Grandmère

by David B. Roosevelt

  The more I read, researched, and studied, the more I found that I really knew little of this simple yet so complex woman. The more previously published works I read, many by people who knew her intimately as a friend and even mentor, the more convinced I became that something was lacking in their otherwise insightful works, and that was the very personal side of Grandmère. I came to see her life as a web of triangular relationships. From her youngest childhood until some time after my grandfather’s death, Grandmère seemed to always end up caught in the middle of two powerful individuals, individuals who then helped her to define who she was within their psychological triangle. Hers was a life of tragedy, self-doubt, and unhappiness, barriers she fought constantly; moreover, it was a life of paradox at every turn.

  What I hope to accomplish here is to provide my children, future generations of my family, and you with the story of Grandmère, as told from that perspective of pride we all hold for our grandparents—mine just happen to be two of the most celebrated of modern times. I try to give as complete an overview of the many facets of her life and personality as possible, but with the full realization that this is not a definitive study. The more I have learned of her accomplishments and her life, the more I have come to respect—indeed, be influenced by—her legacy. But this legacy is not for me, my family, nor my family’s future generations. It is a legacy for every man, woman, and child, whether American or world citizen.

  Grandmère would say of my grandfather that he possessed an incredible strength of perseverance in the face of many challenges. I would have to believe that she, perhaps, served as a model of perseverance for him. I suspect that she provided him with inspiration more often than he inspired her, and yet together they formed a unique, if not truly extraordinary, partnership. Many marvel at the strength of Franklin Roosevelt in overcoming a debilitating physical malady and achieving great status in political history. I marvel at the resiliency of Grandmère in overcoming personal defeat and tragedy, not once but many times over, always to emerge stronger, more knowledgeable, more committed. Grandmère had every right, if not expectation, to grow doubtful and bitter toward humanity, but she chose to believe, and above all to fight for her beliefs, in the innate goodness of humanity. Her instinct to nurture those far beyond her closest family never waned.

  While Franklin Roosevelt may have been considered a father to a generation of Americans, Grandmère was a mother, and grandmother, to the world. Her inspiration perseveres for my generation, for that of my children, for you, and I hope for generations to come.

  A Special Contribution by Her Royal Highness Princess Margriet of the Netherlands

  HET LOO

  THE NUMBER OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE PERSONAL memories of Eleanor Roosevelt is probably limited. They must be an even more select group when only Europeans are counted. I have the honour and pleasure of belonging to this group.

  I was born in Canada during the Second World War. Not in The Netherlands, but in exile, in Canada. The Roosevelt White House and The House of Orange became closely connected during those years. My grandmother Queen Wilhelmina, my parents and I, as a baby, were frequent guests at Hyde Park and at the White House.

  President Franklin Roosevelt died a mere three weeks before The Netherlands was liberated by the Allied Powers. As a token of gratitude for his leadership in the war efforts of the United States, my parents asked him to become my godfather. Proud as he was of his Dutch ancestry, he gladly agreed. This created the special bond between him, Eleanor and myself, which I still cherish today. I was named after him: Margriet Francisca.

  As his goddaughter I was present at the dedication of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial in Washington, D.C., in 1997, for which occasion a new rose variety had been cultivated, bearing his name, as a subtle reminder that “Roosevelt” is Dutch for “Field of Roses.”

  In The Netherlands the memory of both Franklin and Eleanor is kept alive by the annual presentation of the “Four Freedoms Awards,” reminding us of the four freedoms they believed every individual had a right to: freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from want and the freedom from fear.

  This was the cause Eleanor continued to defend after Franklin’s death. In the words of the poet Archibald MacLeish: If democracy had saints, Mrs. Roosevelt would be one.

  I hope these memories and reflections show how happy I am to introduce this book to you.

  Part One

  “Little Texas” invades Grandmère’s home at Val-Kill.

  Grandmère

  When we were children we used to collect pine cones and paint them with airplane paint and then put sparkly things on them… She would burn them in the fireplace, and they made pretty colors when you burnt them. It was great! And she really just loved those things that children end up doing for you. It was the love that she loved coming from us.

  —Nina Roosevelt

  THERE ARE MOMENTS OF CHILDHOOD that lodge in our memories and sometimes linger there tenaciously for the rest of our lives. This or that instant, rather than a million others, sheds light and glows warmly years after the moment. I have many such vivid memories pervaded by the presence of Grandmère. Though photographs exist of me as a small child sitting on my grandfather’s knee at the White House or at home in Texas, my earliest and most vivid memories are of holidays spent in unadulterated freedom at Grandmère’s Val-Kill, her beloved home and retreat from a hectic life in upstate New York.

  An intense feeling of anticipation marked the beginning of school holidays, when I would fly in the early days of American Airlines from my family’s home in Fort Worth to New York, and then take the train up the Hudson River Valley to Poughkeepsie, where I was met by my father and stepmother and, of course, Grandmère. In fact, as happens so often with small children, the sheer pitch of the excitement of being once more in the thrilling atmosphere of Grandmère’s home surrounded by an onslaught of cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, and the occasional famous visitor would at times be overwhelming. But the return to Grandmère’s Val-Kill was the highlight of many holidays. Perhaps because I lived so far away with my mother, sister, and brother, the times spent with Grandmère were all the more special to me. For a small, ever-inquisitive child, the endless stream of activities and interesting people in her home made it the most absorbing, wonderful place imaginable.

