This man of letters and actions seems to have embodied enough adventures to fill the lives of multiple people. His exuberant self-confidence inspired a nation, settled a war, created a canal, and saved thousands of pristine acres for posterity. In just sixty short years, he led troops into battle, killed an inordinate number of wild animals, championed conservation (not as ironic as it may appear), owned and read at least 10,000 books, mastered six languages, wrote incessantly, and won the Nobel Peace Prize.
We've toured the co-joined Manhattan townhouses where his rambunctious family lived and are anxious to see his Long Island estate. Teddy Roosevelt has always been a special favorite of ours and we're eager to learn more about him. Sagamore Hill rests serenely atop a knoll near Oyster Bay on Long Island. When TR was in residence, a working farm surrounded the imposing home. With no forests to obscure the view, he could look out on three sides and see Long Island sound.
Suffering the heartache of losing both his beloved wife and mother within a few days, Teddy left his infant daughter, Alice, with his sister and sought solace in the still untamed American west of the latter 19th century. He returns to New York two years later robust, refreshed and more than ready to utilize his many personal strengths. Buttressed by a new wife and growing family, he combines public service with private pursuits.
Our volunteer guide uses a flashlight to point out rooms stuffed with authentic artifacts. The spaces are almost too dark to maneuver but artificial light would severely damage the collection so it is scrupulously avoided. We view Teddy's Rough Rider hat worn on San Juan Hill, seemingly carelessly tossed onto an antler. Animal skins and tusks occupy floors and walls. The large dinner bell sits unrung but during the Roosevelt family's occupancy, it pealed often. Children had exactly 15 minutes to appear in the dining room. If any child were late, he had to wait until the family finished its meal and then eat with the servants.
Alice, the eldest child, was a particular challenge. Once her father forbade her to smoke under his roof. She solved that dilemma but climbing out her window and smoking on the roof. Teddy also famously said that he could run the country or he could run Alice but he couldn't do both.
We visit the kitchen where workers reported each morning around 4 am and labored long hours feeding the family, house staff and farmhands. Up narrow stairs, we peek into bedrooms, including one where Teddy's niece Eleanor often slept. Family portraits line the walls and we are struck by the handsome face of Quentin, the youngest child. At twenty, he died in World War I, serving as a pilot. Years later, Teddy Jr. suffered a heart attack and died at 44 leading his troops across the beach on D-Day.
Quiet creeps into the rooms of this venerable old house but the spirits of the lively Roosevelt clan remain. Teddy always halted whatever he was doing each afternoon to join his family outside for vigorous games. Regardless of the prestige of the person with whom Roosevelt might be meeting, these daily outings were sacrosanct.
This New Jersey city isn't anything special and we see no pretty parts as we leave the Garden State Parkway. Homes are old and now are inhabited by many families in space designed for one or at the most, two. On Main Street, we turn right and locate a parking lot which serves the lab. We're here to see where genius functioned and changed the world forever in significant ways. One multi-storied brick building is obviously abandoned, cordoned off by tall fencing. Another similar edifice seems ready to welcome a shift of workers at any moment. We obtain our audio tour devices from the Visitor Center and enter the cavernous laboratory. Immediately inside, we see the time clock. There's a hand-written note from the owner which warns that there will be no smoking and those who ignore this directive will be dismissed. It's documented that the man himself worked 80-90 hours a week. He even kept a cot in the library for brief naps among the volumes. Most of the books were written in German or Russian. Since he knew neither language, he hired scientists whose first language was one or the other.
Thomas Alva Edison practiced persistence, teamwork and positivity. He saw failures as opportunities. In the 1880's, he lost $2 million dollars in an iron ore investment. As a result of this venture, he began the development of Portland Concrete and made even more money. While attempting to turn the goldenrod plant into rubber for tires, he oversaw 13,000 experiments before finding success. Edison said, "Hell, there ain't no rules here! We're trying to accomplish something."
Edison understood the value of women in the workplace. Nearly all the people who worked in the precision parts of his laboratory were female. Additionally, he hired women as musicians when he began to produce the world's first recordings of sound. In adjoining rooms, we view the earliest phonograph players, movie projectors, cameras, and musical instruments of great variety. Period photographs allow for the proper placement of original furnishings or replicas.
As we are riding the elevator up to the second floor of the building, a little girl exclaims, "He was stubborn but still a genius." Edison had over 1000 patents and made everything from ladies' watches to locomotives. We're able to glimpse a few of his first silent films which are kinetoscope fragments. How amazing film must have seemed to first time viewers.
There's not enough time to tour Edison's home, Glenmont, but we drive a few blocks to survey the grounds. The house is stately, set in a private neighborhood. Today's owners of the surrounding homes must loathe having their privacy usurped by tourists, however benign.
