I came to admire and love Eleanor Roosevelt. Here was a woman who had such an unhappy and lonely childhood and so many disasters happening later in her life… yet she never turned her back on life, never felt sorry for herself. Instead, she reached out to others who needed help—the poor, the downtrodden. How much I wished to work at Val-Kill, the site dedicated to Eleanor Roosevelt!2
Franceska’s wish came true when in 1982 she was assigned to the home as the permanent park ranger. Today, Franceska and her dedicated colleagues continue to lead the restoration of Val-Kill to ensure that when visitors arrive they too will be enveloped by the true depth of feeling that Eleanor felt for her home. Perhaps those same visitors will come away sharing Franceska’s feeling:
I used to be shy, and it was difficult for me to express my dissatisfaction over things I found wrong. But now, after being aware of what Mrs. Roosevelt had done, I force myself to speak up. If I feel very strongly about an injustice or unfairness in our country, I write a letter. I had always thought it easier to remain silent, but now I know that the difficult ways are the easy ones. To keep quiet has become difficult for me. Val-Kill and getting to know Eleanor Roosevelt does that to you. And once you have found your way to Val-Kill, it will be difficult not to come back.3
Grandmère’s house from across the pond.
Even Grandmère found it difficult to stay away from Val-Kill. Now, whenever I visit the family compound, memories of those happy times flood back. As I take my own children to Hyde Park and Val-Kill, I hope to instill in them an idea of what those times were like for me. Of course today, due to the large number of visitors, parts of Grandmère’s house must necessarily be closed to the public, but I can never forget the time that my six-year-old son, Matthew, decided to take his own private tour of where “Dad used to play.” Stopped by an ever-vigilant park ranger who was conducting a tour of the house, Matthew announced, “Oh, it’s all right. This is my father’s grandmother’s house,” and merrily proceeded on his way before anyone could intervene (and much to the astonishment of the assembled tour).
I hope that the many visitors who come here every year can feel some of the serenity, peace, and tranquility that her home retains, and perhaps imagine her sitting at her desk, a single light shining late at night, writing her correspondence or reading a letter, thinking about the world, just as I do every time I return. After all, Grandmère would have wanted them to feel right at home!
My Journey Begins at Val-Kill
It was at Val-Kill, in November 1962, that one of the most profound events of my life occurred. As I have said, I was aware that Grandmère was a special person to many people, even a celebrity, but even at twenty years of age I still did not fully understand the stature of this incredible person. I had experienced the deference of people when in her presence, the feeling of love and admiration, and yet to me she was still “Grandmère.” But all that changed for me on November 10.
They were all there: President John F. Kennedy and the First Lady, Vice President Lyndon Johnson and Lady Bird, former presidents Harry Truman and Dwight Eisenhower. There were heads of state, ambassadors from a multitude of nations, and senators and congressmen, along with friends and family and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of just ordinary folk, people from all over. And there was one twenty-year-old, somewhat awed if not overwhelmed by the entire assemblage. I have heard it said since that the funeral of Anna Eleanor Roosevelt had accomplished what perhaps no other single occasion could—the bringing together of many of the world’s most powerful and influential people, allies and antagonists alike, for at least a few hours of respectful peace and common accord. For me it had quite another effect; it marked the beginning of a journey of discovery.
Most of the actual activities leading up to and including that cold and dreary November day are difficult for me to recall clearly, as so much occurred so quickly. It was a whirlwind of emotion and confusion. The simple life of a college student suddenly turned topsy-turvy by a telephone call from my sister, Chandler, a few days before, saying, “David, Grandmère has died. We need to go to Hyde Park.” I had just returned to my apartment from classes at Texas Christian University when the call came. I knew Grandmère had been sick for some time now, but never, ever, did I expect this call. I suppose I thought that she would always be there, the way grandmothers are supposed to be. She always had been before. The next thing I recall was arriving at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City, where many members of the family were convening, including my father and his fifth wife, Patricia, uncles, aunts, and some cousins, and a seemingly unending array of others, most of whom I didn’t know. I do remember thinking, for the first of many times over the next few days, “Why? Why are all these people here?” It was not at all what I had expected her funeral to be. There were so many people, so much talk of who was coming, what arrangements had to be made, concerns of protocol.
Three Presidents and the Vice President attend Grandmère’s funeral: John F. Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Harry Truman, and Dwight Eisenhower.
Suddenly, as a silent bystander in this storm of matter-of-factness, the reality that my grandmother was someone of much greater importance than I had ever dreamed came crashing down. I had to escape the circus-like atmosphere, so I called the only person I knew in Manhattan, a cousin, Barbara Morgan, with whom I’d become friendly as we visited Grandmère during those summers and holidays at Val-Kill. I retreated to her apartment as fast as I could, and sensing that I was feeling very alone in the midst of the maelstrom, she opened her door and reached out in common bond. We sat for hours, late into the night, just talking, trying to understand what Grandmère had meant to each of us, to our lives, and knowing that somehow things would never be quite the same.