  Upon arriving at Val-Kill I would be swept up into the busy, adventurous atmosphere that surrounded Grandmère. My older brother, Tony (Elliott Jr.), and my sister, Chandler, had that same sense of Val-Kill. For us it was a time to be reunited with our father, who, after the divorce from my mother and subsequent remarriage, lived for a period at Top Cottage, just a short walk from Grandmère’s through dense woods. But while that reunion was always a time anticipated, the real excitement lay just down the hill at Val-Kill.

  For us children, Val-Kill was paradise. There were few rules and even fewer schedules, and we were left free to do practically whatever we wanted—riding horses across the open fields and through the woods, boating in the Fall-Kill Pond, carousing with cousins for endless hours, swimming in the pool, playing games or drawing on rainy days in the Playhouse. Grandmère was always attentive and warm, and we had the constant feeling that no matter what important person had come to see her or what her work demanded, her grandchildren always came first. She used to call me the “little cowboy” or “little Texas” because of my penchant for wearing cowboy boots and shorts, my favorite attire as a small child. And though I might have been a charming and engaging little boy, as some said, even then I was hardheaded and self-driven. Never one for napping in the afternoon like the other small children, I would spend hours playing outside and making up great adventures, and then I would tear through the house at great speeds to get to her bathroom (usually the closest to wherever I might be at the time of urgent discovery!), racing through the study where Grandmère might be quietly working with Tommy, or in later years Maureen Corr, or meeting with important people. It seems I always waited until the very last minute
to make that urgent mad dash. She never scolded me or grew agitated in the least by the carryings on of her grandchildren, despite the fact that there were often many of us causing utter chaos. Of course, I’m certain even we could push the limits of her patience, but perhaps I have just forgotten those rare moments.

  Grandmère with my cousins Nina, Sally, and an elderly Fala.

  I think I must have been aware that Grandmère was an important person—surely I knew she was somehow special. But to me she was simply my grandmother, and I related to her in that warm, intimate way a small child does to someone who is consistently loving and attentive. She had an amazing facility for engaging even very small children in conversation. I remember her as always encouraging me to tell her about myself, the things I was doing, and what interested me, no matter how young I was. I could go on walks with her if I wanted to talk about something special, or she would often invite me to go with her to run errands in the village of Hyde Park. We would go to the post office or grocery shopping, and local people would always greet her with “Good morning, Mrs. R” or address her as “Mrs. Roosevelt.” To my memory, only a few of her closest friends and family ever called Grandmère by her first name, Eleanor, perhaps out of deep respect. Minnewa Bell, my father’s fourth wife, used to call her “Mother R,” a salutation that many of her other daughters-in-law used as well.

  Grandmère’s Val-Kill was a very special place, not just to me but to practically everyone who visited there. I find it interesting today when I return to listen to the reactions of other visitors: “Why, it’s so simple, so unimposing, not at all what I would have expected!” Yet others will remark on its serenity, and immediately understand how it could be so important to Grandmère. For me, it is merely a place of so many memories, so many wonderful times spent with my grandmother—nothing more, nothing less.

  A typical summer day around the Val-Kill pool with cousins and siblings. My sister Chandler took these photographs in 1947.

  THE GREATEST THING I’VE EVER LEARNED IS HOW GOOD IT IS TO COME HOME AGAIN.

  —Eleanor Roosevelt

  Val-Kill

  The Hudson Valley meant a great deal to Grandmère. Her attachment to the area hearkened back to childhood years spent at her own maternal grandmother’s great house, Tivoli, high on the banks of the Hudson River; frequent visits to Clermont and Algonac, the estates of her extended family; and her later days at Springwood, the modest yet still imposing estate of FDR and her eventual mother-in-law, Sara. And as time would pass, it was here in the Valley that she would choose to make her own home at Val-Kill, a place that nourished her deepest need for tranquility and regeneration… a place uniquely hers. In a letter to her friend Lorena Hickok, she wrote, “I shall always be a part of it here.” Val-Kill represented the universe that Grandmère loved and cherished, a sanctuary and a home filled with family and friends, where the rituals of the Roosevelt clan were celebrated and where everyone gathered in the summers and holidays.

  Val-Kill today is much the same as I remember it as a child; virtually everything in this place of powerful landscape and memory remains untouched. A simple wooden gate marks the road winding its way beneath the canopy of trees—mostly old birches and fir and pine—flanking the virgin woods and green fields that once belonged to it as part of the original Springwood estate that belonged to FDR’s parents, James and Sara. The National Park Service, caretakers of this now National Historic Site, have marked the entry by a slightly formal yet unobtrusive sign that identifies it as Val-Kill, home of Eleanor Roosevelt. Immediately one notices the quiet and tranquility, broken only by the sounds of a breeze in the branches and the melodic cacophony of birds. Less than a mile up the narrow road one crosses a rickety wooden bridge (more substantial today than when I was a child) marking where Fall-Kill Pond once again becomes Fall-Kill Stream. It is at this point that one enters the realm of Eleanor Roosevelt’s private world, the only place she would ever refer to as home.

