Yeah. And I think Lippmann's wife was an ex-Catholic. She was brought up and went to a convent and broke with it and I think that had some—
Well, I remember when—
Though, remember in 1960 that Lippmann wrote marvelous columns.
Yeah. I can't really remember what they wrote and what they didn't, sometimes. But—I mean, he wouldn't sort of be a sycophant to them. I mean, he wouldn't suck around. In the press, he really saw the people who—he liked. Someone funny like Bill Lawrence, just—you know.
But you don't feel that he was unduly sensitive—
Unh-unh [meaning no].
—to the press. One thing a lot of people have written about the administration is that no administration was more interested in its own image, to use that odious word, and so on.54
Well, that to me, it's like reading about someone—you know, it's so untrue. And then they'd all talk about the public relations setup that we had going before the—during—before the campaign, and the this and the that, and our image. Which I'd never thought of as image. And there was never anyone in public relations, except—Charlie Bartlett always used to say, "You're doing too many articles." But he used to say to Charlie, "You know, I have so many—much against me. The only one—and in a certain position that mightn't be the best way to get what I'm aiming for—the nomination. But this way, it is. You know, to just get more and more known and bombard them." So many public relations things were that when they asked for interviews, and he would do them. But he never had anyone advising him and he never thought about our image. In fact, our image—when you think of something so incredible about me, I was always a liability to him until we got to the White House. And he never asked me to change or said anything about it. Everyone thought I was a snob from Newport, who had bouffant hair and had French clothes and hated politics. And then because I was off and having these babies, I wasn't able to campaign, you know, and be around with him as much as I could have. And he'd get so upset for me when something like that came out. And sometimes I'd say, "Oh, Jack, I wish—you know, I'm sorry for you that I'm just such a dud." And, he knew it wasn't true and he didn't want me to change, I mean, he knew I loved him and I did everything I could, and when I did campaign with him, I did it very hard and I spoke French all through Massachusetts to counteract Henry Cabot Lodge—until people came up and used to be surprised that I could speak English! He was, you know, proud. So, he never asked me—there I was the worst liability and there were Lee—Princess Radziwill and everything. And—and I was so happy, I remember thinking, once you got in the White House—it's really true of any president's wife. Everything that was bad is suddenly new, and so it's interesting. So whereas, then that you have decent French food is a plus instead of a minus—that you don't like, stay in a kitchen all day making Irish stew. And when I did the tour of the White House, he was so proud of that. He used to show that and ask people about it. And then I did the guidebook over everybody's objections. They all said in the West Wing that it would be awful to have money change hands in the White House.55 But then he was proud of me, and I was so happy that at last I'd been able to be something that he could be proud of. But, I mean, that shows you he wasn't thinking of his image or he would have made me get a little frizzy permanent and be like Pat Nixon. You know, "Pat and Dick," and he never—he never would hold hands in public or put his arm around me, or—because that was naturally just distasteful to him, as I think it is for any married— So he didn't do anything for his image. And he used to tell me—sometimes he'd tell me I should wear hats instead of sc[arves]56—oh, and all these letters about my skirts too short. And I said, "But they're not too short," and he said, "Oh, I guess you're right." But, you know, he never said, "Lengthen them" or—
PRESIDENT AND MRS. KENNEDY GREETING GUESTS AT A WHITE HOUSE RECEPTION ON LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY, 1963
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
THE PRESIDENT, VICE PRESIDENT, AND FIRST LADY WELCOME MERCURY ASTRONAUT GORDON COOPER TO THE WHITE HOUSE, 1963
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
He never tried to ask you to do—not to stop behaving—stop being yourself for any political or public relations purpose?
