Date Night

 

The Cats of Summer

 

The Lincoln Tomb

 

The Lincoln Tomb: A Resting Place for a Giant

Standing solemnly in Oak Ridge Cemetery in Springfield, Illinois, the Lincoln Tomb is more than a burial site—it is a monument to a man whose life and legacy continue to shape America.

The towering obelisk rising above the tomb is an unmistakable marker, reaching over 117 feet into the sky. Sculpted figures representing the infantry, navy, artillery, and cavalry surround the monument, symbolizing the soldiers who fought to preserve the Union. Inside, Lincoln's remains rest in a reinforced concrete vault beneath the floor, ensuring his eternal peace after a series of unsettling events following his death.

Lincoln's Legacy: The Tomb as a Symbol

Lincoln's presidency, defined by the Civil War and the abolition of slavery, cast a shadow that extended long after his assassination in 1865. The tomb stands as a tribute not just to the man, but to the ideas he championed: unity, equality, and the endurance of democracy. Visitors who file past his resting place often pause before the bronze bust at the entrance. Tradition holds that rubbing Lincoln's nose for luck brings good fortune, leaving the metal polished to a bright sheen.

The Lincoln Tomb Robbery

In 1876, a group of counterfeiters hatched a bold and bizarre scheme to steal Lincoln's body and hold it for ransom. Their plan was to demand $200,000 and secure the release of their imprisoned engraver, who specialized in counterfeiting $20 bills. The plot was foiled thanks to the intervention of the Secret Service (then a fledgling organization established to combat counterfeiting). Lincoln's body was recovered, but the near-disaster prompted officials to secretly bury his remains in a shallow grave within the tomb. In 1901, his body was moved one final time, encased in a steel cage and buried beneath 10 feet of concrete to deter any future attempts at theft.

Unusual Facts About Lincoln After His Death

Lincoln's body underwent an unusual journey after his assassination. For two weeks following his death, his remains traveled by train on a 1,600-mile journey, visiting major cities before reaching Springfield. The train route, marked by public displays of mourning, mirrored the journey Lincoln had taken to Washington, D.C., in 1861 as president-elect.

In 1901, when Lincoln's body was finally placed beneath the concrete vault, workers opened the coffin to confirm his remains. Witnesses, including Lincoln's longtime friend Robert Todd Lincoln, described his body as remarkably well-preserved, a chilling testament to the embalming process of the era.

Lincoln's legacy continues to unfold. Even today, his words are quoted in political speeches, his leadership is studied in classrooms, and his life is memorialized in countless ways. The Lincoln Tomb stands as a place of reflection—a reminder that while death silences a voice, it cannot extinguish its echoes.

Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library & Museum

In the heart of Springfield, Illinois, there is a place where history stands not as a relic but as a living narrative—a place that speaks not in whispers, but in full-throated declaration. The Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library & Museum doesn't simply present facts; it immerses you in the story of one of America's most iconic figures. It is a testament to memory—both personal and national—a place where Lincoln’s spirit feels present, woven into the very walls.

My visit began with the facade—a stately yet inviting entrance that seemed less a monument to power and more a reminder of Lincoln's common origins. The architecture itself seemed to echo the simplicity of his character: solid, unpretentious, yet unmistakably impactful. Inside, the experience shifted from static exhibits to living, breathing storytelling. The museum succeeds in weaving together two crucial elements of Lincoln's life: the private man and the public icon.

The Journey One exhibit offers a deeply personal look at Lincoln's early years—his childhood hardships, his struggles with self-doubt, and his journey toward self-education. Here, I was struck not just by what Lincoln achieved, but by what he endured. He wasn't destined for greatness; he clawed his way toward it, building himself from the ground up. The recreated log cabin, filled with the imagined echoes of young Abe reading by firelight, felt intimate and familiar. In that dim cabin, the air seemed heavier, almost tangible with the struggles of frontier life. I imagined Lincoln reading by flickering flame, absorbing the words that would someday shape his speeches. The young boy there seemed so distant from the man we commemorate today—a reminder that greatness is born from humble roots.

Then comes Journey Two, an emotional whirlwind that plunges you into the chaos of Lincoln's presidency. The Civil War looms over this portion of the museum, and the sensory overload—booming cannons, whispered fears, the weight of divided families—brought the era to life. One particular room still lingers in my mind: a darkened corridor filled with stark political cartoons that captured the venomous criticism Lincoln endured. In those caricatures, the burden of leadership is on full display—a reminder that great men are often deeply misunderstood in their own time. The cruelty of the images was almost overwhelming, yet it gave me a profound respect for the resilience Lincoln must have cultivated in those trying years. His image was distorted and manipulated, but still he pressed on, driven by conviction and a belief in a united nation.

