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Mr. America
I have always wondered who actually reads Tiger Beat magazine. I know I never did, nor did anyone I knew growing up. Yet it’s always there in supermarkets and drug stores, garishly advertising the hot new teen heart throbs.Although I like to pretend I have superior taste, I get excited to go to the laundromat just so I can read some gossip rags. Because I am a massive nerd, my secret dream has been to have a gossip magazine for historical figures.
Maybe it’s just the inherent silliness of judging historical figures on such superficial grounds. Maybe it’s the strange bit of cognitive dissonance that occurs when you find a dictator strangely attractive. Maybe it’s the understanding that as much as we like to think we’re able to see past the outer shells of people, looks are, and to some extent always have been, a factor in the relationships people have with others, and by extension, leaders with the people they lead. We may mock John Edwards for his $300 haircut, but Queen Elizabeth wore heavy makeup to hide her small pox scars, and Louis XIV like to show off his shapely legs. It may be frivolous, but historical gossip is also revealing in a way that reading about economic policy can never be.
What gams!
When compared to their counterparts in the European monarchies, American presidents are a boring group. As far as I know, nobody swam in fountains with dolphins or delighted in gifts of tall men in uniform. But if I had my way and was running the historical version of People, my first act would be a ranking of presidents, not by greatness or popular acclaim, but purely by sex appeal.
I have given this ranking more thought than I should have. My first few attempts were difficult, because I tried a top down approach, which is tricky when dealing with a beauty contest. So instead I tried to rule out the presidents who just couldn’t make the cut, starting with a personal favorite, James Madison, who was both too slight and too sour-faced to ever be misconstrued as handsome. Also in this category are John Adams, who was both short and stout, and Martin Van Buren, who was known as something of a dandy despite his goblin-like face. Rounding out the category is James Buchanan, who looks like a rooster about to peck out your eye in just about every picture of him.
I rest my case.
The next category I refer to as “meh.” Neither decidedly ugly nor attractive, they’re just pretty average. The vast bulk of presidents fall in this category, including James Monroe, John Tyler, James K. Polk, Zachary Taylor, Chester A. Arthur, Benjamin Harrison, Grover Cleveland, Theodore Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, Woodrow Wilson, Warren G. Harding, Herbert Hoover, Harry Truman, Dwight Eisenhower, Richard Nixon, Jimmy Carter, George H. W. Bush, and Bill Clinton.
Perhaps the most distressing category is the handsome-when-young crowd. I was walking through the American Wing of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, when I came across a Copley portrait of a young John Quincy Adams. I was surprised to note he not only did not look like a Komodo dragon, he was actually shockingly handsome.
How did this happen?
I had a similar moment with Gerald Ford, who played football and modeled as a young man. Also in this category were William McKinley and James Garfield, who were teen heartthrobs if their old daguerreotypes were any indication. Without his beard, Rutherford B. Hayes bears a strong resemblance to Daniel Day-Lewis, disproving the Abraham Lincoln Rule of “chicks dig the beard.”
William McKinley in Civil War Uniform
James Garfield
Rutherford B. Hayes, pre-beard
Then there’s the category of weirdly appealing. In this category is Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who I don’t think of as being actually handsome, but had an aristocratic air that pushes him out of “meh”. He is joined in his category by Millard Fillmore, also known as the president most likely to win an Alec Baldwin look-alike contest.
Second prize is a set of steak knives. Third prize is you’re fired.
There’s also Calvin Coolidge, whose stoic manners and lean figure both originated from his roots as a farm boy in Vermont. According to the fine people of the Calvin Coolidge State Historic Site, Coolidge was stronger than he looked if his skill at hay pitching was any indication, an activity that required superior upper body strength (aka biceps).
Swoon.
My smallest category is the intellectual types, consisting of Thomas Jefferson and Barack Obama. They both have the tall, slim, elegance that complements their cerebral styles.
Next up is the ruggedly masculine crowd, those guys who weren’t really handsome, but have appeal nonetheless. Leading off this group is Ulysses S. Grant, whose military credentials give him that aura of manliness necessary to belong to this group. George W. Bush also squeaks into this category thanks to his famously intense running sessions thatmade him one of our most physically fit presidents. Also in this group is the Great Emancipator himself, who even at the age of 55 could still wield an axe like nobody’s business. That kind of strength can make up for a lot.
