by J. B. West
One day, Park Service Director Conrad Wirth was confronted by the President’s District of Columbia liaison officer, who was concerned about the shape of D. C. park land. “We just can’t do all these other things in the District because we have to spend all our money at the White House,” Wirth said.
This remark got back to the President, who bawled him out for making such a statement, and Conrad Wirth was sorry he’d ever opened his mouth, even if it were the truth. The White House grounds project cost nearly $200,000.
Mrs. Paul Mellon, a close personal friend of the Kennedys as well as an authority on horticulture, designed and supervised the President’s favorite spot, the Rose Garden outside his office window. But the labor, the biggest expense, came from the Park Service. And most of the plantings that were brought to the Rose Garden were taken from other government property in the area. Mrs. Mellon would drive around the city, and when she saw a cherry tree or a magnolia tree that she liked, she had it dug up and replanted in the White House garden.
At first, President Kennedy spent a good portion of his time with me poring over the mansion’s budget, searching for ways to keep spending down. He finally gave up, realizing full well that the $500,000 in our appropriation was too inadequate, too limited to operate the White House, and that we had to siphon quite a bit of our upkeep from other government agencies.
Despite the impossibility of Presidential accounting, I think I can safely say that the Kennedys spent no more of the public’s money than did the previous or succeeding administrations. Streamlining the menus helped cut food costs, and, all in all, they held fewer official functions in the White House. The more elaborate functions, such as the dinner for Ayub Khan at Mount Vernon, were partially subsidized by private donors, and, of course, all of the entertainment was free. Nevertheless, President and Mrs. Kennedy certainly spent a lot more of their own money, did more elaborate private entertaining, had more servants, and took more trips.
8
AT FIRST, MRS. KENNEDY hated the title “First Lady.” Provy had sent me a note signed “First Lady’s Maid,” asking if she were to eat in the basement with the White House staff. I took the note up to Mrs. Kennedy, to explain that the maids could stagger their lunch hour, so that someone would be on duty all the time, and the young President’s wife spied the words “First Lady.”
“Please, Mr. West, the one thing I do not want to be called is First Lady. It sounds like a saddle horse. Would you please notify the telephone operators and everyone else that I’m to be known simply as Mrs. Kennedy, and not as First Lady.” So I did.
But later on, she realized what her position meant—that there is only one such person in the country. When her husband’s mother called, the operators would say, “Mrs. Joseph is on the line …,” and Jacqueline Kennedy said to me, “At the beginning I didn’t know how it would be. I am the Mrs. Kennedy. I am the First Lady.”
She had begun to enjoy the title, and the life, more than anyone ever suspected that she would. Proud of her accomplishments, confident of her position, sure of her staff, she was ready to sit back and relax for the next few years.
“Just think, Mr. West,” she said as she surveyed the antique-filled White House. “You’ll be able to take a good, long rest!”
In the spring of 1963, there seemed to be few hazards for the Kennedys. The President was enjoying greater success in both domestic and international affairs. The dark days of the Bay of Pigs, the Cuban missile crisis, the tough confrontation with Khrushchev, the near-showdown over Berlin were now behind him. The United States and Russia had stopped rattling nuclear missiles at each other, and had signed a nuclear-test-ban treaty.
At home the President seemed to have the economy really humming again, helped by the passage of tax measures to stimulate the economy and by an international tariff agreement. The President was now turning to confront the tough domestic issues of race relations and poverty. Mr. Kennedy already was starting to plan for a reelection campaign more than a year away, and he started venturing out into the country, where he received enthusiastic praise for his peace moves with the Russians.
Also, that spring of 1963, I saw once again how Presidents think ahead about their place in history. They are concerned about how their record on issues of war and peace will be judged in the future, about how the laws that they initiated will be seen in the long, continuing stream of American life. And they also think about monuments to themselves. For example, on April 2, 1963, after only two years in office, President Kennedy already was planning his Presidential library. On that day, Mrs. Kennedy sent me a memorandum:
Would Mr. Arata know of any wonderful wood carver? The absurd reason I ask this is that I am thinking very far ahead: In his Library, the President (like President Truman) wishes to have a replica of his office—heaven knows, he picked the worst possible desk to duplicate.
