The “Half Moon,” a frequent sight in the waters off Campobello when the Roosevelts were “in residence.”
As important as this enchanting island was to FDR, it seems to me that Grandmère’s love for it may well have surpassed even that of her husband. She first visited the Roosevelt cottage in the summer of 1904 as a young bride-to-be, wanting to ingratiate herself with her future mother-in-law, who as we know had already made her displeasure of the blossoming love between the two quite clear. Taken as she was with Franklin and with the daunting task ahead of winning Sara’s tacit approval, I doubt that Grandmère realized how attached she would become to this island retreat and its inhabitants. The significance of Campobello would reveal itself only in later years. Every summer for the next four years Eleanor and Franklin would return, staying in the cottage with Sara, to bask in the welcome climate and leisurely times enjoyed by the summer residents.
During those early days at Campo, Grandmère would participate in most all of the usual activities—golfing, tennis, bike riding—but seeing as how she was not an accomplished athlete, these were pastimes that did not give her a real sense of enjoyment. She much preferred taking long walks around the island, through the lush green meadows, along the shoreline, and penetrating deep into the woods and forests, particularly Fog Forest with its ferns growing in the darkest shade to head height. It was the solitude of such walks, and of the days nurturing her young children, Anna and James, that brought her so much joy during those first four years. In Campobello she also had enough time to indulge her passion for books, and would spend hours consuming classical literature and the popular books of the day. It was also during these days that she finally began to overcome her long-held fear of the water, at least to the extent that she could accompany FDR and friends on short sailing trips aboard the family yacht or by motor launch across to St. Andrews Island. On one such trip FDR would report to his mother, “… though slightly rough in Passamaquoddy Bay, for a few minutes, Eleanor did not show the least paleness of cheek or edge toward the rail.” Grandmère even learned to fish, although this is not a pastime I recall her finding particularly pleasant. It was the custom in those days that ladies would not accompany their husbands on the longer sailing trips, so after provisioning the Half-Moon for FDR’s late summer cruise to Nova Scotia or along the coast of Maine, Grandmère would bid farewell from the pier and enjoy the next two weeks or so in relative solitude.
Grandmère and her Aunt Maude “testing the waters” of the chilly Bay of Fundy.
Those years, however, were just an introduction to the greater joy she would soon experience, for in 1909 she and Franklin would have their very own cottage next door to—yet adequately separated from—Sara’s. Originally built by Mrs. Hartman Kuhn of Boston, this would become the very first home that Eleanor and Franklin could truly share alone. Mrs. Kuhn had specified in her will that upon her death, which occurred in late 1908, Sara could purchase the house for $5,000, but only on the condition that it would be immediately given to Eleanor and Franklin. It is obvious that Mrs. Hartman Kuhn had great affection for Grandmère, and quite perceptively had seen the need for the young couple to escape from the dominance of the ever-imperious Sara. The Kuhn house, which stands even today, would become the center of all activity for the growing Roosevelt clan for many years to come. I can only imagine the memories my aunt and uncles shared of summers spent at Campobello, for most certainly they counted among the happiest of their lives. The stories passed along by my father and uncle Franklin were of many adventures. There were sailing trips and walks along the cliffs with their father, picnics and hayrides with their mother, tennis and golf; a multitude of friends and activities—always something to keep them busy, but not necessarily out of mischief, according to my uncle, who describes the Roosevelt brood as “a bunch of wild Indians.” In recalling the days of the wood-burning stove and old-fashioned icebox, uncle Franklin would say almost wistfully, “You forget how good the living was…” Above all, it was a time when the children could demand, and receive, the attentions of both father and mother, something that was difficult to achieve during the normal routine of their everyday lives. I too can remember the days of almost constant adventure. The daily ritual of walking among the cliffs and shoreline, picking wild blueberries and black raspberries that were later to be made into the evening’s fresh dessert. I remember the berry picking as being a truly dangerous task for a six- or seven-year-old; trudging through the rocks, being attacked by thorns or bumblebees, but worst of all was the fear that if I didn’t fill my berry pail there wouldn’t be enough pie for me that night! These were days of simple fulfillment that would forever define Grandmère’s life with her husband and children.
Grandmère’s times at Campobello were, however, not always good. The summer of 1921—the summer in which Grandfather contracted the disease that would render his legs completely worthless for the rest of his life—would prove to be a time of unparalleled change in the lives of my grandparents. The trauma of those August weeks, with Grandmère’s constant vigil and continuous nursing followed by the realization of the finality of his disability, would add a new dimension to the meaning of Campobello for Grandmère. When asked about FDR’s affliction with polio and the effect it had on her personally, she said, “… I do not think I ever stopped to analyze my feelings. There was so much to do to manage the household and children and to try to keep things running smoothly that I never had time to think of my own reactions. I simply lived from day to day and got through the best I could.” It is interesting to note that in later years Grandmère would credit FDR’s illness of that summer as a significant source of future strength: It gave him the ability to relate to the individual suffering experienced by the people he would eventually lead through the Great Depression and World War II. It was “… a blessing in disguise, for it gave him strength and courage he had not had before. He had to think out the fundamentals of living and learn the greatest of all lessons—infinite patience and never ending persistence.” In many ways, her words were as applicable to herself as to Franklin; from this trying time she too would find a strength and courage not experienced before.
