I've always wanted to go to Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's home in Virginia, the one he renovated over and over again, throughout his entire life, both before and after he became our third president. I read a book that posited the key to Jefferson's personality rested in his house renovations. It was his obsession, his love, and it literally bankrupted him.
Do you remember the movie The Money Pit? Tom Hanks and Shelley Long buy what they think is the perfect house. They begin renovating. Things continually go wrong. They go deeper in debt. They've bought a money pit.
Okay, some awkward disclosures:
Most historians believe our third president had an obsessive compulsive personality that literally drove him to continually change the configuration of Monticello. This is neither good nor bad. You can see his personality, his likes, and his creative inventions reflected in every room.
When I suggested traveling down to Virginia to visit Monticello, as part of our president house tour, Chuck was interested. I was intrigued. It wasn't for the food. This time. No, his wanting to go existed on a deeper level. Chuck is a fan of cozy, well-built houses. He'd listened carefully as I shared what I'd learned about Jefferson's constant re-doing of his house.
Chuck wanted to see Monticello for himself.
Immediately, I suspected Chuck had an ulterior motive, a plan he intended to put into operation. I knew I had to be on my guard.
There is no way to describe how spectacular Monticello is, both inside and out. It sits on a mountain. Surrounded by land. When Jefferson was alive, it was acres of farmland.
When you first step inside Monticello, she is both grand and unusual.
As we moved from room to room, studying the artifacts Jefferson had collected that were now hanging on the wall,
seeing in person the copying machine that Jefferson invented that duplicated letters that he wrote to preserve a copy for history,
his chest set,
his harpsichord, which he not only knew how to play but also to tune,
nothing interested Chuck more than Jefferson's bed.
"Don't touch the bed. It's an historical heirloom," I explained.
Chuck literally bounced over. Sniffed. Noticed it was a kind of built-in bed chamber. Chuck reared on his hind legs, admiring the red silk curtains. Plopped down on the floor.
I turned my gaze for a second to make sure we were still alone and in that moment . . . from the corner of my eye, without really seeing, but knowing exactly what this rascal cat would do, Chuck leapt up on Jefferson's bed.
I couldn't believe it.
And he relaxed as if he were in his own private suite. As if he were suffering some grand delusion that he was President Chuck, about to take a snooze in the middle of the afternoon.
Time stopped. But it didn't.
I was the one who froze in horror. Luckily, Dan took two steps forward, scooped Chuck off the bed and safely ensconced him inside the backpack.
Our guide reappeared at that instant.
Dan smiled. "We were admiring Jefferson's bed chamber," he said, without missing a beat.
I glanced over to the bed. In full view were several of Chuck's orange and white cat hairs on prominent display.
Would she look over and see them? And how would I begin to explain . . . Our guide smiled, totally oblivious to the travesty that had just occurred. "Yes. Very stylish. Imported from his house in Paris."
As she turned to leave, I shooed the cat hairs off the bed, and thought to myself--my Chucky may be a rascal, but he sure has taste.
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