If we were just talking about accomplishments, there’s no doubt Calvin Coolidge would have admired his predecessor, John Quincy Adams.

During his illustrious career Adams served as a diplomat, secretary of state, sixth President of the United States, and only former president to serve in the House of Representatives. He was fluent in several languages, devoured books like they were breath mints, and could debate theological and philosophical issues before breakfast. Before becoming president, he was even nominated by James Madison to be a justice on the Supreme Court and was unanimously confirmed by the Senate, only to turn down the opportunity because he didn’t think it would be sufficiently interesting.

Of course, he also thought the earth might be hollow, hiding an underground secret civilization, but no one is perfect.

In short, the man practically glowed with brilliance — metaphorically and, as it turns out, quite literally.

Coolidge vs. the Glow

Then we have Calvin Coolidge, the 30th President of the United States and a man whose love of silence was only matched by his intolerance for ocular distractions. “Silent Cal,” as he was affectionately — and accurately — nicknamed, had little patience for small talk or reflective surfaces. Which brings us to a surprising (and admittedly hilarious) dispute between the 6th and 30th presidents. It might just be the most literal example of dimming someone’s legacy.

The Offending Portrait

Adams’ official presidential portrait was proudly displayed in the State Dining Room of the White House — a fitting honor for a man of his gravitas. But the painting had a tiny, unfortunate side effect: the artist, whether out of reverence or mischief, had rendered Adams’ shiny, bald head with a gleam that would put a car commercial to shame. And when the sun hit it just right? Boom — retinal assault by historical brilliance.

Coolidge Takes Action

Coolidge tried to ignore it. He really did. After all, what kind of Commander-in-Chief lets a painting get under his skin? But day after day, as the sun filtered in and spotlighted Adams’ forehead like a celestial joke, Coolidge had enough.

According to at least one report in the annals of presidential oddities (a surprisingly crowded file cabinet), Coolidge had a servant bring him some ashes and a rag. He then climbed the ladder himself — presumably in complete silence — and gently rubbed the ashes over the gleaming dome of Adams’ painted head, dulling the reflection just enough to protect his presidential peepers during dinner.

Legacy, Lightly Smudged

Problem solved. The light dimmed. The dinner continued. And the portrait of John Quincy Adams became just a little less brilliant, all in the name of peace and quiet.

Some leaders wage wars. Some sign treaties. Calvin Coolidge tackled glare with fireplace soot and quiet resolve. And somewhere in the great beyond, we imagine John Quincy Adams — polymath, philosopher, and now mildly matte — shaking his head in bemused disbelief.

Because in the grand tapestry of American history, there’s always room for one more smudge of absurdity.

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