A typical beach picnic, in full and appropriate attire.
Grandmère with my uncle John, Dad, and Anna.
Grandmère’s love for Campobello never diminished over the years following FDR’s death in 1945, although in her later years her own schedule prevented her from spending more than a scant few days a year in this place of idyllic solitude. But even for those short respites she would often surround herself with her closest, most intimate friends and advisors, never quite relinquishing completely the work and responsibilities that so consumed her life. Throughout the late 1940s and 1950s she would manage to have as many of the grandchildren and other family members as possible arrive for parts of the summer, and some of my uncles and cousins would stay for several weeks, but generally Grandmère’s time was limited by her many other obligations. Nevertheless, her escapes to the island restored her soul.
A favorite pastime, Sara Delano reading aloud as ER relaxes on a warm summer afternoon.
Following the sale of the Campobello house in 1960 to the Hammer brothers, Armand (chairman of Occidental Petroleum), Harry, and Victor, Grandmère’s visits became even more infrequent. In frail and fleeting health, just three months before her death in 1962 and just released from a lengthy hospital stay, Grandmère returned for one last visit to her island of tranquility. Staying for five days at the cottage she had loved so much, she spent her time visiting old and dear friends, taking brief walks along old familiar paths, and, I would have to guess, reliving in her heart and soul those fifty-eight years of pleasure given her by Campobello Island and all that it was. Upon leaving she stopped along the way to pay her last visits to Bishop and Leah Scarlett and her friend from years of women’s politics, Molly Dewson, and lastly with Esther Lape, one of her oldest and dearest friends. Upon returning to Val-Kill she wrote the Hammers a note in which she sa
id, “I am leaving much stronger than I came and attribute the renewal of my strength to the peace and quiet I found here.”1
The end of her life was close; an end for which she was both prepared and accepting. Of the long drive back to Boston from Campobello Trude Lash would recall that “On the long drive to Boston… she hardly spoke, and when she did it was so faint we could hardly understand her… but after Labor Day the fevers and the chills and the blood transfusions and endless injections took over and the lonely descent began.”2
Just days after Grandmère’s last visit to Campo, the Roosevelt International Bridge linking the island with Lubec, Maine, was dedicated by my uncle James. A year later President John F. Kennedy proposed a further strengthening of the ties between Canada and the United States by establishment of the first ever international park to be jointly administered by the two nations. Officially opened in January 1964, the Roosevelt International Park today preserves and shares the history of the Roosevelts at Campobello for all to enjoy, and indeed thousands do so each year.
After Grandmère’s death, many members of the family would continue to return periodically to that mystical island. On my last trip, in 1984, my daughter, Chandler, who was but nine years old at the time, accompanied me. We spent hours exploring this wonderland, playing and reminiscing with my uncle Franklin and numerous cousins. We took a daylong motor yacht cruise through the thick, almost impenetrable fog to St. Andrews for a waterside picnic of fresh lobster and other assorted goodies at the home of some close family friends. We ate wild strawberries and blueberries, as I had with Grandmère, and I tried to remember stories of how it was when I first went there. When I asked Chandler her recollections of that trip, what meaning it had for her, she spoke of the chilling fog followed by brilliant sun in a crystal blue sky, of the never-ending blankets of wildflowers and the gentle rippling of emerald green meadows, of the warmth of the cottages, and of the locals. And then, after a brief pause, she said, “Dad, it was as though I could feel Grandmère. I never knew her before that trip, but I do now. She was there, I could feel it.”
I know. She was there, and a part of her will always be there, at Campobello.
In August 1962, three months before her death, Grandmère and Maureen Corr made her last return to her beloved island. Although ill and in pain, it is obvious the serenity she felt there.
Epilogue
I think it is a necessity to be doing something which you feel is helpful in order to grow old gracefully and contentedly.
