A corner of the living room, center of much of Grandmère’s entertaining.
Directly next to the dining room is the living room, situated just below Grandmère’s bedroom. Here too is a screened porch overlooking the pond. Only slightly more formal than the other rooms, the living room is where Grandmère entertained larger groups of guests. With the windows and French doors draped in simple white linen, overstuffed chairs and sofas, and a fireplace and large mantel full of photographs and memorabilia of special family interest, this is a room enlivened by the spirit of home and memory. It was in this room that cold Christmas Eves were spent with family and friends crowding around as she read the traditional Dickens Christmas Carol, a tradition begun by my grandfather, and it was here that the chaos of Christmas Day was played out when finally the Christmas closet was emptied!
Immediately to the left of the front door was Tommy’s apartment, which also served as Grandmère’s office and study. Chairs and a couch were grouped around another fireplace, often littered with books and papers in some stage of incompleteness, photographs adorning practically every inch of free wall space, and a small desk toward the rear at which Grandmère and Tommy accomplished an incredible amount of work. Following Tommy’s death, this room became the real universe of Eleanor Roosevelt. It was here that she would dictate responses to the thousands of letters she received over the years, work on her magazine and newspaper columns and manuscripts, and write or type the never-ending letters and notes to her children and grandchildren. She never forgot a birthday or other special occasion, and always tried to change her schedule to attend a wedding or graduation. It was in this study that she held private conversations with national and world leaders, men and women of power and influence who would come seeking her advice, counsel, or support on some important issue. The guest list of those entertained at Val-Kill read something like a “Who’s Who” of world power: Madame Chiang Kai-shek, Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands, Marshal Tito, Haile Selassie, Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru of India, the king and queen of England, several members of Scandinavian royalty, Sir Winston Churchill, and Nikita Khrushchev. And it was in this room, this modest office, that she met with John F. Kennedy as he came seeking her all-important support for his election.
clockwise from top left: Grandmère with Princess Juliana; Princes Margriet in a playpen; visitors around the pool; Princess (now Queen) Beatrix in foreground, Princess Irene, and Princess Juliana.
Her office is also where she would feed her voracious appetite for reading everything from the classics to some current book on world or national affairs, the periodic novel, and volumes of poetry. She would have afternoon tea—oh, how I loved the cinnamon toast and other goodies!—on the adjoining porch, and inside this warm, well-lived-in, and beloved study she would find the solitude that rekindled her spirit. There were other rooms in the cottage, but none held the same significance for Grandmère.
FDR, Queen Elizabeth and the Duke of Kent; Grandmère with Nikita and Mrs. Khrushchev, and Andrei Gromyko in the background; President Kennedy; Grandmère and Queen Elizabeth in Washington.
Over time the Stone Cottage would become a guesthouse for some of the overflow of visitors, home to my uncle John and his family, and the epicenter of much activity. It was here that the swimming pool was eventually installed, with its small changing house filled with extra swimming apparel of all sizes and styles, mostly left behind by previous guests. The pool served for physical therapy for my grandfather and for Grandmère’s ritual daily laps, time and weather permitting. One of the more amusing anecdotes about the pool concerns the first time Prime Minister Winston Churchill visited one sweltering summer day. As recalled by Marion Dickerman:
There was a little bathhouse among the trees below the pool, where swimmers donned their bathing suits. Churchill, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, as he always did for protection against the summer sun, and with a long cigar—as always—in his mouth, entered the bathhouse with his secretary. The latter emerged a minute later. “Mr. Churchill has his bathing dress,” said the secretary to Marion, “but he would like instead to wear a pair of trunks. Do you have a pair he might wear?” Quite a collection had been collected over the years in the Cottage and Marion found a pair she thought might be of adequate girth. The secretary took them into the bathhouse. In a few minutes he was back again. “You wouldn’t have a bit of cotton?” he asked. “For his ears,” he quickly explained to the astonished Marion.1
The Stone Cottage, epicenter of most summer entertaining.
