John F. Kennedy

by Lucy Post Frisbee

  When the director of the Bell Ringers asked if anyone had a request, a little girl standing near Jack spoke up shyly.

  “Could you sing the real Christmas song?”

  “And what might that be, child?”

  “ ‘Happy Birthday,’ ” the little girl said.

  There was a gentle wave of laughter and the director smiled. “ ‘Happy Birthday?’ Aren’t you a little mixed up, my dear?”

  The little girl shook her head stubbornly. She began to sing in a high, sweet voice, “Happy birthday to you—”

  No one said a word and the laughter ceased. There was no need to hurt the youngster’s feelings. What if she was a bit confused?

  “Happy birthday to you—” she began.

  Suddenly the candlelit square was filled with another kind of glow. As the beauty of the words the child was singing came through to the people standing there, everyone knew it wasn’t the child who was confused.

  “Happy birthday, dear Jesus,

  Happy birthday to you.”

  For a moment, no one could speak. That whole crowded square was hushed and silent.

  The director leaned down to the upturned face of the little girl. He said gently, “That was the real Christmas song. Thank you.”

  Now other bells began to peal, a lovely sound heard over the voices of the carolers. People began streaming toward the Church of the Advent. The bells rang out, welcoming everyone.

  “When you are a little older, I’ll take you to a midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. It’s like a pageant with wonderful music. But midnight is too late for a growing boy. Too bad the service at the French church is at midnight, too.”

  “Mother could understand the French service,” Jack said proudly.

  “She ought to be able to, after studying all those years in Europe!” Grandpa Fitz took his watch out of his vest pocket. As always, he shook his head, then the watch. “Can’t put any faith in my timepiece.”

  “Doesn’t it run, Grandpa?”

  “Oh, it runs all right. But nobody can catch up with it!” Grandfather Fitz laughed uproariously at his joke, and Jack watched him with pure delight.

  “It’s time for us to go home, Jack,” his grandfather said reluctantly. “Your mother is expecting me to go to church with her.”

  “Is Mother going to church this late?”

  “She always goes on Christmas Eve, Jack. You know how your mother feels about church. She believes it’s meant for every day of the week, not just for Sunday. And she’s right!”

  The big old-fashioned house on Naples Road looked warm and comfortable under the new-fallen snow. Smoke was feathering from the chimneys, and as Jack and his grandfather walked up on the porch they could hear the gay sound of laughter and caroling.

  “Your mother must have her own carol service right here. Let’s join it,” Grandpa said.

  Mrs. Kennedy was at the piano with all the family gathered around. The notes of “Adeste Fideles” filled the room. High, sweet, and clear were the voices. “Oh, come all ye faithful,” they sang. Jack’s reedy young voice joined in with his grandfather’s rich baritone.

  As the last notes of the chorus sounded, Mr. Kennedy said, “We used to sing that at the Boston Latin School when I was a kid. And in Latin, too. That song always makes me feel the real spirit of Christmas.”

  Mrs. Kennedy agreed. “ ‘Adeste Fideles’ is the spirit of Christmas in music. What best brings out Christmas in words?”

  “The Gospel from St. Luke,” Joe Jr. said.

  “Dickens’ Christmas Carol,” Kick replied.

  “I never thought about it,” Jack said.

  “There was a message about Christmas from President Coolidge in the paper tonight,” Mrs. Kennedy remarked. “He said what we all feel, I think.”

  “Why not read it to us, Jack? Reading aloud is good practice.” His father settled down comfortably in a big leather chair.

  Jack picked up the paper, found his place, and read slowly, understandingly. “Christmas is not a time or a season, but a state of mind. To cherish peace and good will, to be plenteous in mercy is to have the real spirit of Christmas. If we think on these things, there will be born in us a Savior and over us will shine a star sending its gleam of hope to the world.”

  “Well done, Jack. And well done, President Coolidge. I didn’t think the Sphinx of the Potomac had it in him to be so articulate. What paper was that in?” Mr. Kennedy asked.

  “The Boston Evening Transcript.”