6 foot 4 inches of pure muscle.
Without a doubt the master of this group is Andrew Jackson. Although he had a face so long and narrow it makes John Kerry look like Jack Black, Jackson has a record of ultra-masculinity that more than compensates for his undeniably strange face.
Would you date this man?
However, Jackson is not the ultimate presidential man’s man. That distinction goes to the granddaddy of them all: George Washington. The father of our country was a man who could command a room; at 6’3” and 210 pounds, he towered above his contemporaries. He was an avid foxhunter and known for his bruising rides across his estate (read: strong thighs). These attributes cancel out his notoriously awful teeth.
The final category is where the real contenders are: the actually handsome men. While I cannot deny other presidents have appeal, the remaining men are undeniably attractive people (if such a thing really exists). Ronald Reagan kept his movie star good looks well into his 70s. Not only did his toned physique make the older ladies swoon, it most likely saved his life. As my 10th grade history teacher creepily loved to point out, Reagan’s highly developed pectoral muscles helped slow the assassin’s bullet that very easily could have claimed his life.
Man of steel.
Another obvious choice for the best looking president is John F. Kennedy. His youth alone marks him as a prime candidate, a fact further reinforced by his womanizing reputation. However, several factors prevent him from becoming an instant winner. Firstly, as my brother is always quick to point out, his face looks like a handsome face that was squashed to 2/3 its original size. Another mitigating factor to Kennedy’s sex appeal is not widely known: Kennedy was a very sick man. He suffered from a kidney disease in addition to a bad back that required braces and an incredible cocktail of drugs.
The F stands for Foxy.
Other than Kennedy, the man who is generally regarded as the most handsome president is Franklin Pierce. With his cascade of dark curly hair and square jaw, Pierce makes quite the impression. He was also well known for his gregarious personality that made him popular in Washington, although later in life he suffered from depression and alcoholism.
Hubba-hubba.
However, the top of my personal list is the under-represented William Henry Harrison, based mostly on a portrait of him at Grouseland in Vincennes, Indiana. But if there’s anything I’ve learned from my attempt at ranking presidential sex appeal, it’s that beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
William Henry Harrison: General. President. Heartthrob.
Except for Martin Van Buren. Nobody finds that attractive.
Hawt.
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Life in the 1%
I have infiltrated the ranks of the 1%, and so far my report is that being in the 1% is awesome.
As readers of this blog know by now, my family isn’t big into flight. We drive basically everywhere. When we do fly, it’s always in economy class and no checked bags. While I don’t hate air travel, being violated by the TSA is not high on my list of things I like to do.
But thanks to my soon-to-be canonized father and his stockpile of frequent flyer miles, I am about to do something I have never done before: fly First Class.
Already I can tell flying First Class is amazing. I got a free checked bag! The airline people are not horrifically rude to me! I get to go ahead in lines (when I remember I can use the preferred ones)! They didn’t care that I wore my sunglasses into the creepy voyeuristic X-ray machine (that one actually concerns me a bit)!
I expected flying First Class to be nicer, since it’s so much more expensive. What I didn’t expect was to feel like something of an impostor. I am not the kind of person who flies First Class. I’m the person who sits in economy, usually sandwiched between a chatty businessman and a gassy Australian (true story). It’s going to be hard to go back.
I have come to an important conclusion: I need to get rich so this can become a more regular experience.
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Southern Comfort
I realized after my last couple of posts, someone could get the impression that I had a miserable time in The South. Nothing could be further from the truth. I had a great time and found many things to like and love about the places I went. So, for the sake of accuracy, I have compiled a list of things I enjoyed about The South.
1. FriendlinessHaving grown up in an area of Pennsylvania where the locals can most charitably be described as reticent, I appreciated the general atmosphere of friendliness in The South. People were helpful and sweet and willing to just have a nice chat with a stranger.
Even the mules are friendly in the South.2. Their accents
As I stated in my previous post, I have always wanted to say “y’all” naturally. I seriously envy those who can.