And it was on the flagstone patio and screened porch that poolside picnics were held. Naturally, during the summer months the area surrounding the Stone Cottage and pool would be filled with the frolic and play of assorted grandchildren and friends. Esther Peterson, another close friend, would tell the story of how she had invited a group of young ladies visiting from England for a picnic at Val-Kill, just at the time of the Chicago convention prior to FDR’s third-term election. All the young women, in anticipation of meeting the First Lady, had gone to great efforts to get their hair done and to purchase white gloves, as was considered appropriate when meeting a queen. They had been excited to hear Eleanor’s convention speech that night on the radio, but were uncertain that she could ever return in time for their proposed visit. Nevertheless, the next day they arrived on buses, dressed in their finest dresses, hair neatly coiffed, and all wearing white gloves, only to be met by Grandmère, resplendent in her wet bathing suit. Then, to their utter astonishment, she exclaimed, “I invited you to a picnic!” whereupon she set out to find each and every girl a bathing suit, and soon everyone was thrashing around in the pool… hair a mess, white gloves discarded! And it was here, at the Stone Cottage, where world leaders and dignitaries—President and Mrs. Kennedy, Vice President Lyndon Johnson, and so many others—assembled for an informal luncheon before Grandmère was finally laid to rest in the Rose Garden at Springwood.
The compound also included the Playhouse, a rather low-slung, nondescript structure consisting of a large room in the center and two smaller offices at either end, located immediately behind Grandmère’s cottage. Along the walls of the Playhouse, storage boxes held an accumulation of toys, games, and books, all for the use of the children who would gather here during days of inclement weather. Set farther away from the other buildings were the stables, where a variety of ponies and horses were stalled for use by the grandchildren. (Many people do not realize that Grandmère was an avid rider for most of her life.) It was from here that guests and family would set off on summer hayrides or wintry horse-drawn sleigh rides.
Winston Churchill by the pool in his ever-present summer Panama hat.
An annual Wiltwyck School picnic, which always included family and friends.
Me on a boat in Grandmère’s pond.
And finally there was Top Cottage, located perhaps three-quarters of a mile through the woods and up the steep hill from the main Val-Kill complex. A beautiful stone cottage designed and built by my grandfather in anticipation of his own retirement years, this hideaway was snuggled sufficiently far from the hustle and bustle of the main Val-Kill activity for him to work on his papers and memoirs in peace and quiet, assemble the collection of books and papers to be given to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Library (the nation’s first presidential library), and simply relax after so many exhausting years of public service. As destiny would have it, my grandfather would not live to realize this final dream. Nevertheless, following Grandmère’s return from Washington and her time in the White House, my father and his wife, actress Faye Emerson, would purchase Top Cottage and live there for several years. Most of my earliest memories of summer vacations and holidays at Val-Kill were of Top Cottage, and naturally of the visits by Dad and Faye’s movie friends, including Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart. Today, many years after being sold to a group of investors for development, this little known but soon to be discovered jewel in the treasure chest of Val-Kill has been repurchased and refurbished to its original s
imple splendor, joining the rest of Grandmère’s Val-Kill home as a national historic treasure.
Any description of Val-Kill would be incomplete without details of Grandmère’s penchant for entertaining. With few exceptions she believed in simple, informal get-togethers, and her absolute favorite were her beloved picnics. Not only did she create plain if not altogether ordinary menus, but for her picnics she loved to serve hot dogs, and it made no difference whatsoever the guest or their status. In fact, she is credited with introducing the irascible Nikita Khrushchev and even the king and queen of England to their first encounter with the hot dog. It is rumored that she had to give the king a brief lesson on the proper way to eat one: with the fingers, of course!