I thought if there was a wood carver around, perhaps, he could do such a thing by stucco, or wax impressions—would you find this out, perhaps from Smithsonian? You could tell them that some museum wants a duplicate of the desk, the best way this could be done, and let me know when you do.
Unfortunately, the technique turned up by the Park Service for duplicating the elaborately-carved desk was far too costly, and the project was abandoned. (And ironically, the desk itself, presented by Queen Victoria and used upstairs by Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman, was shipped all over the world a year later as part of an exhibit of Kennedy memorabilia to raise funds for the construction of the Kennedy Library. The desk itself is now in the Smithsonian.)
Though she stayed away from his official life, Mrs. Kennedy worked lovingly to decorate her husband’s office. At one point in 1963, she asked me to push Boudin to finish the office for the President’s birthday.
And she was always sensitive to his comfort, whether in his office or the living quarters. After we created the new second-floor drawing room (the Yellow Oval Room, which had been a study for past Presidents), which the Kennedys used for entertainment and for late afternoon or evening business, the President found things that made him uneasy about his new “easy room.” He also had similar complaints about his office, and Mrs. Kennedy noted both to me:
The sofas in the yellow oval room in front of the fireplace are still awfully deep and every one seems to hate to sit on them as they can’t get up….
Also, the President says that the softest sofas in his office are a bit low, and everybody doesn’t like to be sitting that much lower than he is…. Could you see what can be done to raise them…. Go sit on one and see if you think they are too “squishy” and deep.
She also was concerned that his surroundings reflect his own personality and went to great effort selecting objects and furnishings which would please him. At one point, trying to balance the desires of the President, Boudin, and her own very detailed sense of decor, she noted to me: “I know the President loves a red rug but ask Boudin if he does not think it too obvious (or banal? in French) to do the Pres. office in red, white and blue. Let’s have no blue….”
When I heard about Mrs. Kennedy’s pregnancy, I teased her about planning her life so that she could avoid campaigning in the 1964 election. She laughed and gave me her secret, knowing look. But she set herself a task that spring of 1963, that would give her plenty to do all summer. She was busy planning the gift she wanted to give the President on their wedding anniversary in September.
The gift consisted of three scrapbooks, a project I helped her put together. The elaborate books were entitled: “The White House—Before and After,” “The President’s Park,” and “The Making of a Garden.”
Enough work went into those scrapbooks to qualify them as fine art books. We searched historical records for pictures from past White House history. Mrs. Kennedy laid out in great detail the picture scenario from the Kennedy years. The range of photographs she sought covered such simple, loving scenes as “a sweet one of John sniffing tulips and wearing a red jacket.” And then there w
ere the events of history, such as President Kennedy ordering the National Guard to restore order at the University of Mississippi, where whites had rioted following the admission of the school’s first black student.
In May, before she left for the beach at Hyannis, she wrote me a long, detailed note—planning weekends, matching colors in adjoining rooms, and decorating the President’s office. She concluded with plans for the baby she was expecting:
… And that is ALL. All I want for the nursery (present childrens dining room) is a pair of curtains like Johns room & (which Lucinda is doing) & white glass curtains you can still see through—like Johns—& a white rug not wall to wall—I don’t think the one in the childrens & my room is too practical—I’d just have Anne buy a rather shaggy inexpensive one at Sloanes which we can throw in washing machine—& a rubber pad beneath it.