  Mr. Kennedy bolted up in his chair. The relaxed mellow look fled from his face. “The Transcript! I don’t want that paper in our house!” He frowned and clenched his fist.

  “Why, Dad? What’s the matter with it?”

  “Everything!” Mr. Kennedy exploded. “I don’t think there’s anything good about a newspaper that prints the Irish news on a separate page. I’m tired of being called an Irishman!”

  “But why? Grandpa Fitz was the first Irish mayor that Boston ever had. That ought to make us proud to be called Irish!” Joe Jr. said.

  “I don’t want to be called an Irishman,” his father repeated angrily. “I’ll tell you why. I’d like to be called an American. My father was born here in America. I was born here. What more do I have to do to be an American?”

  “Let’s talk about it later,” Mrs. Kennedy urged, “after the children are in bed.”

  “It’s the children I’m thinking of!” He choked with his emotion. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Boston is no place to bring up Irish Catholic children. Maybe times will change someday. But there isn’t any sign of it yet. I don’t want my children to go through what I went through. We ought to get away from here. This place suffocates me.”

  Rose Kennedy had been brought up in Boston, too. Her family and friends were all in this city which her husband disliked so much. She loved Boston as anyone loves a happy home and the places filled with pleasant memories of childhood and family.

  Naturally reluctant to leave these familiar scenes for a strange new life in New York, Mrs. Kennedy still put the happiness of the family before her own desires. The Kennedy business operations were centered in New York and Hollywood. Her husband’s intense feelings about Boston had reached an extreme. If the move to New York could insure a closer family life, with the children seeing their father regularly and normally, she knew such an undertaking would be right.

  Disturbed, but not wanting to disturb the children, she said cheerfully, “Bedtime now. Give your father a good-night kiss. We’re all so glad to have him home.”

  Jack said, “We miss you when you’re away, Dad, and you’re away so much.”

  “I miss you, Jack. I miss all of you,” Mr. Kennedy said quietly.

  “Perhaps—” and Mrs. Kennedy took a deep, deep breath—“perhaps it’s time to think seriously about moving to New York.” As she saw her husband’s delighted smile, she said gently, “But let’s not act too hastily. The children should finish their school year here in Brookline. The next six months will give time to find the right place, the right schools.”

  To Joseph Kennedy, the idea of finally moving to New York was like a huge Christmas package marked especially for him. His frown disappeared completely, his face was wreathed in smiles. Gay and lighthearted, he said, “I’m beginning to think maybe there’s a Santa Claus for me, too. Off to bed with you children. When you wake up in the morning, it’ll be Christmas.” He pointed happily up the stairs. “This way to Christmas, everybody!”

  IRISH EYES ARE SMILING

  AS THE TRAIN pulled out of Back Bay Station, the iron wheels seemed to have a special kind of rhythm. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. The words that went with the tune were special, too, for each member of the Kennedy family.

  For Rose Kennedy, the clickety-clack was a slow dirge that seemed to say: “I want to go back! Clickety-clack. Back! Go Back!”

  Her eyes misted as she thought of leaving the Boston she loved, of her father and mother and the friends of a lifetime
, of the church where she had worshipped daily for so long. But when her vision cleared and she saw the happiness reflected in her husband’s face, she did not even question the rightness of the move to New York.

  To Joseph Kennedy, those same wheels sang a different song, a gay and cheerful tune.

  “Clickety-clack. We’ll never go back!”

  He looked proudly at his family. At long last, they were leaving Boston. To the rising young millionaire, Boston had always been a frustrating wall which he could not break down or jump over.

  Neither his wealth nor his powerful political connections had been enough to open any of the doors behind which Beacon Hill and Back Bay Bostonians protected themselves from the Irish. Joseph Kennedy had the same Harvard degree that had been conferred on the sons of old Boston families. Like many Bostonians, he, too, had a beautiful and charming wife, a delightful family. His personal fortune was tremendous.

  Yet because he was the grandson of an Irish immigrant, the Boston doors which he had hoped to enter remained closed to him, closed to his family. Small wonder he called Boston the city of the broad A and the narrow mind!