The expansive lawn at Val-Kill was a special place, with its smallish, underused tennis court, a playhouse, also called the Dollhouse, down by the water (moved there from Springwood, but seldom used by the grandchildren), and a wide assortment of canoes and leaky rowboats, most of which were prone to frequent summertime sinkings. It was the site, of course, for the endless picnics of friends and family, aunts, uncles, and cousins, and for the event most anxiously awaited, the annual outing for the boys of Wiltwyck School.
For years Grandmère had been associated as a board member and later patron of this school for underprivileged (delinquent) boys. She cared so deeply about the lives of these young people, the deprivations of their home lives and what lay in their futures, that in many ways she adopted them all. Every summer she would invite perhaps a hundred for a picnic at Val-Kill, and one of the joys of my summers would be the anticipation of that one picnic—and all those new friends! The shopping list for this event would read something like this: “400 hot dogs, 200 rolls, 200 cupcakes, 50 quarts milk, 25 quarts ice cream, 100 comic books, 100 bars candy, potato salad, mustard.” Often there might be other little toys or treats for each of the boys. All of the grownups would congregate around the great outdoor fireplace while the boys (and I or my cousins) would just simply run wild with freedom, out from under the structure of their normal institutional life. Soon the food would be served, and then, sated, everyone would fall at Grandmère’s feet to hear her read from Kipling’s Just So Stories, and especially “How the Elephant Got His Trunk” and “The Butterfly That Stamped.”
There is a humorous story of one of the Wiltwyck boys coming up to Grandmère and asking, “Do you remember me?” “Why of course,” she responded, “you were here last year,” but she really couldn’t remember his name. A little hurt perhaps, he indignantly told her his name, instructing her to be certain to remember it. Returning a little while later he said, “Do you remember my name?” As Grandmère repeated it, he exclaimed, “Good, maybe now you’ll never forget me!” For this little boy, as with so many of them, being recognized as an individual was of utmost importance.
While Grandmère cared deeply about the Wiltwyck School and its work to open new horizons to these youngsters, often her kindness on these simple occasions left them with a lasting impression and in at least one case an insight into a future of potential. The noted African American author Claude Brown dedicated his classic and compelling autobiographical work, Manchild in the Promised Land, to Grandmère and the Wiltwyck School, where at age eleven he was sent by court decree for a period of over two years. In his midtwenties he graduated from Howard University, and at thirty began the study of law. Manchild in the Promised Land chronicles his life growing up in Harlem, to him a wondrous place where if you were quick witted, smart, and tough enough you could live like a king… or die like a pauper. His dedication to Grandmère is a testament, I think, to the inspiration she provided during those picnics at Val-Kill and throughout her life. Perhaps one might conclude that her example helped Claude Brown recognize and achieve his own aspirations.
Grandmère welcoming some of the Wiltwyck School kids as they arrive for a picnic.
What times those were, the picnics with so many of her lifelong friends and colleagues—the Morgenthaus, Esther Lape, Justine Polier, former New Dealer Harry Hooker—and close family like cousin Laura Delano (well known for her eccentricities of purple hair and painted widow’s peak, and for one of the world’s foremost jade collections) and Belle (Mrs. Kermit) Roosevelt, as well as her many, many neighbors. Grandmère loved to surround herself with those she loved and admired, and barely a day passed that there weren’t houseguests, or lunch and dinner guests. But what she loved most was to surround herself with family, especially her twenty-two grandchildren and thirteen great-grandchildren.
Grandmère with Fala and his son Tamas McFala. Scotties became my grandparents’ favorite breed of dogs.