And for the waiters not to walk through there—& not through my hall either!—or not when I may be around—only for Pres lunch & nap—can they go through—So how will they get out? They may have to use elevator & go upstairs & come down—or you can cut them a trap door in fireplace—but I dont see that they have that much reason to go back & forth there—cleaning boys can learn to come down stairs by elevator or Q room & NEVER go near pantry—unless by servants elevator—as they are only ones who need to go back & forth—& if they would just take a different route—the 2nd suggested—all would be well—
Next yr I wont do one single thing & recuperate for 6 months—so you will have that to look forward to—
Thank you—
JBK
It seems that the baby would live in the “high-chair room,” a tiny room between little John’s room and the Presidential Dining Room, which had been President Eisenhower’s painting room, Mrs. Truman’s office, and, before that, Mrs. Roosevelt’s office.
The day after Mrs. Kennedy left for Cape Cod, we went to work on the nursery. Even though much touching-up on the house was needed, we scheduled the baby’s room as first priority.
By June 15, the stark little room was gone, and a blue-and-white baby’s room appeared, with John’s white crib and crisp white curtains, and a soft white (washable) rug.
Even though the First Lady was out of town and out of touch, the White House was busy—repairing rugs, repainting walls, and generally keeping tidy for the President, who did a good amount of private entertaining while his wife and children were away.
We received word from the Secret Service of Patrick Bouvier Kennedy’s premature birth on August 7 at Otis Air Force Base in Massachusetts, and listened to hourly reports of the baby’s progress, from the Base Hospital to Childrens Hospital in Boston, where he died on August 9.
Immediately I called the carpenter shop.
“Get the rug up, the crib back in storage, the curtains off the windows,” I ordered. “Bring back the refrigerator and the table and chairs. It should look just like it did before.”
Quietly, within two days, we set the children’s dining room in order.
When Mrs. Kennedy returned on September 23, nothing was said about the nursery. Tired, worn and sad, she came back to the White House to meet Haile Selassie, the Emperor of Ethiopia, at Union Station. As guests arrived for the stag dinner in his honor, she left on a plane for Greece. She spent six weeks recovering there, and sailed with her sister on Aristotle Onassis’ magnificent yacht.
On October 17, Mrs. Kennedy came back from Greece, suntanned but exhausted, and she took her family to the country for the weekend. On Monday morning, she called me into her bedroom. Her dark hair was tousled, her light robe very feminine against the soft blue of her bed. Her eyes were full of mischief.
“Oh, Mr. West,” she whispered in her beguiling child’s voice. “I’ve gotten myself into something. Can you help me get out of it?”
“What can I do?” I asked, wondering who was next in line to be fired.
“I’ve invited someone to stay here,” she said, “but now we’ve changed our minds.” She cast a glance in the direction of the President’s bedroom. “Could you help us cook up something so we can get out of having her as a houseguest?”
Without waiting for a reply, she rushed on, her request becoming a command in mid-breath. “Would you fix up the Queen’s Room and the Lincoln Room so that it looks like we’re still decorating them, and I’ll show her that our guest rooms are not available.” Her eyes twinkled, imagining the elaborate deception.
“The guest rooms will be redecorated immediately,” I said, and almost clicked my heels.
I called Bonner Arrington in the carpenter’s shop. “Bring drop-cloths up to the Queen’s Room and Lincoln Bedroom. Roll up the rugs and cover the draperies and chandeliers, and all the furniture,” I instructed. “Oh yes, and bring a stepladder.”
I called the paint shop.
“I need six paint buckets each for the Queen’s Room and the Lincoln Room. Two of the buckets in each room should be empty—off-white—and I need four or five dirty brushes.”
I met the crews on the second floor. “Now proceed to make these two rooms look as if they’re being redecorated,” I directed.
“You mean you don’t want us to paint?” said the painters.
“No,” I said. “Just make it look as if you are.”
The crew had a good time, even though they didn’t know what it was all about. As I brought in the finishing touches, ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, Bonner shook his head.
“Mr. West, all I can say is that this place has finally got to you,” he said.
That evening the President and Mrs. Kennedy entertained a Princess for dinner upstairs in the President’s Dining Room. Before dinner, though, President Kennedy strolled down to the East Hall with his wife’s guest. He pointed out the bedraped Queen’s Room.