  His own father, Patrick Kennedy, had known poverty and discrimination. From him Joseph Kennedy had inherited a burning desire to eradicate the picture of the Irish as servants or clowns. Early in his business career, he had recognized two assets as powerful—a family fortune and a family tree. He planned to give his children both! Purposefully, he set out to acquire in one generation the kind of fortune and cultivated background that had taken centuries for the old Boston families to build.

  By the fall of 1927, Joseph Kennedy was well on his way to obtaining the fortune. Moving the family to New York, away from Boston’s discrimination against the Irish, was another part of his dream, of his plan.

  The large family of Kennedys almost filled the entire Pullman car. Looking at the gay, happy faces of the youngsters, Mr. Kennedy said jokingly, “We should have chartered a private car, Rose. Guess that would have impressed those stuffy Bostonians.” Then he shook his head. “No, and there’s the rub. They wouldn’t even have noticed! They just ignore what they don’t accept! But it won’t be like this for our children. Not if I can help it. One of these days, when Joe Jr. is president of the United States, all the Irish eyes will be smiling!”

  For that matter, his own eyes were smiling now as he watched the children. Joe Jr. was arguing with Jack, as usual. This time the boys were heatedly discussing the best way to catch a fast pass.

  “Who do you think you are? Red Grange?”

  “Nope,” Jack replied calmly. “But I think I can catch anything you can throw.”

  “I’ll take you up on that. When we get to the new house in Riverdale, first thing—let’s see you snag five passes in a row!”

  “You’re on,” Jack said. “First thing.”

  “First thing!” Joe repeated.

  Mrs. Kennedy sighed softly. “They are always arguing. Always.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Mr. Kennedy said. “If you notice, the minute anybody from outside the family picks on either one, they join up forces immediately!”

  Across the aisle, Kick was holding little Bobby on her knees, bouncing him up and down and chanting an old tune:

  “See saw, scaradown,

  Which is the way to Boston town,

  One foot up, the other foot down,

  That’s the way to Boston town.”

  Mrs. Kennedy smiled. “I can remember my mother dancing me on her knee to that rhyme when I was a child. There’s more to the verse, Kick. It goes:

  “Boston town’s changed to a city

  But I’ve no time to change my ditty.”

  Patricia was sitting on Nurse’s lap, half asleep, while Eunice and Rosemary seemed to be taking care of each other. Rosemary especially enjoyed younger children, and Eunice was her favorite. There was a difference of several years in their ages, but the two got along well together. Young as she was, Eunice seemed to understand her oldest sister. Now the two of them were busily pointing out the interesting scenes of the New England countryside as the train sped on.

  During a slight lull in conversation, Mr. Kennedy asked, “Boys, what would you think if you could go to a movie and not only see it but hear it as well?”

  “I’d think I was dreaming. Why?” Jack asked.

  “There’s a new kind of movie coming out. A talkie. Sort of an experiment. It may fizzle,” Mr. Kennedy explained.

  “You’re kidding, Dad!” Joe Jr. said.

  “On the contrary,” his father replied.

  “You mean you can really hear people talk?”

  “Yes, Kick. And more. Al Jolson is going to sing in this movie.” Mr. Kennedy smiled at the unbelieving expressions on the faces of the children. “It’s called The Jazz Singer. I’m anxious to have your comments on it.”

  “Our comments?” Jack asked incredulously.

  “Now you are kidding,” Joe Jr. said.

  “Far from it, boys. Remember back a few years ago when I first became interested in the movie industry? You kids both thought Red Grange, that football player, might make a hit in the movies. You boys were absolutely right. He may not be any Rudolph Valentino, but everybody likes to see a football hero.”

  “The big hero this year is Lindbergh,” Jack said. “Going to make a movie of him?”

  “I don’t know, Jack. He doesn’t go much for publicity. Of course, we have him on newsreels with our Pathé News. The whole nation is crazy about Lindbergh,” Mr. Kennedy agreed.

  “The Lone Eagle!” Joe gave a sigh of admiration. “It must be great to fly all alone up in the clouds with nothing around except you and the sky. When I grow up, I’d like to be a flyer, I think.”