It is a wonder that Grandmère ever found time to simply think and contemplate, but at Val-Kill she would do just that. Part of her daily ritual included long walks, often with Fala, my grandfather’s Scotty dog, or Fala’s grandson Tamas McFala, who became my grandmother’s faithful companion. Of Fala Grandmère wrote, “He has lived with me since my husband’s death. For a while after that he used to lie in the doorway where he could watch all the doors, just as he did when my husband used to come over to this cottage. Fala is still very dignified and while he is happy here with me, I do not think he has ever accepted me as the one person whom he loved as he did my husband.” She would walk the long country lanes and through the towering woods often for hours at a time. Although sometimes with a friend or grandchild, most often these were periods of solitude she sought for herself; this was when she could take stock of her life, the work yet to be done, and later, toward the end of her life, the culmination of her efforts. “My heart is in the cottage… the peace of it is divine,” she wrote. Following Grandmère’s death my uncle John and his family continued to live at Val-Kill in the Stone Cottage, and it remained a place for many of the family to return to from time to time. In 1970, however, this special place that had seen so much life, so many interesting people, and the changes of time, and had been so central to my grandmother’s life, was sold to a group of doctors for development. Although many of the more personal objects and memorabilia were saved and stored at the Franklin D. Roosevelt Library, most all the furniture, much of it produced at the old Val-Kill Industries, and other furnishings were sold at auction. Practically none of the grandchildren were told of the impending sale. I, for one, discovered it from a cousin’s telephone call just days before. On the actual day of the auction several of us converged at Val-Kill along with a horde of antique dealers, other interested buyers, and more than a few curious bystanders who hoped perhaps to win some small token of history. It was a terribly sad time for us all, as we knew that none of us had the financial wherewithal to compete against those who had come as serious contenders for these bits of nostalgia. However, as we huddled to plan some strategy to try and save whatever we could of our family’s heritage, the word slowly circulated among the assembled that several of the Roosevelt grandchildren were there, and why. The reaction, as I recall it, was one of extraordinary consideration, even among the serious antique dealers and other bidders, for our desires to keep as many relevant items as possible in the family. In the end, we cousins, usually at reasonable prices and without too much serious opposition, purchased several of the items that had the most significance for each of us. At the end of the day, I think everyone left generally satisfied, but for those of us who witnessed the spectacle it was a sad day; there was a feeling of emptiness that a small part of our lives had just been sold off to strangers.
A young Fala, with his always-endearing look.
Foiled in their initial attempts to develop housing on the Val-Kill property by a Hyde Park town-zoning ordinance, the developers proceeded to turn Grandmère’s cottage and the Playhouse into low-cost apartments. Walls were built to partition parts of the cottage, the grounds were neglected and allowed to fall into disrepair, and little in the way of maintenance was performed. Several concerned local citizens, fearful that a valuable historic asset was being threatened, began an effort to save the site, and in 1976 they w
ere joined by a young woman from Rochester, New York. Nancy Dubner began the long process of contacting people in Congress, friends and family, and practically anyone else who might be interested in her crusade to help save Eleanor Roosevelt’s Val-Kill. The original bill introduced in Congress that provided for the purchase of Val-Kill and its designation as a National Historic Site was immediately and roundly defeated. Subsequently, in 1977, during the administration of President Jimmy Carter, a bill passed both houses of Congress approving the government’s purchase of the land for $300,000—a price immediately rejected by the developers, who demanded over $1 million. Unable to reach any sort of compromise, even after a professional appraisal confirmed the government’s valuation, the entire property was eventually condemned due to its deteriorated condition. Finally, after a jury trial upheld the purchase price offered by the government, the process of restoring Val-Kill to its condition at the time of Grandmère’s death was begun. Today, thanks to the hard work of caring National Park Rangers and the dedicated volunteers of Save America’s Treasures, Grandmère’s beloved Val-Kill once again houses the memories of her life there, and with those memories the emotional attachments of so many others who lived there, spent holidays and vacations there, or merely visited her in the wondrous simplicity of her “home.”
How could one place possibly have such an effect on Grandmère, and sometimes on those who visited it, you might wonder? Let me explain by relating a story of one of the dedicated rangers, Franceska Macsali, who has worked at both Springwood and at Val-Kill since at least the early 1980s. During her first two years she was assigned to the Big House at Springwood, where, as is true of most of the rangers, she studied the lives of both FDR and Eleanor.
Grandmère Page 3
