Dead Presidents

Chris White is touring the gravesites, birthplaces and homes of the U.S. presidents. Here are his notes from those visits, which he probably means to be funny. Eh.

16. Abraham Lincoln

Birthplace and Boyhood Home, Hodgenville, Kentucky; Petersen House, Washington, D.C.

Hodgenville, Kentucky (July 2007)

Great presidents deserve great videos. Behold:

Petersen House (October 2007)

But if you need some closure after hearing about Lincoln's early years, swing on by 10th St. in Washington for the creatively named "House Where Lincoln Died." It's right across the street from Ford's Theater, next door to the Lincoln Souvenir Outlet. You can't miss it.

You won't see too much -- the house is original, but all the furnishings are period pieces or replicas. After the death of Lincoln, a cloud hung over the building, which is a boarding house; though people kept on staying there (even in the Lincoln room), the owner (William Petersen) felt a profound sadness about the place; to the end of his days he felt nothing but grief had come to him over the whole incident. Plus people were constantly barging in and stealing souvenirs. So when he closed up shop, he sold off everything in the building. The actual deathbed is in Chicago, but most of the furniture is lost to history. They have one blood-stained pillow left, but it's not on display because the house doesn't have decent climate control. Which is a shame, because it's not every day that you get to see a blood stained pillow, unless you have chronic nosebleeds.

But thanks to the magic of lithography and a few eye-witness accounts, they do have a pretty good recreation of what the room looked like back on April 14, 1865, when Lincoln was carried in from across the street at the urging of a boarder who heard the commotion outside. They carried him to the back of the first floor, into the room of Thomas Proctor, a 17-year-old clerk at the War Department who was out for the evening. It's a tiny, tiny room. Lincoln probably didn't fit on the bed, and with a Who's Who of Washington flitting in and out all night, it's easy to imagine how cramped it must have been.

When Abe kicked it on the morning of April 15, Secretary of War Edwin Stanton supposedly said, "He belongs to the ages now." Though some insist he said, "He belongs to the angels now." And still others believe that he said, "I guess I should update my resume, just in case."

On April 22, 1865, Thomas Proctor attempts
to get his cleaning deposit back

Mr. Petersen! About the bill -- I wanted to ask about this small matter, down at the bottom ... Yes, the room was less clean than when first I rented it. But I am not at all responsible. Who? I think we both know the answer to that, Mr. Petersen.

Mr. Petersen, remarks on the quality of my parentage are uncalled for! Stop crying Mr. Petersen. Stop! Yes, we all miss him. Maybe me a little less than most, since I have been picking pieces of his dura mater off my headboard for the last week.

Not again with the crying, Mr. Petersen! Now, can we go point by point?

First off, the scuff marks were hardly my fault. I had to have the cot dragged in, Mr. Petersen. I had an early appointment and I needed my rest. Not that it mattered, because Mrs. Lincoln snores like a drowning buffalo. I almost invoked your own no pets policy. And might I add, she stole my copy of Harper's and didn't once offer to chip in her share of the boarding fees. But I'm letting that slide, Mr. Petersen, for the good of the nation.

Second, the smell. Mr. Petersen, have YOU ever tried to ask the Secretary of War to stop smoking? Oh, wait, of course you haven't, because you were there and you DID NOT. I know he had reason to be stressed! I'm not saying he isn't a great man, Mr. Petersen! I'm just saying he was smoking. Like a chimney. Very close to the drapes. Well of course I was moved by his words! I didn't get to hear exactly what he said when the President passed away, as I was trying to catch up on some paperwork for my morning appointment while laying on a pile of dirty rags behind the building. But the rats in the rag pile seemed deeply touched.

Which, by the way, there's a rather large and rat-infested pile of dirty rags behind the building. I'm just saying is all.

As to the chunks missing from the furniture, the tears in the wallpaper and stains in the rugs, I think the 2,536 people who took advantage of your "open door" policy last week might have something to do with that. It's not national mourning when they're going through my drawers, Mr. Petersen. Somber people don't carry hand axes and try on my pants for fit. They just don’t.

Now, the water rings on the nightstand . . . well, that's probably on me.

But I certainly am not paying for the blood stains on the baseboard. It was not me, sir! Do you see any gaping head wounds, Mr. Petersen? Accuse me again and you might!

YOU can't believe this? I step out for the evening to enjoy a meat pie, and when I come back, with a fine young lady on my arm I might add, half my shirts have been commandeered as blood mops and the leader of the Union is drooling on my embroidered pillow case. Do you know how much that kills the mood, Mr. Petersen?

Not that you'd ever be in the mood judging from the looks of Mrs. Petersen. And just try finding a drycleaner who won't break down sobbing when you try to bring those shirts in.

If you think you're getting this $2.50, you're sorely deluded, good sir! Sic semper tyrannus!

OK, that was too soon. You can cry on that one, Mr. Petersen.

Lincoln Death Make Chris Sad!

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