JFK PRESIDES OVER A PRIVATE WHITE HOUSE DINNER, FEBRUARY 9, 1962
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
PRESIDENT KENNEDY AND MRS. KENNEDY SPEAK TO ISAAC STERN AT A DINNER IN HONOR OF ANDRé MALRAUX, 1962
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
No. And I think he liked that I was—I mean, he knew I was being myself and that I did like to stay in the background. I think he appreciated that in a wife. And he married me, really, for the things I was, but then when they didn't work out politically, he was never going to ask me to change, which I just think was so nice about him. Because he wouldn't be fake in any way, and he wouldn't be fake about his children and he wouldn't kiss babies, and so all that was really written by people who just didn't understand him. The one thing he was, which people can't understand and which was—where I felt so sorry for poor Nixon, who had such a disadvantage—Jack was the most unself-conscious person I've ever seen. He just naturally could be attractive in a crowd or a room. He was unself-conscious about walking around with a towel on. If it fell off or something, you know, he'd put it on again, but— So many people are worried or nervous in public, or public appearances. Nixon was and, you know, he would sweat and everything. So the people who weren't sort of sure of themselves, or had that wonderful ease of Jack, were in a way jealous and you know, attributed all these funny things to him, which weren't true. He was just always so natural.
PRESIDENT KENNEDY SPEAKS WITH PEARL BUCK AND JACQUELINE WITH ROBERT FROST AT A DINNER HONORING NOBEL LAUREATES, 1962
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
How did he feel about the White House staff?
Who do you mean by that?
Well, the—we're talking about the public thing. Pierre, and—
I think he—you know, loved them all. I used to get so mad at Pierre because he did have a certain hamming-up thing that really didn't help protect my children much. I mean, he'd give a long interview about some drunken rabbit.57 And I'd blow up at Pierre, but then I'd say to Jack, there's the nicest thing about Pierre. You can really say the most terrible things to him, which I did sometimes, and he never bore a grudge. It would be over, like that. So Jack was grateful to Pierre for that. And when I look at it now, without Jack, you see that his White House staff is the most extraordinary collection of people, who are so different—who now, a lot of them, dislike each other. I mean, maybe they did then, but you never knew it then. But I mean, there were the Irish Mafia. There was Pierre. There was Mrs. Lincoln, who was jealous of anyone who came near Jack. There were the professors—you know, there was you, there was Bundy, Ralph Dungan, Mike Feldman.58 And all adoring Jack and knowing—and then, there was me and our private life and friends. All kept together because they knew he thought highly of each of them, and that their contribution was to their utmost. And he loved all of them, and they all loved him. And Jack held together this motley band, who now—from some of them, at least from the Irish—are just so bitter about everyone else in there.59 But you never saw that.
I thought it was the most exceptionally harmonious experience. And you know, everyone warned me, before joining it, that there would be feuds and knives out, and so on. I had no—I just thought it was the best possible experience of dealing with—of the people around the President because of the way he, you know, managed everybody.
Yeah. And I often thought it was—well, not exactly, but you know, you hear it said that mother love is infinite and it isn't that you can love two children—and then, if you have nine, that means you love them just that much less. Well, there weren't really any jealousies or favorites. No one ever thought Jack had a favorite—
/>
That's right.
—unless it was Dave Powers, who was a favorite for what everyone hoped he would have a favorite for—someone to relax him, you know. But he didn't have any favorites. And so that way, they could all work together. There was no intrigue of "who's in" and "who's out." And as Kenny said—he didn't put Kenny in the position of being the only man you could get to see the President through. They could also sneak around through Mrs. Lincoln's door, or Tish would manage to—you know, there were so many ways.
Yeah.
Well, he was so accessible, and yet he got so much more done—than now. He was accessible, but when he worked he really worked. He didn't, you know, break things up.
When would the President see the children?
He'd see the children—I didn't tell you all our day once, did I? Of how in the morning George Thomas would rap on our bedroom door about quarter of eight, and he would go into his room, and the children would come in. And they'd either turn on the television, going absolutely full blast, and he'd have his breakfast, sitting in a chair, on a tray, doing all his—reading the morning papers, going through all his briefing books or, you know, those sheets of typewritten—his agenda for the day.
He'd do that before he got dressed?
