site in Jonesborough, the Chester Inn was an unexpected surprise, and it turned out to be the better of the two historical places – at least in my eyes.

Our stay in Jonesborough lasted for a little over a half-hour, but the friendly folks of that small town had made an impact on the three of us. At one point during our walk back to the Rogue, I heard my photographer tell his friend Bob: “There’s no doubt in my mind that people from the South are a lot friendlier and more hospitable than people from the Northern states. Even though we’re from the North, it’s almost embarrassing how rude, snobbish, and arrogant the people from that part of the country are. We should take lessons from the Southerners – except for how to win a war.” He just had to add that last part!

Another extremely friendly and generous Southerner that my photographer had spoken with several times on the telephone was a man that I wouldn’t have the opportunity to meet – again. From Jonesborough, we were on the road for a 24-mile drive to the home of Dr. Dan Schumaier; an audiologist and historical preservationist who bought, relocated, and restored the Old Stover House in Elizabethton, Tennessee. Two other times in the past, my photographer had tried to arrange a tour of the historic house with Schumaier, and each time it didn’t work out. During the 40-minute ride along the back roads of eastern Tennessee, Tom mentioned that Doctor Dan wouldn’t be home on our current trip either – Schumaier had already made plans with this family for a small respite at his summer home in the Carolinas. While I was very disappointed, Dan was generous and gave us permission to visit his property and to see the historic Stover House.

It was roughly 3:15pm when Tom navigated the Nissan into the driveway of Dr. Dan Schumaier, located a few miles outside of downtown Elizabethton, and we could immediately tell that his home and property were impressively well kept. The three of us headed out on foot from the driveway and around the pond until we stood directly in front of the two-story wooden structure that had been painted a light-grey color. For me, our visit to this small home was huge in my Presidential quest and I was honored to be there. In 2004, Schumaier purchased the historic house that was on the verge of falling apart and had it moved to his property where he brought it back to life. And what’s the significance of that house? It was once owned by Daniel and Mary Stover; and since Mary was Andrew Johnson’s daughter, the 17th President would stop in Elizabethton to visit occasionally. One such occasion was on July 28, 1875, during a political trip to Ohio, when the former President stopped at Mary’s house for a break in his journey; his other daughter, Martha, was also staying at the home. During the evening of his first day there, Andrew Johnson suffered a stroke. He refused medical treatment until the following day, but suffered a second stroke on the evening of July 30th. President Johnson died the following morning in a second-floor bedroom of his daughter’s house. As I posed for a handful of photos around the exterior of the home, I had wished that someday I would be able to walk inside and see the room where Andrew Johnson had died. It’s no secret that none of the furnishings inside the home were original to the Stover House, but at the same time it would still be cool to stand in the last place that our 17th President had looked at during his life.

While the three of us felt blessed to have visited the Stover House where Andrew Johnson died, we were very disappointed. The strange thing was the fact that we weren’t upset about not getting inside the house. It was the fact that we missed an opportunity to meet Dr. Dan Schumaier. In our hearts, we knew that Schumaier loves history; he does what he can to breathe a breath of fresh air into historical sites and he helps keep those important stories alive for future generations. Maybe someday we can return to Elizabethton and hear some of those stories from Doctor Dan himself and meet the man who saved the Stover House.

Before Tom pulled out of the Schumaier driveway, my photographer and Mongo decided we would head to Wytheville, Virginia to spend the night. When the address to the Wytheville Ramada Inn was plugged into the GPS, my companions were unaware that Siri had ideas of her own for the best route to travel; unfortunately, shortest isn’t always the best. From my position inside the camera case situated behind the driver’s seat, I could tell that Siri must’ve been laughing to herself because of the hairpin turns and mountainside driving that we endured for half of that evening’s trip. Some of the roads were so rural and narrow, we never saw a ‘Welcome to Virginia’ sign during our drive.

It was 5:45pm when my white-knuckled photographer pulled the Rogue into the parking lot of the Ramada Inn. Once my pals had their gear lugged into the hotel, Tom placed me alongside the television while he and Bob headed to the Cracker Barrel that was roughly a mile away. When they returned to the room, my camera guy found the Padres baseball game on TV; which was cool because the three of us had the opportunity to watch Jake Cronenworth play ball. Cronenworth graduated from Tom’s hometown of St. Clair, Michigan and he’s in his second season with the San Diego Padres as their starting second baseman. My photographer turned out the lights and turned off the TV before the game had finished; it had been an exhausting day and that whirlwind drive through the mountains of Virginia had taken their toll on my travel mates.

Throughout the night, I thought about one scheduled stop that Tom and Bob had planned on making the following afternoon. It was a return trip to the birthplace site of Thomas Jefferson; it was the site where they had to climb the fence onto private property and walk a fairly long distance in a field to get to the spot where Shadwell once stood. Two years earlier, my friends made the bold hike out to the site, but a rainstorm cut their stay short and both guys got drenched for their efforts. I got lucky and managed to stay fairly dry inside the camera case. Tomorrow we were scheduled to go back, which was cool because Tom had discovered in his research that there was an actual granite marker that had been erected on the Shadwell site. But unfortunately for the three of us, the weather forecast for the Charlottesville area on Sunday wasn’t much better than it was in 2019 – scattered showers and storms were projected for most of the day. All I could do was hope – hope that the spirit of Thomas Jefferson would be with us in Charlottesville and help keep us dry.