  “Nonsense, Joe!” His father winked at him. “You’re going to be president.”

  Mrs. Kennedy smiled at both of them. “Those are the exact words your father said when you were born, Joe.”

  “What did you say, Mother?” Jack asked.

  “I said, ‘Don’t rush him!’ I still say it.”

  Kick put Bobby down on the seat beside her and joined the conversation. “Which would you like to be, Joe? President Calvin Coolidge? Or Charles Lindbergh?”

  Joe Jr. replied thoughtfully, “I’d really like to be myself—as president or flyer!”

  “Mr. Coolidge isn’t going to be president anymore, so here’s Joe’s chance,” Jack said. “Of course, right now Joe’s a little young and a little inexperienced.”

  “Stop joking, Jack,” Kick said, “and tell me why Mr. Coolidge isn’t going to be president?”

  “Don’t you read the paper, Kick? Or listen to the radio? President Coolidge was out fishing in the Black Hills of South Dakota last month and he announced, ‘I do not choose to run.’ ” Jack spoke with authority.

  “Who do you think will be the next president, Dad?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t really know, Joe. Al Smith might have a chance. He’s been governor of New York for four terms. That’s always a good stepping stone to the White House.” Mr. Kennedy weighed his words as carefully as if he were talking to a world-famous statesman. “But the Republicans may be able to stay in power.”

  “President or not, I still think it would be great to fly,” Joe said. “Lucky Lindy!”

  “Lindbergh wasn’t lucky!” Their father’s voice was very serious now. “Lucky Lindy! Don’t you boys believe it. Lindy was all ready for his opportunity. Prepared. Waiting for his chance. Luck! Rubbish! Here’s something to remember. ‘Luck favors the prepared mind.’ ”

  “Who said that, Dad?” Jack asked.

  “Louis Pasteur. Don’t ever forget it and don’t ever believe in luck. Opportunity? That’s something else again. When opportunity knocks, be prepared. Be ready. And the world will call it luck!”

  TOUCH AND GO

  THE TANG OF NOVEMBER was in the air. The maples had shed their leaves, the oaks still flamed red and scarlet. The ground was a carpet of color—orange, crimson,
and gold.

  Kick was walking slowly across the lawn, idly scuffing through the drifts of fallen leaves. A loud “Kerchoo” sounded just above her. Startled, she looked up. Her frightened scream echoed through the yard.

  “Jack! Get down off that flagpole!”

  “Can’t come down, Kick. I’m trying to break the record.” Jack swayed back and forth at the top of the white pole.

  “Don’t do that!” His sister gave a little shriek. “What record?”

  “The flagpole sitting record, of course.”

  “Oh, Jack, you’re so silly! Who on earth wants to be a flagpole sitter?”

  “I do, for one. Lots of other people, too! Did you know that Alvin ‘Shipwreck’ Kelly sat on a flagpole for twenty-three days and seven hours? One of these days, Kick, you will pick up the paper and guess what? My picture will be plastered all over the front page.”

  She giggled. “Guess what! If you fall off that pole, you’ll be plastered all over the front walk!”

  “That’s sisterly affection for you! Where’s Joe? I thought he was going to round up a game of football after school.”

  “Maybe we can have a quick game before dinner,” Kick said eagerly. “Can I be on your side, Jack?”

  “Joe will probably choose you, Kick. You’re so good at snagging passes. But if he gets you, I’m going to take Eunice. And Bobby, too.”

  Kick raised her eyebrows. “A three-year-old playing football?”

  “Why not? Bobby is a sure thing with the ball. He’s so tiny he can almost run between everybody’s legs. Nobody knows where he is until we make a touchdown. It’s a shame to waste that kid as waterboy. Call him Touch and Go!”

  Kick laughed. “How are you going to play Touch and Go from there on the pole?”

  “Easy. Perfect spot. Let me show you how to snag a real high pass.” Jack gave the flagpole an extra sway and watched the expression on Kick’s frightened face with delight.

  “Stop, Jack! You scare me so, with all that wriggling back and forth, I forgot to tell you something important. Come down!”

  “Can’t come down, Kick. What’d you forget?”