Yeah. He'd—yes, he'd sort of have—
A dressing gown on or something.
No, he'd take a bath first and they'd come in while he had a bath. I told you all of John's toys were by the side of his tub. And then he'd sort of have breakfast in his shirt and underpants. And on the television—gosh, sometimes it was loud because I'd often come in because it—sometimes I'd like to just, sort of, stay in bed until about nine. But I'd come in there and sit with him, sometimes. But there'd be cartoons, and there was this awful exercise man, Jack La—
LaLanne, yes.
So Jack would lower—and there'd be Jack LaLanne, and he'd be telling Caroline and John to do what they were doing, so they'd be lying on the floor. Sometimes he'd touch his toes with John a bit. But he'd have them tumbling around. He loved those children tumbling around him in this sort of—sensual is the only way I can think of it. And then he'd always come out in the garden during their recess in the morning and clap his hands, and all the little things from school would come running.60 The teachers—he used to call out his two favorites, Caroline and Mary Warner. And then the teacher said it wasn't fair for him to give them candy. She told Caroline she could only get candy if there would be some for the entire class. So Mrs. Lincoln had an entire box of Barracini candy that—but he'd go out or, if I was around there with John, he'd call us in and a little bit in his office, and then he'd send them out and then John would play on Mrs. Lincoln's typewriter. Then they'd come over in the evening, just as he was finishing up for the day, and just play around his office. One of the last days I remember—well, you know, there's that wonderful picture of them all talking about Berlin and Jack—which was an awful, sort of a crisis—and John tumbling out from under his desk. But, oh, and then one of the last days, Charlie the dog came in and bit John on the nose, and Bundy had to get Dr. Burkley.61 You know the children were never bratty but he liked to have them underfoot, and then he'd take them swimming and—or else, if it didn't work out quite that way when he'd come upstairs before dinner, no matter who we had for dinner, they'd come in. You know, they'd have their time with him in their pajamas. He really would play with them first, even if it was a state dinner. He'd always say—or even when it was a state lunch or just a man's lunch. Usually, he'd have me in the room and he'd say, "Go get the children!" And, of course, they'd always be in their naps in their underwear or something, and I'd have to bring them out in their underwear because he'd never give you warning before. But he just loved to have them around. And then he'd—he really taught Caroline to swim. He made her dive off the high diving board. He made her swim the length of the pool in Florida, the last Christmas she was there. Well, she got a quarter of the way and did the rest under water. He was saying, "Come on, you can make it!" You know, he did so much with them. And he told her all these stories. He'd make up "The White Shark and the Black Shark," and "Bobo the Lobo," and "Maybelle"—some little girl who hid in the woods. And then one day, he was desperate and I said, "What?" He said, "Gosh, you've got to get me some books, or something. I'm running out of children's stories." He said, "I just told Caroline how she and I shot down three Jap fighter planes." But—
THE WHITE HOUSE SCHOOL
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
JOHN AND CAROLINE VISIT THEIR FATHER AT WORK
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
Were there any books that he liked reading or the children demanded that he read?
No, he didn't read—he didn't like to read books to them much. He'd rather tell them stories. But he'd make up these fantastic ones. Sort of that they were just riveted by. Oh, and then he'd have ponies for Caroline—White Star and Black Star. Caroline said to me, "Daddy would always let me choose which pony I wanted to ride and which pony my friend would ride." And then he would make some race and he would always let Caroline win the race. And then he had a—oh, Miss Shaw was in a lot of them, rather ludicrously—and Mrs. Throttlebottom was in the race. And how Caroline went hunting—the Orange County hounds and then White Star and Black Star—she went in the Grand National and beat every—you know, little things that had to do with their world, where they did absolutely extraordinarily. John got his PT boat and shot a Jap destroyer, or something like that. But, he never got impatient. They'd come in his bed, you know.
What—when you went to Hyannis Port or Newport or Palm Beach, where he'd have more time with the children. Of course, he couldn't lift them or play with them himself, could he, with the back?
