Poor James Buchanan

On my second trip to Mercersburg, I visited James Buchanan’s Birthplace State Park. Just like his presidency, the State Park dedicated to him isn’t much to speak about either; a mere 46 acres with no hiking trails, a couple of picnic tables, a restroom and shelter house. There is a granite pyramid marking his birthplace, but I was left unimpressed.

The surrounding nature, however, was impressive. The forest was a lush green. The trees were tall. The streams flowed over waterfalls making what some would call “babbling.” A late afternoon sun dappled the undergrowth with highlight of gold. Shadow and light gave the terrain a hypnotic dimension. The only thing to break the spell of nature was the couple of lovers or potheads in their Toyota Corolla cruising up and down the lane trying to find some privacy for their planned deeds.

Guarding the entrance to the park is a dilapidated house with basement paneling for exterior walls. Cars on blocks dot the yard. Rustling through the trees is the song from the movie Deliverance. James Buchanan, our 15th President, blamed for the Civil War, commemorated by a place like the country he led: beautiful but scarred.