Left: President and Mrs. Kennedy arriving at St. James Church. Right: Jim, Elliott, and Franklin, Jr. with their spouses at the graveside service in the Rose Garden.
The next day everyone made his or her way to Hyde Park, first to the Stone Cottage at Val-Kill. Crowded and stifling, the little house was jammed with people. I sat for some time chatting with the marvelously effervescent Jackie Kennedy, whom I had first met with Grandmère a few years before at the president’s inauguration and again briefly at a White House reception, and who I must admit made quite an impression on this young man from Texas. There were other dignitaries as well, and of course family and old and dear friends like Trude and Joe Lash, Edna and David Gurewitsch. The person I remember above all others was Adlai Stevenson, with whom my grandmother had developed a particularly close relationship, both personally and politically. Yes, they had all come to mourn the passing of Eleanor Roosevelt, but for me one question lingered, “Why?” For the first time in my life I was slowly beginning to realize that I was part of something I had never before comprehended… or even thought about, really. By virtue of my birth I was part of a legacy, a family with a heritage and tradition that before I had merely taken for granted. Suddenly I was filled with questions about who and what, questions I had simply never contemplated much before this heartbreaking occasion. And as I remembered something Grandmère had said to me more than once, “You should always be proud of your heritage, but you must live your own life,” I began wondering what this heritage, the legacy of Eleanor Roosevelt, would mean to me. My questions were not answered that day as we all gathered in the Rose Garden at Springwood to say our last good-byes to Grandmère as she was placed at rest next to my grandfather’s grave. No, no answers, but her death did initiate a quest for me, one that brought me to the decision to write this book. It began merely as a personal journey to learn more about my grandmother and her life, and in so doing to perhaps try to learn more about myself. I did not, could not, suspect what lay ahead, nor how long it would take to get there. As I’ve come to find, there was, in fact, no destination, no point of completion.
The Fall-Kill Stream as it enters the pond at Val-Kill.
As I have sought this greater depth of understanding, trying to distill all of the words I ha
ve heard and read over the years into the essence of this remarkable woman, my grandmother, and as I have contemplated the impact she had on so many, many lives throughout her seventy-eight years, the words of Adlai Stevenson have constantly brought perspective and helped me to understand her essence.
She was a lady—a lady for all seasons. And like her husband, our immortal leader, she left “a name to shine on the entablatures of truth”—forever… What other human being has touched and transformed the existence of so many… She walked in the slums and ghettos of the world, not on a tour of inspection… but as one who could not feel contentment when others were hungry… Like so many others, I have lost more than a beloved friend. I have lost an inspiration. She would rather light a candle than curse the darkness, and her glow has warmed the world.4
My original quest had a solitary and personal purpose, but as I delved deeper I came to realize that many the world over shared a passionate interest in my grandmother’s life. The questions of those I have met over the years inquiring as to what life with her was really like, what made her the person she was, what she has meant to my own life were all questions that have not, perhaps could not, be addressed by the many fine scholarly works about her, for those biographers could not have experienced or seen her through my eyes, the eyes of a grandchild.
Even now, forty years after her death, the curiosity and feelings about her remain strong. Scarcely a week passes that someone does not ask me about her, or relate a story of how she had some impact or influence on their life. And yet for the next generations, those of my children and grandchildren, the interest diminishes and the memories dim, and the personal knowledge that I share with my siblings and cousins of this incredible person, our grandmother, begins to fade. So, if by what I write I can keep the flickering flame of her life and its meaning burning for only one person, if the life of just one reader finds purpose and inspiration in the meaning of hers, then her legacy lives on as a guiding light for future generations, as it has for so many before, and there will be no need to curse the darkness.
My grandparents’ gravesite in the Rose Garden at Springwood, which also includes Fala.
Part Two
The Roosevelt Family Coat of Arms. My grandfather assigned the colors shown here.
Born in Another Era
Grandmère receives Prince Bernhard and Princess Juliana of The Netherlands on their arrival for their first visit to the White House on April 23, 1942.
To reach a port, we must sail. Sail, not lie at anchor; sail, not drift!
—B. Hall Roosevelt, Eleanor Roosevelt’s brother
ROSES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN AN IMPORTANT symbol of our family’s heritage, a Dutch heritage that even today remains strong among many of my cousins and siblings, but perhaps even more so for my grandparent’s generation. The symbolism of the rose traces back many centuries, to the very genesis of our name, which means “Field of Roses” in Dutch, suggesting that some distant ancestor perhaps was a farmer of roses or had some other connection to those beautiful flowers. Almost every variation of our family coat of arms, which was adopted as early as the sixteenth or seventeenth century, includes prominent depiction of the rose, usually in a cluster of three. One of the most outstanding and beautiful aspects of the Springwood estate at Hyde Park is the Rose Garden, a vision of exquisite colors and smells in the spring and throughout the summer and fall, now the site where FDR and Eleanor, and even Fala, my grandfather’s beloved Scottish terrier, lie in rest.