But it was the Whispering Gallery that affected me most. The space simulates the weight of rumors and slander that plagued Lincoln's presidency—murmurs surround you, each one undermining his decisions, calling his character into question. It’s an unsettling experience, a reminder that history’s giants are rarely given the luxury of peace. As I stood in that dim hallway, I found myself reflecting on how isolating leadership can be—the relentless pressure to stand firm as doubts swirl around you.

In the Hall of Remembrance, the assassination's aftermath unfolds with quiet reverence. The recreation of Lincoln's closed casket, the black bunting draped in mourning, and the hushed atmosphere filled me with a sense of finality—a tragic conclusion to a life defined by sacrifice. It was here that I felt the true weight of Lincoln’s death—a reminder that the loss of great men leaves ripples that stretch far beyond their time. Lincoln’s face in the recreation seemed so calm, as if he'd finally found rest after years of hardship. I thought of Mary Todd Lincoln and her immeasurable grief, of the countless soldiers who fought under Lincoln’s leadership, and of a nation that had been torn apart yet somehow endured.

The museum does not present Lincoln as a saint. He is complex—ambitious, self-critical, and deeply human. His successes feel more remarkable because his failures are presented without airbrushing. For me, this honesty is what makes the experience so powerful. Lincoln’s legacy lies not in perfection, but in perseverance. The museum reminded me that leadership is never easy, and that those who bear its burden must often navigate storms of criticism, fear, and uncertainty.

I left the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library & Museum feeling a weight of inspiration and gratitude—not just for Lincoln’s legacy, but for the reminder that greatness is often forged in doubt, hardship, and the courage to persist despite them. It left me wondering what Lincoln might have done had his life not been cut short—a tragic question that history refuses to answer. As I walked back into the sunlight of Springfield, I carried with me a sense of renewed respect for the man who shaped a nation, and a deeper understanding that resilience is the bedrock of true greatness.

Magnolia Bakery Banana Pudding

 

Wow Bao

 

Garrett's Chicago Style Popcorn

Chicago French Market

Portillo's Chicago - Clark & Ontario

 

Skydesk

 

Newberry Library

Holy Name Cathedral, Chicago

 

Al's Beef

 

Wrigley Field

Wrigley Field is a ballpark of memories, a living monument to America's pastime. The bricks, ivy, and the old scoreboard—its numbers still turned by hand—stand as testaments to the history that has unfolded here. While I didn't get to watch a game, the tour itself felt like stepping into a time capsule, each creaking wooden seat whispering stories of victories, losses, and moments that transcend box scores.

The tour began in the outfield, where the famous ivy stretched across the wall like a living curtain. Unlike modern ballparks, Wrigley Field's ivy isn't just aesthetic—it's tradition. It has witnessed Ruth's called shot, Ernie Banks' countless home runs, and the heartbreaking near-miss of 2003 when a foul ball derailed the Cubs' playoff hopes. Standing there, I imagined the ivy's leaves silently marking each historic moment, as if they were pages in a book no one can read but everyone knows by heart.

From the outfield, we moved to the press box and upper deck, where the iconic "W" and "L" flags signal the outcome of every home game. I could picture fans gathered below, scanning the flagpole for the answer they already knew in their hearts. And the hand-operated scoreboard—unchanged since 1937—stood as a reminder that baseball doesn't need digital displays to be magical. Each number is turned manually, preserving a sense of craftsmanship lost in today's high-tech stadiums.

But the most memorable stop was the dugout. Sitting where Ernie Banks once said, "Let's play two," felt like a quiet pilgrimage. I imagined the tension of Game 7 in 2016, the Cubs finally breaking their 108-year drought to win the World Series. Even those who had never seen a game at Wrigley felt the weight of that victory. Wrigley Field itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief that night, its long-suffering fans finally rewarded.

I couldn't help but feel a pang of regret that I didn't get to watch a game that day. The crack of the bat, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs, the roar of the crowd rising like a wave—I know those experiences are still waiting for me. One day, I'll sit in the stands with a scorecard in hand, watching the Cubs play under the shadow of that iconic scoreboard. Until then, I carry the memory of my tour—a promise to myself that I'll return, not just as a visitor, but as a fan in the stands.