Not far from the house is a garage where the chauffeurs lived upstairs and a collection of vehicles was stored. Of course there's a special feature in the form of a turntable which allows for additional cars to be stacked in the space. Inside, we meet two young African-Americans. Chatting with them, I learn that they will be high school seniors at a private institution this fall. They are amiable, obviously extremely smart. Tre Turner wants to act. He's already performed in New York workshops and is applying to NYU for Film School. Calvin Million cites Columbia and Penn as his preferred colleges. Both tell me that they've done well on the SAT but will be taking it again in hopes of an even better score. I have no doubt of their ability. They have the Edison trademarks of persistence, positivity, and I'm just sure they embrace the concept of teamwork. As we're walking away from the garage, I say to Henry that I'd like to take their picture. He gently cautions me that to do so would be invasive. I can't help thinking that someday I'll see Tre Turner on the screen and read something equally as extraordinary about Calvin Million. Edison would champion both young men.
The Taconic winds through cellless reception zones, meandering towards Albany. Our GPS directs us to leave this divided expressway for a more bucolic path through small villages replete with fruit and vegetable stands. Neither of us is certain we are still on our way to our destination, but we obey the disembodied voice. Some miles into this unexpected path, I see a marvelous house adjacent to the two-lane road. Immediately thereafter, there's a familiar brown and white sign, denoting a National Park Service site. We're intrigued and turn around.
Lucky for us, we've arrived just in time for the first tour of the day. We're at Lindenwald, a president's home. Not nearly as famous as Mount Vernon or Monticello or even close by Hyde Park, the house is nevertheless striking. Though its famous occupant is little remembered compared to the owners of those more prominent homes, he deserves our attention.
Our plucky guide is Stephanie Ortiz, a rising senior at SUNY Albany. Majoring in Political Science and History, she hopes to obtain a MBA from the same institution. Despite working three jobs and being a full-time student, Stephanie's brimming with enthusiasm for someone who is considered a minor president. We are her only tour members this morning.
I never really thought much about Martin Van Buren. I knew he was Andrew Jackson's Vice-President, served one term, sported significant mutton-chop whiskers, and was, well, short. There's much more to the man whose first language was Dutch and who ceased all formal schooling at the age of 14 when he apprenticed to a local lawyer. By his early twenties, he'd become a formidable barrister and soon entered local politics before expanding to state-wide offices and then the national scene.
Van Buren bought the beautifully situated ochre colored home in 1839. In dismal disrepair, the former president completely revised the structure and greatly increased its size and significance. Widowed twenty years earlier, the Little Magician, as he was affectionately known, raised his four sons with the help of family members. Beautiful furnishings were imported from Europe to grace many rooms of the house.
Today, most of the family possessions remain intact. One of the small bedrooms on the first floor contains a bed in which Henry Clay once slept. Though he and Van Buren consistently disagreed on many topics, most significantly slavery, they were friends. During Clay's visit, a straw pallet in the corner of the room provided a resting place for his slave, Levi.
Two intricately carved pianos, a harp and an organ used by the Van Burens are in place, ready for fingers to pluck notes from their core. Henry stands at the keyboard of one piano and we imagine the family gathered around, singing songs. The Duncan Phyfe dining table accommodated twenty-two but it is a reproduction. Some years ago, the original table was auctioned and the National Park Service lost to a bid from a private individual. Though that special piece of furniture now adorns a Manhattan apartment, the owner allowed it to be borrowed so that a replica could be made for Lindenwald.
In many rooms, it appears as if the occupants have just stepped away for a moment. Books are open, games are sprawled across beds or floors. Stephanie says that on her first day at work, she was directed to learn to play whist, an early form of bridge.
The house contained amenities rarely found in even the most elaborate homes of the time. Running water, a lead tub, and a flush toilet with a blue and white porcelain bowl insured that the former president lived comfortably. Near the kitchen there's a servant's bedroom. We learn that it is currently being renovated but when it is open for touring, it contains a special item. A single Staffordshire dog sits on a table. It was given to an Irish servant of the Van Burens in the 1850's because the matching piece had been broken. A few years ago, descendants of that servant returned the dog to Lindenwald.
Van Buren's own bedroom commands a view of his acreage. It is here that he died in 1862. On the bed is a beautifully carved hickory walking stick, a gift of Andrew Jackson. The thirteen knots on the stick were specially selected so that silver medallions could be affixed and one letter of Jackson's name engraved on each. I'm reminded that the term "OK" originated with Van Buren and actually represented one of his many nicknames, "Old Kinderhook," shortened to OK. He's with us still if only in our everyday language.
Three men, so different, so alike in many ways. Teddy and Thomas knew each other well, and Edison was a guest at Sagamore Hill. Roosevelt shared a common Dutch heritage with Van Buren. Definitely men to remember.
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