“… And you see, this is where you would have spent the night if Jackie hadn’t been redecorating again,” he told the unsuspecting lady.
The next morning, Mrs. Kennedy phoned me.
“Mr. West, you outdid yourself,” she exclaimed. “The President almost broke up when he saw those ashtrays.”
Four days later, Mrs. Kennedy outdid herself.
Her caper began when Barbara Keehn called me from the east wing office to ask if we could have a surprise birthday party for Nancy Tuckerman. “Sure,” I said and set up the arrangements with the head butler and René.
When Mrs. Kennedy drove in from Wexford later that morning, I told her about the party.
“Great,” she said. “I want to come. What time?”
“Four o’clock,” I replied. “In the movie theater. All the White House staff and the social office will be there.”
At three the telephone rang.
“Would you please come up to my dressing room?” the First Lady asked.
She was seated in a straight-backed chair in front of her dressing table with hairdresser Jean-Paul behind her (Mr. Kenneth only came down from New York for the big occasions), applying huge blue rollers to her dripping hair. Her hands were extended to a manicurist.
As if on cue, Wilma, the second-floor maid, came in.
“Wilma, please bring me one of Miss Shaw’s uniforms,” Mrs. Kennedy said, smiling at me.
When Wilma appeared with the large, white-starched dress that belonged to Caroline’s nurse, the First Lady said, “Now, Wilma, get me one of my wigs.”
Wilma opened the closet, and brought out a dark, bouffant head of hair. And Mrs. Kennedy said, “Mr. West, you’re going to wear these to the party and be Miss Ward, our housemother from Miss Porter’s school. And I want you to put a sign around your neck saying, ‘Miss Ward,’ so people will know who you are.”
“I’m not going to do it,” I said.
“Oh, yes, you are, Mr. West,” she sang.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. And then you have three of the ushers dress up as our school teams, one as a possum, one as a squirrel, and one as a mink.”
“If you want three good ushers to qui
t on the spot, all I have to do is tell them that,” I said.
“Well, anyway, you’re going to dress up….”
I tried to interrupt.
“… and I want you to get Betsy Boyd to come down and teach everybody the school song. That’s where the animals come in.”
About half an hour before the party, I went down and put on Miss Shaw’s uniform and Mrs. Kennedy’s wig, locking all the doors so nobody, especially not my three ushers, could see me.
Everybody—the east wing staff, the household staff, the curator’s office—rehearsed the song in the movie theater. Mrs. Kennedy, now coiffed and manicured, came down at the last minute, and directed the skit.
At 4:15, everybody stood in a circle holding hands, Mrs. Kennedy in the ring, and I stood in the center of the circle, as Miss Ward, when the unsuspecting Nancy walked in.
“Farmington, we sing to thee and to thy dear name …,” they sang, and then broke into “Happy Birthday.” Nancy couldn’t believe her eyes.
“All this without a drop to drink,” she exclaimed.
After we had all sampled Ferdinand’s birthday cake, I turned to the group. “And now for the entertainment,” I announced.
Nancy Hough, from the Curator’s office, had perfected an imitation of Mrs. Kennedy’s voice, with which she had been known to send people scurrying all over the White House with her whispered instructions on the phone. So she proceeded to mimic the First Lady for Nancy Tuckerman, with Mrs. Kennedy right in the audience. Jim Ketchum, as the irrepressible Boudin, joined in the fun, and the two “restored” the movie theater for five full minutes, with a hilarious take-off on the First Lady.
Mrs. Kennedy howled. Nancy Hough’s voice, her intonation, her phrasing so perfectly matched her own.
“Oh, I want you to come up and do it for the President some time,” she told Nancy.
Mrs. Kennedy’s mischief that month was infectious. All the White House staff followed her teasing style, inventing pranks of their own.
Mrs. Kennedy, glad to be home, played with the children. All we had to prepare for was the Judiciary Reception on November 20. I was not working the party, for a change. My wife and I had been invited as guests of the Kennedys, and it was Zella’s first time to meet the President.