  The Hudson Valley is full of beautiful landscapes and imposing homes, but to me Val-Kill is the epitome of the idyllic New York setting. The cluster of gray-stone buildings at the top of the expansive natural lawn, giving way to the small pond and stream surrounded by ancient trees, sit serenely in a landscape of unanticipated beauty, windows catching the last rays of a late summer sunset. The Stone Cottage with its simple Dutch architecture and the “Shop,” all so plain as to lull the visitor into thinking they have arrived at the wrong destination. This layered scenery was home to Grandmère and her beloved assistant and friend Malvina Thompson, “Tommy,” who maintained her own comfortable private quarters in a wing of Grandmère’s house until her death. It was to Val-Kill that Grandmère escaped to replenish her energy, to rejuvenate her spirit, to work in solitude, and to simply relax.

  Grandmère and her friends Nancy Cook and Marion Dickerman wanted a getaway place that could also sustain itself through a small business enterprise attached to it. Thus, the idea of Val-Kill was first born. Grandmère had never been comfortable at my grandfather’s home, Springwood, feeling that it would always be Sara and FDR’s domain. And so she convinced my grandfather to give her and her friends property at a far end of the Springwood estate to build a cottage retreat and small furniture factory. The original structure, the Stone Cottage, home to Nancy and Marion (and Grandmère when she could manage to escape her busy schedule), was gleefully designed by my grandfather in the Dutch tradition.

  The second structure was the Shop, which housed Val-Kill Industries, a small furniture factory started by Grandmère, Nancy, and Marion. It was here, during the Depression, that local craftsmen were afforded the opportunity to turn out beautifully simplistic pieces of early American furniture, to forge pieces of pewter, and to create a variety of woven materials. Even today, Val-Kill furniture is much sought after by collectors for its simple style and masterful craftsmanship. But despite Nancy’s considerable artistic talents and seemingly tireless energy, encouraged by some early recognition at furniture shows in New York City, Val-Kill Industries simply could not make itself financially viable. The strain of the demise of the little business began exacting a toll on the threesome’s friendship, and after several infusions of capital by Grandmère, Val-Kill Industries was eventually liquidated in 1937.

  Some historians have speculated that the final split between the almost inseparable friends was the result of Marion and Nancy’s almost overwhelming possessiveness toward Grandmère. I, on the other hand, think it was probably a natural evolution of Grandmère’s emergence as a personality in her own right, a transformation aided if not abetted by her two friends. Nevertheless, the final split seems to have followed Grandmère’s decision to renovate the former factory into her own home, while allowing Marion and Nancy to remain at the Stone Cottage. But soon the tensions became too great, and Grandmère offered to purchase their share of Val-Kill at a most generous, perhaps inflated, price. When her offer was accepted, Grandmère finally had her own private domain. It was at this time that Val-Kill truly became her home, and hers alone.

  There are not and never were trappings of grandeur at Val-Kill. The Stone Cottage remains much as it originally was, and the Shop is still the unobtrusive stucco building of rather small rooms that underwent modest renovation to become Grandmère’s living quarters. Knotty-pine panels encase several of the rooms in her cottage, and the many windows beckon in the sunlight. Her second-floor bedroom faces the stream and pond, overlooks the fields beyond, and enjoys a marvelous sleeping porch where she would sleep even in winter and where I would beg, unsuccessfully, to spend my nights. There are also a few guest rooms on this floor where parents, friends, family, and even the most important dignitaries would stay when visiting.

  Workroom in the Val-Kill factory, later Grandmère’s home.

  Finally, there was also a small “maid’s room” toward the rear and—all the way at one end of the floor, far enough away so as to minimize the inevitable noise and ruckus—a larger bedroom that served for a time as addition
al office space but more typically as a “bunkroom” for assorted young grandchildren. But to us grandchildren the most exciting feature on the second floor was the “Christmas closet,” where Grandmère would store all of the family presents she collected throughout the year.

  The ground floor, laid out almost like a rabbit warren of small rooms, to me at least holds most of the special memories. Warm and cozy, it provided an atmosphere of simplicity and relaxation for everyone who entered, from friends and family to the rich and powerful. Coming in through the front door (the back door in reality) straight down the narrow hallway one enters the dining room. The long, narrow table was the centerpiece of many “intimate” dinners, often with twenty or more squeezed in. It was not unusual to hear Grandmère say to the cook, “There will only be eighteen for dinner tonight.” Be it family, friends, or guests, the conversation was always lively and without the least bit of protocol. When the dinners included my father and uncles, the conversation would inevitably turn to politics, which would usually include lots of good-natured arguing, joking, and at times even serious disagreements. As I recall, Grandmère would hardly ever participate in those discussions, preferring to let the brothers fight it out, often amused at their bantering. If guests worried about the liveliness of the dinner discussions, when it could at times look as if the Roosevelt children were about to murder each other, Grandmère would reassure them good-naturedly, “Plenty of variety but basically a great deal of unity.”