Most recently, in recognition of this flower’s symbolic importance to our family, Her Royal Highness Princess Margriet commissioned a new rose variation, called the “Roosevelt Rose,” for the 1997 dedication of the Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial in Washington, D.C. I first saw this gorgeous new rose, bold in size and a vibrant yellow in color, at a reception at the Dutch Embassy two days before the dedication of the memorial, a reception honoring the princess and my family, and of course our Dutch heritage. Upon entering that most impressive embassy building, everyone was enthralled by the thousands upon thousands of roses that had been flown in from Holland for the occasion, roses of every conceivable color in every room. It was an experience that will live with me forever, as will the princess’ comments at the dedication itself, in which she remarked on the warm and close relationship between the Dutch people and my family. She recalled that my grandfather had served as her own godfather, and how during and following the war members of their family had always been welcomed into our household.
I think that even today, although there is no longer that personal attachment between our families, there remains an intimacy between my family and the Dutch, witnessed perhaps by the establishment in the late 1980s of the Roosevelt Study Center in Middelburg, the capital of the Province of Zeeland, our ancestral homeland. Created in a partnership between the provincial government, the Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt Institute, and the Theodore Roosevelt Association, the RSC today serves as the leading education and research center on American history in Europe. Its stature has grown to the extent that it was accepted as a member of the Dutch Royal Academy of Arts and Sciences, a most impressive and unique achievement. And it is at the RSC, in every even-numbered year, that the prestigious Four Freedoms Awards are presented to outstanding international leaders, clergy, academicians, and freedom fighters. Indeed, for me and my cousins and siblings, and I hope for the next generations of my family, the binding and resilient relationship with the Netherlands and our Dutch ancestry will be as deeply embedded a source of pride and strength as it was for my grandmother.
Her Royal Highness Princess Margriet of The Netherlands and I signing pamphlets at the Inauguration of the FDR Memorial in Washington DC.
My wife, Michele, and I with Vice President Al Gore at the Inauguration.
My cousin Alice Roosevelt Longworth (Theodore Roosevelt’s daughter) in her long interviews with Michael Teague that were published in 1981 in his book Mrs. L, traces the lineage of the name and of our ancestry in her inimitable style:
The name meant “field of roses” in Dutch, so we had roses in book plates and crested rings. Roosevelt babies always had cascades of roses tumbling down their christening robes. Franklin even incorporated the “Roosevelt” three ostrich feathers… into the White House china when he was President.
Some say the Roosevelts were entitled to coats of arms. Others thought that they were two steps ahead of the bailiffs from an island in the Zuider Zee… 1
Grandmère always believed that her extraordinary energy had been inherited from her Dutch forebears:
My uncle, Theodore Roosevelt, was known for his remarkable energy. In fact, he preached the strenuous life and one of the things I remember in my youth is hearing something which was almost a slogan of the day, “Speak softly but carry a big stick.”
Where did all this energy and capacity for work and for play come from? I decided then that back of my uncle Theodore’s family must lie some very healthy, sturdy ancestors and when people say to me today that for a woman of my age I have extraordinary vitality and energy I am obliged to point to my ancestors and say that… I must be grateful to them for handing down to me good health and capacity to acquire good discipline.2
The correct pronunciation of our name has often eluded even some of the expert historians of the Roosevelt family, and I must admit that I remain shocked at times to hear even the most erudite biographers continually mispronounce the name. This has been a point of contention for many years, as evidenced by a 1903 Letter to the Editor of the New York Sun, in which Richard E. Mayne, Chairman of the Department of Reading and Speech Culture of the New York State Teachers Association, chastised then-President Theodore Roosevelt for his own “mispronunciation” of the name. Dr. Mayne stated that, “Perhaps our President does not think as deeply about the matter as academicians do…” To this, our late cousin Robert B. Roosevelt responded in his own letter:
To the Editor of The Sun
Sir: My attention has been called to an amusing letter
by Mr. Richard E. Mayne… calling the President to account for the pronunciation of his own name… It is rather a dangerous proceeding to assume that a man does not know how to pronounce his own name, and the writer who attempts not only to criticize but to dictate may find himself in that unhappy position in which “angels fear to tread,” even if he be a “chairman of reading and speech culture.” A little culture and even less reading would teach men and might teach the chairman that there is no analogy or usage of pronunciation according to spelling in the English language… As there are readers of your paper who are justifiably anxious to know the proper pronunciation of the President’s name, I will explain that it is Dutch. Now, I do not insist that the Dutch language is inherently superior to English… but that language possesses at least one advantage—it has a positive pronunciation. In English when we try to distinguish the long from the short “o” we get into trouble. In Dutch they do not. The double “o” is simply a long “o”. The word “Roos” means rose and is pronounced identically the same way under all circumstances and all combinations. So the first syllable of the President’s name is “Rose” pure and simple.
But the following “e” like the short German “e” or like the silent French “e” when read in poetry is slightly aspirated. An English analogy is the word “the,” a word that our chairman must have come across in his “reading and speech culture.” It is not pronounced at all as it is spelt, not like “thee,” but with the sort of “the” and a breath stopped by the tongue on the teeth. So the name is “Rose-(uh)-velt”…
Grandmère Page 4