Tim Murphy

Tim Murphy

Reporter

Tim Murphy is a reporter in MoJo's DC bureau. Last summer he logged 22,000 miles while blogging about his cross-country road trip for Mother Jones. His writing has been featured in Slate and the Washington Monthly. Email him with tips and insights at tmurphy [at] motherjones [dot] com.

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Extreme Presidential Makeover

| Tue Jul. 6, 2010 10:33 PM PDT

Lancaster, Pennsylvania—Rather than lop off the heads of our failed leaders and shun their names, Americans have an endearing tendency to celebrate their misadventures with schools, highways, cities, and quarries upon quarries worth of marble monuments. And that's what's brought us to Lancaster, and the sprawling estate of our fifteenth president. How do you spin the legacy of a man universally regarded as one of America's worst presidents? If you're Patrick Clarke, director of James Buchanan's Wheatland Estate in Lancaster City, it's simple, really: Talk about his prior work experience. Although Clarke says he doesn't avoid the presidency altogether, they make an effort to place his disastrous one term in the context of a lifetime of public service. It's a bit like a music snob saying, "yeah, I liked their old stuff better." But there's some truth to it: While Buchanan was a terrible president, he was involved (if still terribly) in nearly every major bit of foreign policy during the nation's age of expansion. Plus, Clarke notes, if Buchanan were a little less putrid, no one would have been clamoring for Abraham Lincoln.

Buchanan is noteworthy not just for his innovative style of crisis management, but for the theory that he might have also been our first gay president. Clarke says more than a few tourists have stopped by specifically to pop the is-he-or-isn't-he question: "Some of the tour guides are incensed at the question," Clarke says, "but I tell them, if you want to conclude that James Buchanan was heterosexual, that's fine; if you want to believe that James Buchanan was homosexual, that's fine too." If Clarke has an inclination one way or the other, he doesn't say. "We just don't know," he says. And barring the discovery of, say, the Presidents' Book of Secrets, that's how things will stay. "That's one of the great things about history," he says. "You can just keep on arguing forever." That, and it's full of second chances.

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The View From My Windshield: Fires of Centralia

| Mon Jul. 5, 2010 12:29 PM PDT

Signs of Life: Centralia, Pennsylvania—Outside one of the last remaining residential buildings, a sign points to the coal fire that's forced all but of a handful of Centralia's residents to leave the town (Photo: Tim Murphy).Signs of Life: Centralia, Pennsylvania—Outside one of the last remaining residential buildings, a sign points to the coal fire that's forced all but of a handful of Centralia's residents to leave the town (Photo: Tim Murphy).

Centralia, Pennsylvania: "A Foretaste of Hell"

| Mon Jul. 5, 2010 9:40 AM PDT

Centralia, Pennsylvania—As I've mentioned earlier, one of my interests in this trip is reexamining the map—looking at alternative versions of what the atlas of the United States might look like in the past and present. Perhaps nowhere in America is that vision more clearly defined than in Centralia, where, since 1962, an underground coal fire has smudged, if not entirely erased, an entire village from the map.Road to Nowhere: (Photo: Tim Murphy)Road to Nowhere: (Photo: Tim Murphy)

If Centralia looked a bit more bombed out, it might be less jarring. Thick plumes of smoke and dilapidated shotgun houses are in many ways easier to deal with than a disaster you can't really see. But the town's impact lies in its modest hold on all the senses: Smoke wafting out of small vents on the side of a hill; roads that branch off the state highway but lead to nowhere; carbon monoxide; potholes, cooked by the fires below, which feel like Easy-Bake Ovens. And the sulphur. I went to Iceland, once, when I was barely a teenager, and remember the smell of rotten eggs when I took showers or passed by any sort of geothermal activity, but all the rotten eggs in Altoona couldn't accomplish the same level of unease as my 15 minutes in Centralia. It looks, feels, and smells like the day after the death of civilization. Save for Centralia's last nine residents—who have been ordered to leave by the governor—the only places still showing signs of life are, well, dead: Amid the ruin, the town's cemeteries are immaculately maintained, with fresh-cut flowers and American flags for the veterans.

I was struggling to properly articulate my thoughts on the town, when a middle-aged woman, visiting from southeast Arkansas, offered an epitath: "I think this is a foretaste of hell."

One Hundred Years Later, Twain Still Dead

| Mon Jul. 5, 2010 9:11 AM PDT

Elmira, New York— We don't stop for long in Elmirajust long enough to confirm our worst fear: As expected, Mark Twain is still dead. There's an inverse correlation between the health of a city and the number of signs leading to a single, not especially compelling historic marker; in Elmira, where boarded up storefronts seem to be the default in the city's crumbling downtown (the city's population has dropped by 40 percent since 1950), all signs point to Twain's resting place.

Meanwhile, according to a poster at the front entrance, a black bear has been terrorizing joggers in the cemetery in recent weeks. I suppose that's probably what Twain would have wanted.

 

Ithaca's Fracking Dilemma

| Sun Jul. 4, 2010 6:26 PM PDT

Newfield Hamlet, New York—  Our guide in Ithaca is a retired midwife named Lindy, who in her free time makes her own oven mitts and is working on a children's picture book. Lindy takes us through one of the area's gorges, distinguished by its sheer cliffs of jagged grey shale, which, when wet, take on the complexion and shape of stacks upon stacks of stale baklava. The conversation turns to fracking.

Fracking, for the uninitiated, is the hot new craze (although it's been around for a while) in environmentally scarring resource extraction in which sheets of shale are blasted with water and toxic chemicals to unleash sweet, sweet natural gas deposits. I’ve seen "No Fracking" signs off and on since I left Oneonta a day ago—it's a divisive issue, especially in a region as hard on its luck as this. Anyways, here's Lindy’s view of things:

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