3. BarbequeI love barbeque. I also have no idea what the difference between good barbeque and bad barbeque is. Trying to find restaurants, people would tell me the barbeque someplace was decent, but when I ate there, it would taste amazing. Because of this, I ate more barbeque in a five day period than I usually do in six months.
4. Fireworks storesFireworks are illegal in Pennsylvania, but vendors in Pennsylvania can sell fireworks to people in New Jersey, even though fireworks are also illegal in New Jersey (ah, the beauty of a country of laws). I say this to make it clear I have seen fireworks warehouses before. I have bought fireworks in a fireworks warehouse before.
If you love fireworks (and if you don’t, you really don’t know what you’re missing), go south. I saw more billboards and stores related to fireworks in five days in the south than the rest of my life put together. Not only was there a heavy concentration, each place was big, usually about the size of a small airplane hangar. My excitement never dwindled with each sighting, so now about 10% of our pictures from the trip are of fireworks warehouses.
Sadly, none of those pictures was actually good.5. The insane concentration of historical markers
Anyone who has read this blog has probably figured out that I’m a massive history nerd. When I see a historical marker, I get excited. I soon learned being a history lover in the South was like being wine lover in Napa. In Charles City, Virginia I saw four markers within ten feet of each other. The sight was so overwhelming, I almost swooned, or at least let out an undignified squeal of excitement.
I was almost run over in the process of getting this picture.
It was worth it.6. The opportunity to finally experience song geography
As a music lover and college radio DJ, I love me a theme playlist. My southern tour gave me my best opportunity yet to indulge in my propensity for geographically themed songs. Carolina in My Mind, Sweet Home Alabama, The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (both versions!), and basically every Pretty Girl song were all played at some point. However, my proudest accomplishment was the realization that there is a geographical error in the song Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show: Johnson City is actually to the east of the Cumberland Gap.
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My fellow Americans, our long national nightmare is over.
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I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy
Previous to this trip, I’ve only been as far south as Nashville (Orlando doesn’t count because it’s basically its own country of theme parks and ridiculously expensive water), so I’ve never really felt like I could say I’d been to The South. Now that I’ve spent some time there, I can honestly say I am a Yankee through and through.
The reasons I was never so aware of what a Northerner I am until I went to the South are as follows:
1.) My level of patienceI like to think of myself as a patient person, but much of my time south of the Mason-Dixon line was spent racing through historic sites with a level of urgency that first bemused, and then annoyed the people who worked there. What’s the hurry? Stay a while! was the unspoken remark in their patient smiles. Meanwhile, I was taking notes with the speed of a crazed stenographer at a horse auction.
2.) My hatred of sweet teaWhile in Tennessee getting a sandwich for lunch, I ordered a large iced tea, hoping it would cool me off after spending the morning in the already sweltering heat. I took one sip and almost spit it out since it was probably three-quarters sugar. From that moment on I was careful to make sure I was getting “unsweet tea” (which is a way more charming term than unsweetened iced tea). To be fair, all the unsweet tea I had was delicious, but the fear of accidentally drinking sweet tea was always there.
Union Uniform at Berkeley Plantation
3.) My lack of knowledge of obscure Confederate figuresMy Civil War history focused mainly on what factors contributed to eventual Union victory, with a massive emphasis on Gettysburg since I grew up in Pennsylvania. But daring Confederate blockade runners? Not so much.
Barbeque joint in Warm Springs, Georgia
4.) My undiscerning barbeque palate
It all tasted awesome. I don’t know how anyone can rank barbeque since literally all of it tasted amazing to me.
5.) My accentAlthough my accent immediately marked me as a Yankee, I was mostly just happy it survived. I have an unfortunate habit of picking up accents wherever I go. To make matters worse, I can’t actually do accents all that well so I sound like I’m mocking people when in fact I’m suppressing the urge to forget the way I’ve spoken for the past twenty years of my life because I’d really love to say “y’all” in a way that sounds natural.
