Return of the B-Boy, or “Stan The Man Turns Eighty-Five”

Happy birthday, Stan!

Rest assured: despite car trouble in Staunton, navigation trouble by the Lincoln Tunnel, and State Identity Crisis in Delaware, I have made it safely home from Virginia—just in time for my grandpa Stanley’s swinging 85th birthday bash (not pictured: Stan, swinging birthday bash). What a relief to spend time with living relatives rather than dead presidents! (Shockingly, they all want to hear about dead presidents.)

Stan was never president, but hell if he hasn’t lived enough history for two terms and more. He was born in the summer of 1926, during the second administration of my main man “Silent Cal,” whose post-apocalyptic Plymouth, VT, farm more or less spawned this unfathomable series of exploits whose genesis I still strive to understand. That places Stan just two years behind Carter and Bush I, if you’re keeping score. Speaking of birthday parties, here’s some prime info on Calvin Coolidge’s, which I certainly hope to attend next month, because what the hell else would I be celebrating on July 4?

Anyway. I’ve spent three luxurious days sleeping late in the morning, transcribing interviews in the afternoon, and having absurd phone conversations with Grover Cleveland’s grandson well into the evening. (Fine, that was just once.) Here’s some information on where I’ve been and where I’m going next:


June 7:

June 8:

June 9:

So I’ve seen twelve presidential birthplaces—that’s over a quarter total, including the one I visited before beginning this project (Coolidge). Here’s where I’m headed over the next two weeks, order undecided:


New Hampshire:

New York:


Happy birthday, Grandpa Stan.


One Comment on “Return of the B-Boy, or “Stan The Man Turns Eighty-Five””

  1. Steve says:

    Glad you enjoyed your time in our little Commonwealth. Sorry if the ice cream and pancakes didn’t have enough of a civil war tie-in. Northern Virginia is full of carpetbaggers (and Canadians)

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