William McKinley In My Grandfather's Attic

By Craig: I think that I first developed an interest in history before I was 5 years old. some of my earliest memories were of the staircase leading up to the large attic in my grandfather's house. It creaked with every step, even for a young, curious boy like myself who probably only weighed 30-40 pounds. The house was built in the late 19th century, and the attic was filled with stuff from my great-grandparents day. Old newspapers and magazines decaying with age were littered across the floor. Most of the magazines had dates pre-dating the Great War. Edwardian attire with old shoes, hats and other garments still waited for their owners to dust them off and don them. I could almost imagine a late 19th century dandy with outlandish looking whiskers hastily coming through the door to gather his top hat. He would look at me and wink.
"I've been looking for this bloody thing for 80 years!" He would say, before tilting his hat and disappearing in a ghostly mist through the wall.




Indeed, This part of the house was so isolated and remote from the living that it reeked of age and the long ago dead. I was too much of a coward to venture into this time tunnel without my twin brother at my side. Together we would investigate this room of historical mystery. We would play with the hand painted toy soldiers, and look through the crooked window that overlooked the Worcester skyline. But the window was high, and being only a child I could see nothing but the blue sky and clouds where I would sometimes believe that I saw biplanes from another time performing acrobatic feats that the Red Baron himself would have found astonishing. When I was a little older and able to read I recall going through the old newspapers and magazines and reading about events that had long since been forgotten, or had at least dimmed in the consciousness of the living. For some unexplainable reason when I think of my grandfather's attic today, an image of William McKinley pops into my head. One of the books in my grandfather's bookcase was a memorial tribute to the 25th President which was published shortly after he was assassinated in 1901. I do not know how my grandfather acquired the book. He was born in 1907. Perhaps it was his father's book, or perhaps it was in the house when he bought it. I do not know. Some of the newspapers in the attic were updates on the Spanish-American war. It was as if McKinley's ghost inhabited part of this house.


A few years ago I found a copy of the McKinley Tribute in a bookstore for a relatively cheap price. They must have made tons of them after his death so that it was still relatively easy to find. Like most biographies of that time period, the subject is portrayed as having no faults. In fact he is treated as an almost divine figure. He is referred to as "Our Martyred President."

William McKinley (1843-1901)

William McKinley was born in Trumbull County Ohio on January 29, 1843. He was the son of a manager of a blast furnace. His family was middle class and he therefore was afforded the opportunity of attending college. Shortly after enrolling, however, the Civil War broke out and McKinley enlisted in the 23rd Ohio Infantry Regiment. He saw action at Antietam and shortly thereafter his leadership skills were recognized and he was given an officers commission. He served in various capacities throughout the war and was recognized by Abraham Lincoln for "gallant and meritorious services at the battle of the Opiquan, Cedar Creek, and Fisher's Hill,."

After the war McKinley attended law school in Albany and worked as a lawyer before entering politics. He served in the U.S. House of Representatives and Governor of Ohio before being elected President in the 1896 election. McKinley was perhaps best known for his support of the gold Standard, and the Spanish-American War which was the first large scale conflict in the United States since the Civil War. Six months after McKinley's reelection he decided to attend the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo New York. Inside of a building known as "The Temple of Music" he shook hands with a number of people before an assassin named Leon Czolgosz fired two .32 caliber bullets into him. One of the bullets lodged in his abdomen and was never found. McKinley died of an infection eight days after the shooting. Czolgosz was an anarchist who believed that the American economic system was flawed, and the disparity in income between the rich and the poor needed to be addressed. He was executed in the electric chair less than two months after the assassination.

The years have rolled by and it has now been 114 years since McKinley's assassination. There are only a handful of people alive on the planet today that saw the same sunrise as President McKinley, and they were too young then to remember it now.

I find myself going back in time. It is the 1970s and I am about 8 years old. I am with my brother sitting on the wooden floor in my grandfather's musty attic. I look at an old chaise covered with white linen when suddenly a gust of wind blowing through the open window sweeps the linen from the chair. There is a noise coming from below...it is the stairs!...they are creaking. Someone is slowly coming up. Soon I see what is making the noise. It is a gentleman in a late 19th century black coat wearing a top hat. The gentleman is holding his abdomen and it is all too obvious who it is. He is black and white, for it is a black and white world from which he has come. He pays no heed to us as he sits in the chaise and crosses his legs. His baggy eyes look weary as if he has been traveling for some time and looking for a place to rest. He looks up toward the crooked window and suddenly his countenance changes. A hint of a smile perhaps? Or maybe it is curiosity?

"An aeroplane" He says softly, finally looking at us. "I knew it would come to fruition."

I did not quite understand him. I only knew that it was a changing of the guard...an old world...which was his...and the new world...which was mine. This attic belonged to him...not me. It was his world...not mine. My brother and I stood up as another gust of wind blew through the window and turned some fragile yellowed pages of the Boston Post to dust. The generations come and go, and one day, I too will outlive my time, and someone will be searching the remnants of it left behind for the living. We left President McKinley, who was smiling, and no longer in pain. He had finally found his peace...in his own time...in my grandfather's attic.