6.) My inability to cope with the heatAs a descendant of exclusively pale people, I’ve never fared very well in the sun. I don’t tan so much as go through a burn, peel, fade cycle. Naturally, I knew the South would be hot. I knew it would be humid. What I didn’t know was that walking outside would feel like entering the Amazon River basin and would cause every pore in my body to sweat like there was no tomorrow.
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The Night I Drove Down to Old Dixie (Part Two)
You can read Part One here.
After a pleasant sojourn through Tennessee, we were on our way to Georgia. Our route was supposed to take us across the Tennessee-Georgia border, coming within two miles of the Alabama border without actually crossing into Alabama. This was unacceptable to my father and me, but for totally different reasons. He wanted to check another state off the states he has visited; I wanted to confirm Alabama in fact existed.
Several years ago, I got it into my head that Alabama had ceased to exist sometime in the mid-1990s. I had just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird for the second time and realized I didn’t know anyone from Alabama and I hadn’t heard of anyone or anything coming out of Alabama in the past 15 years (this was before I knew anything about college football). Somehow, my lack of exposure to the people and culture of Alabama convinced me that it had, in fact, been swept out to sea sometime around 1995, and the people of Mississippi couldn’t bring themselves to tell the rest of the country.
Definitive proof of the existence of Alabama
As we approached the border, my level of excitement mounted to ridiculous levels. In a moment of frenzied glee, I started playing “Sweet Home Alabama” as we finally entered Alabama, and didn’t turn it off until we left five minutes later.
In Georgia, we stopped by a few historic sites near the town of Dalton. My great-great grandfather who fought in the Civil War was wounded there, and it was really cool to see the house where he recovered as well as the site of the battle where he was shot.
House that used to double as the Union hospital
Dalton, GAOn our way back home, we stopped by the Jamestown National Historic Site. We had arrived just in time for the 105 degree heat (120 degree heat index!). This was made even worse by the fact that Jamestown was built on a swamp, so the added humidity made it almost unbearable.
The staff at Historic Jamestown warn us about the heat
Luckily, the site was interesting enough to make up for the weather. The area where the fort once stood is surrounded by a replica of the original fence. Archaeologists are still working on the site to uncover new artifacts to analyze, which are housed in a museum located just beyond the fort itself. There were more monuments than I ever would have imagined, including statues of John Smith and Pocahontas, looking a little different from their Disney counterparts.
Jamestown was the perfect end to an amazing trip because it brought everything right back to the beginning. With the benefit of history, Jamestown is a historic place full of meaning and purpose, but at the time, the colonists could not have known how important their struggle to survive would be.
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The Night I Drove Down to Old Dixie (Part One)
A week ago I started my Southern Tour of presidential homes with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. It was my most ambitious trip, consisting of the most average miles traveled per day.
Fortunately, I had both my parents with me to help with the driving. Saints that they are, they came with me to each of the sites. This turned out to be a bigger commitment than originally intended; I only planned on visiting 11 presidential homes, but we ended up seeing 15.
Amazingly, 7 of those visits were completed on the first day, thanks to a few last minute additions. The first of these impromptu stops was at Montpelier, the home of James Madison, which I noticed was only 40 miles out of our way. It was already closed, but we could walk the grounds. Our only company was a pair of deer, which added to the serene beauty of the place. It was certainly worth a detour.
We are spotted by the Montpelier deer
Montpelier, home of James Madison
On our way back to the main road, we came within a few miles of Ash Lawn-Highland, home of president Monroe, which I had no pictures of. We decided to make a stop there to get some exterior shots of the house since it was already late evening. However, when we got there, the parking lot was full. Turns out, a wedding reception was being held on the grounds. Not to be deterred, we snuck around, avoiding the wedding guests while we snapped a few pictures. Mission accomplished.
Shortly after this picture was taken, we were chased off
the property by enraged newlyweds
The next day, we visited Poplar Forest, the country retreat of Thomas Jefferson. While on the tour, we discovered that Jefferson had purchased a natural bridge for five dollars that still existed. We decided to stop by and check it out when we realized it was right on our route into Tennessee. As we got off the highway, we probably should have picked up on the warning signs that The Natural Bridge was not what we were expecting; namely, the billboards for a dinosaur theme park and Foamhenge, a replica of Stonehenge presumably made of foamboard.