THE FIRST FAMILY, HYANNIS PORT, 1963
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
He'd get on the floor, then he could really roll around with them. And he used to—he could lift Caroline up and—at least, a little—he used to throw her around an awful lot before we got to the White House.62 But, well, they'd be in our room in the morning, and then he'd swim with them for about an hour, and then he always wanted them to come out on the boat with us. A lot of times, you know, they really were quite young. They'd get awfully cranky if they missed their nap. But he always wanted them to come, so you'd put them to bed inside for half an hour or something, and maybe they would get whiny, but he always wanted them there. Or, at Camp David and things, you'd sort of sit out and have supper with them or you'd run on the lawn, and everything.
What place relaxed him most, do you think, of the various places you went?
It was really the boat that relaxed him the most. Before he was President, it was to go out on his father's boat, the Marlin—and then the Honey Fitz. And the reason for that was, there was no telephone. He was awful about the phone. It could—never—ring but he wouldn't answer it. You know, calls would come, or else he'd be getting ten people on the phone. So, there, I mean, rain or shine—I can remember him taking Adlai Stevenson out on the Honey Fitz one day in late October in Newport—hurricane season. I got two polo coats for Adlai and a pith helmet of my stepfather's. And Jack was sitting in the back in a black sweater, the hair—the wind blowing his hair, blissfully happy with fish chowder. And I was inside, with two blankets on, and drinking hot soup. That's how cold it was. He just thought everyone would love that boat because that was his away from care. It was for him what getting out on a horse was for me—in the air, no phone. I'm not that mad for riding horses or hunting. But the release from tension in the air. He loved the sun and the water and no phone. And you know, friends there—you always had friends there that—he never used the boat for working—but whoever you want to relax with.
THE HONEY FITZ
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
PRESIDENT AND MRS. KENNEDY SAIL WITH HER MOTHER AND STEPFA
THER OFF NEWPORT, 1962
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
THE PRESIDENT AND CAROLINE ON THE HONEY FITZ
Bob Sandberg, Look magazine/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
What did he think of all these skits about himself, like The First Family, and so on? Did he ever listen to them?
I think he listened. I'm not sure he listened to all of that record.63 I listened to one side, and then I threw it away because I didn't want my children to see it. And I guess, he sort of took it. You know, I thought it was so unfair that he didn't—I guess he just accepted it. I mean, he obviously didn't like it, but I was the one who got much more worked up about those things. I thought it was so mean. I didn't care if they made fun of me or anything, but when they made fun of little children— And the first year he was President, I went to the Women's Press Club dinner. He had a fever that night, and so Lyndon took me. It's a tradition for the President and his wife to go—and a woman named Bonnie Angelo came out on a tricycle as Caroline and sang some awful song.64 And the next year, I wouldn't go and that Bonnie Angelo was president. Pierre really got upset by that. And I said, "I'm not going to go, and you can either tell them why, Pierre—for what they did last year—or you can make up any excuse you think is best." And then I explained that to Jack. I just felt so strongly about those children. It was hard enough protecting them in the Kennedy family, where some of the cousins, especially, Eunice's children, are—were so conscious of the position, and would always wear Kennedy buttons and would play that record, "My Daddy Is President, What Does Your Daddy Do?,"65 or The First Family. And I hid all those things from my children and always taught them that the White House was sort of temporary. I'm so glad I did, for the way it ended. But that it was while Daddy was President, and presidents had lived in it before. I'd tell them when Franklin Roosevelt would come to dinner—and Mrs. Longworth or President Truman. I'd tell them little stories about other presidents, and then there would be a president after Daddy, and then we would be living in Hyannis. And, you know, so they never got to think that all this was going to be forever in this power, which the others were awful about. So I'd get upset about those skits, but he didn't like to see me get upset. But, I guess, he knew it was part of being President. And because it was such a different and young family, there was so much more to make skits about with us, which he said, sort of wryly, to me once.
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