—Eleanor Roosevelt
IN THE LATE 1950S THERE WERE ALMOST constant suggestions of retirement by her friends, colleagues, and family members, or at the very least a slowing down of activities. But despite even her own belief that it was perhaps time that she begin to yield on some of the demands made of her and quietly retire to Val-Kill, this choice was contrary to her nature. Aunt Anna remembered that because Grandmère had achieved so much in her later life, she felt an obligation to continue working:
Most people at 61 begin to slow down. I had a feeling on this whole UN thing that really and truly Mother developed more personal satisfaction from this… It was during this period that she developed her real political acumen. People said to me, “Don’t let anyone ever say your Mother is not a smart politician.”1
The demanding routine of her life continued. Although by 1960 she was no longer involved at the United Nations in an official capacity, her interest in the work yet to be done there never waned. She would be in her office at the AAUN as often as her schedule would allow, often until late in the evening. In an effort to cut back, what was formerly a daily column now appeared only three times a week, but it was syndicated in more than forty newspapers nationwide. The demands for her on the lecture tour provided the primary source of her income, which in the later years amounted to more than $100,000 annually—much of which she gave to family, friends, and a long list of charities she had assisted for many years.
At age seventy-five she even undertook a new career as a visiting lecturer at Brandeis University, upon whose board she had served for a number of years. She faithfully met her classes once a week, usually traveling by airplane or train, a trip that took several hours if the weather was bad. She loved meeting with her classes, as she felt that the dialogue she had with young students was both stimulating and thought-provoking. Teaching allowed her to stay in touch with the thoughts of young people, just as she had done throughout her busy life. Indeed, she felt she could relate to them on their level and perhaps instill in them the feeling for human justice and equality to which she had devoted so much of her life. She placed great stock in the younger generation, confident that they could lead to a better world.
Grandmère’s Legacy
By the late 1950s and early 1960s most of her grandchildren were in their late teens and early twenties. We had grown up spending our summers together at Grandmère’s Val-Kill and Campobello or visiting her at her apartment in New York. She had been the “glue,” the focal point, of our very extended family, and the person who had given us joy, freedom, and a context as we were growing up.
As is true with most families, the extent of a relationship, the influence of one individual on the lives of other family members, is often not realized until later reflection. Grandmère was first and foremost a powerful figure for us all, and we each embraced the dichotomy between her public profile and her private self. Within the intimacy of that family frame, Grandmère inspired, taught, laughed, and talked with each of us. All the while, and I suspect with no forethought, she was imparting in us her own legacy, her vision of a better world. And yet, for most of us the extent of her influence on our lives has only come during these years following her death, as we each in our own way come to realize and appreciate the interaction of her life and ours.
The rites of family were extremely important to her: the Christmases and holidays surrounded by family and close friends; summer days at Val-Kill and early morning walks through the woods; traveling with grandchildren; story-telling and simply sharing time and space; and of course the never-ending letter writing. Grandmère kept in touch with most all her daughters-in-law at all times, as a way of maintaining the connection with her grandchildren as well as, and equally important, to maintaining a relationship formed in other circumstances and other times. Her correspondence with my mother, long after the divorce of my parents, bears witness to Grandmère’s continuing friendship and love with most all who were or had once been an integral part of her extended family. In those unique moments of privacy we each shared with her, Grandmère revealed herself to be as fascinating and individualistic as the world perceived, except that on those occasions she was a real and accessible presence for those of us who loved her most.
She indelibly touched the lives of the Roosevelt clan. If her public life was a journey on a grand scale encompassing the larger questions of society, politics, and the human condition, it can only be said that her private domain was intimate, connected, and inspiring. She continued to extend her presence in each of our lives in small but consistent ways, a remarkable feat given how busy she remained until the end of her days. In her own childhood she had struggled to breach the isolation that had characterized it, but in later years, when she became grandmother to twenty-two of us, she always sought to bind, showing us again and again the special gift she had for friendship and understanding. Despite the seriousness of her worldly quest, she had for us a deep vein of amusement and good humor. Her conversation was witty and erudite, but even for the youngest of us she had a wonderful way of drawing us out so that she might know us better. Times with the family restored her equilibrium, and these calmer moments with her children and their wives and husbands and children brought her a constant sense of joy and serenity.
The legacy she gave us was as diverse and multifaceted as was her extraordinary life. There was her emphasis on education and the arts. She enjoyed going to the theater, listening to Gregorian chants late at night while writing her correspon
dence, and reading good literature. She exposed us to those same wondrous pastimes, as it was a way for her to share her interests with us and perhaps to teach us something of our heritage. I can remember her joy at taking me to see the Broadway production of Peter Pan, and afterward taking me backstage to meet the production’s star, Mary Martin. Naturally, I was excited to meet “Peter Pan” in person, but the even greater recollection was Ms. Martin’s reaction to meeting my grandmother; she seemed as excited about meeting Grandmère as I was at meeting her. (I must admit that I was equally impressed to learn that “Peter Pan” actually came from a Texas town neighboring my own home!)
Of course, there was the social aspect of being a Roosevelt. Born into one of the more notable families in the United States, Grandmère continually broke with tradition, not only that of her social class but also of the stereotypical woman of the time. She was above all an individualist, both in public and in private, and she taught us to be individuals too.
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