When we finally arrived at the Natural Bridge, we had to walk into a large complex about the size of an elementary school that turned out to be a combination Visitors Center/Gift Shop (with emphasis on the Gift Shop). We briefly convened to discuss what would be an acceptable price to view the bridge. I maintained five dollars would be ideal, since that was how much Jefferson paid for the bridge, but we eventually settled on ten. Imagine our surprise when we learned that it cost $19 per person to see the natural rock formation. We were also informed that we could choose to either walk or take a shuttle to see it, despite the fact that it was less than a quarter mile away. In the end, we opted out of shelling out 60 bucks to see a rock and got some ice cream instead.
I only view rock formations for free
To be continued…
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Presidential House Visit: Where in the World Is Richard Milhous Nixon?
For those of you who wondered what Richard Nixon
would look like in the Carmen Sandiego hat
Forget Carmen Sandiego- Richard Milhous Nixon has given me more trouble than a globetrotting master thief.
Since I lack the funds to get a flight to California, his birthplace in Yorba Linda, California wasn’t an option, so I decided to get creative. I looked up the various places where he lived and discovered he had a house in Saddle River, New Jersey, less than two hours away. I read some rumblings about its imminent demolition, but decided it was close enough to give it a shot.
Site of the Nixon Saddle River residence
I got hopeful as I entered the neighborhood of mansions, but as I drove up to the address, I realized with dismay the reports were indeed true. There was no trace of the house, only a plot of trees between mansions with some abandoned building materials. I was surprised not only by how eerie it was, but how sad it made me. I wouldn’t characterize myself as Nixon’s biggest fan, but it seemed wrong that no one made a greater effort to save the house.
I was also sad because the lack of house meant I still had a Nixon sized hole in my checklist. Luckily, I had found another New Jersey Nixon residence only fifteen minutes away in Park Ridge. Unfortunately, I never even got to pull up to that house, since it was in a gated community. It turns out it’s actually really difficult to sweet-talk your way into a private neighborhood for the obscenely wealthy.
I was getting discouraged at this point, but faint heart never won fair lady— or in this case, dead politician’s former residence. After a bit more snooping around the internet I found two addresses of houses the Nixons lived in while they were in Washington, both still privately owned.
The house the Nixons resided in during the 1950s
Residence of the Nixon family in the 1960s
Driving up to the first house in Washington, DC, I said a silent prayer it hadn’t been destroyed in a freak lightning storm. Happily, it was not only still standing, it looked to be in excellent shape. The next house was also well cared for and quite beautiful. All of the houses were tucked away in quiet neighborhoods where the Nixons would be afforded some measure of privacy.
Driving away, I realized with no small amount of glee that I had not been defeated by Richard Nixon.
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Presidential House Visit: George H. W. Bush Birthplace
George H. W. Bush Birthplace
Milton, Massachusetts
One of the great joys of this project has been the amount of care that goes into the upkeep of the houses. Maintaining a historic home is a labor of love that needs both funding and the passion of people who care. The fact that so many sites still exist today, even for the most obscure presidents is a testament to the people who keep them going.
Plaque on a rock in front of the house
The George H. W. Bush Birthplace was, unfortunately, an example of what can happen when that funding and passion doesn’t come through. The house still stands just south of Boston in Milton, Massachusetts just several miles from the Adams National Historic Site in Quincy. The house is privately owned, but a marker stands on the property explaining the historic nature of the house, which is blocked by trees and bushes, so I had to go up the driveway to get a better look at it.
I almost wished I hadn’t, because it upset me. I couldn’t describe it as dilapidated, but it certainly wasn’t in good shape. I wasn’t expecting this, mostly because the other houses in the area look to be about the same age and are in excellent condition. The house itself was a large wooden Victorian with a welcoming front porch, and if taken care of, would be quite beautiful. I hope that someday soon the house will find a champion and be preserved as befits the birthplace of a president.
The Mission: Visit as many presidential homes as possible in one summer. The Author: An amateur history buff with a love of both old houses and presidents. Progress: 39 down. 4 to go.
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