Keeping Cool with Coolidge
I would like heartily to endorse Larry Kudlow’s view of Calvin Coolidge. The other day I took my kids over to the Coolidge homestead in Plymouth Notch, Vermont, and with the aid of snowshoes we scrambled up the three-foot drifts of the village’s steep hillside cemetery to his grave. Seven generations of Coolidges are buried there all in a row – including Julius Caesar Coolidge, which is the kind of name I’d like to find on the ballot next November (strong on war, but committed to small government). The President’s headstone is no different from those of his forebears or his sons – just a simple granite marker with name and dates: in the summer, if memory serves, there’s a small US flag in front, but if there’s one there now it’s under a ton of snow and only the years of birth and death enable you to distinguish it from the earlier Calvin Coolidges in his line.
I do believe it’s the coolest grave of any head of state I’ve ever stood in front of. “We draw our presidents from the people,” said Coolidge. “I came from them. I wish to be one of them again.” He lived the republican ideal most of our political class merely pays lip service to.
Afterwards, we stopped at the cheese factory his son John owned until 1998 and bought a round of their excellent granular curd cheese.