DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to
my outstanding and loving parents,
who were always there for us,
through the good times and the bad.
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE The White House by the Sea
1 “No Whining in This House”
2 The Nine of Us
3 “No Irish Need Apply”
4 Closet Castaways
5 Faith, Values, and Hard Work
6 Grandma and Grandpa Fitzgerald
7 The Ocean in Our Veins
8 Our Jewel
9 On the Town with Dad
10 A Life Full of Lessons
11 Alone with Mother
12 The Dinner Discussion
13 Teddy
14 Daily Walks
15 Forever Changed
16 A Long Way from Bronxville
EPILOGUE And the Beat Goes On
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
PROLOGUE
The White House by the Sea
The white house looked out over the sea. It was a sturdy and practical house, an overgrown Cape Cod cottage with white wooden shingles and black shutters, set back on a lawn that was worn in places from too many football games. A circular drive brought you up to the front steps, which ascended onto a long, wide porch. The beach waited just beyond the grass. A breakwall jutted out to the left to help calm the sometimes unruly seas.
A visitor climbing the steps in the late afternoon and pausing before the door might feel a moment of solitude, looking out at the water where gulls swooped down for their supper. But stepping inside, he would quickly realize that he was not alone at all. The white house was full. Full of activity, chatter, and laughter. Full of books on shelves and sports gear in closets. And especially full of children. Nine of us, to be exact.
We arrived each June in Hyannis Port with tremendous excitement. This was where, without fail and without question, the Kennedy children spent our summers. Like boys and girls all over the country, we hung up our satchels on the last day of school with satisfaction and relief, and we faced those carefree days with joy.
Just a few hours south of Boston by car, Hyannis Port seemed a world away from the rigors of our school years, which began for the older children in Brookline, Massachusetts, and then continued for all of us in Bronxville, New York. A small hamlet off the road from the larger town of Hyannis, it had only a simple post office to mark its place on the globe. Hyannis Port was so small that it probably had more boats in its harbor than people in its houses. Everyone knew one another.
Our house was a short bike ride out of town down Longwood Avenue and toward the sea. It started out as a cottage when Dad first purchased it in 1928. But it slowly grew as our family grew, its various additions rambling out from one side or another. In the summer, the house rarely got any rest, as we swung in and out of its doors. During the day, it served as our landmark on the shore, keeping us oriented while we swam or sailed on the water. At night our flashlights traced across the lawn where, like countless other children under the same moon in America, we scuttled among the bushes, playing hide-and-seek. On evenings when it was cool or the rain lashed outside, we gathered in the living room for fierce games of charades, acting out books, movies, or plays against the ticking clock. “It was Great Expectations!” I wailed after the time had run out without anyone picking up on what my wild hand gestures meant.
Hours later, after snacks and glasses of milk in the kitchen, we would move off to bed. Joe and Jack always had the bedrooms on the first floor, off the sunroom. For the rest of us it was a moveable feast, depending on who was home at the time. My older sister Kick and I often shared the room in the far corner of the house, at the end of the upstairs corridor. But if she happened to bring two or three friends home for the weekend, I would find myself in the room at the top of the stairs for a night or two. It was summer, and there was an easy flow to it all. With a few late-night whispers, we settled into bed, another day tucked in.
But what—another day so soon? The sun rose, the house stirred. Two feet hit the floor. Brisk steps down the hallway. Coffee on the stove. Dad, ready and alert in his riding clothes, with Teddy fast on his heels, filed out the front door, headed for their morning horseback ride through the cranberry bogs in nearby Osterville. Mother rose as well, said her morning prayers, and dutifully prepared for the short drive to St. Francis Xavier Church in Hyannis for daily Mass. Eunice, Bobby, or I sometimes awakened to go along with her.
Joe, Jack, Rosemary, Kick, Eunice, Pat, Bobby, and me.
Teddy was not yet born (1931)
Richard Sears. Pathe News Boston. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Or else we didn’t, and instead stayed burrowed in our pillows, along with everyone else, for just a few more minutes of precious sleep. Then we stretched our arms up and out, ready for whatever the day might bring, under the care and in the fold of the big white house.
1
“No Whining in This House”
There is no other success for a father and a mother except to feel that they have made some contribution to the development of their children.
—JOSEPH P. KENNEDY
People have asked me for years about my family, about why we are so close, about how it happened that we all became involved in politics and interested in the issues of the world. They are naturally curious about life with my sisters and brothers, who all grew up to be well known, but who, in the beginning, were simply children.
Like the people who have asked me these questions, it is interesting for me to reflect on those earlier years and to think about what, if anything, made them beyond the ordinary. For in so many ways, our life seemed unexceptional most of the time. Even though I was there through it all, it is hard for me to fully comprehend that I was growing up with brothers who would eventually occupy the highest offices of our nation, including president of the United States. At the time, they were simply my playmates. They were the source of my amusement and the objects of my admiration.
Just as in any family, we had our happy days and our moody ones. We teased one another mercilessly. We argued over who deserved the last piece of cake. We planned exploits into forbidden territory, climbing too high in trees or onto the garage roof. And we laughed. I can say without reservation that I do not remember a day in our childhood without laughter.
Certainly a distinct characteristic of our family was its size. Growing up in a big family of nine children is a less common experience today than it was in those days, and it certainly left its mark on each of us. A large family can be a challenge, particularly for parents whose attentions are inevitably divided and whose patience must be stretched very thin at times. But any challenge of a big family is eclipsed by the tremendous fun. A child in a big family constantly feels surrounded and supported. For me, there was always someone to play with or someone to talk to just around the corner, out on the porch, or in the next bedroom. I never felt alone.
Our childhood played out during a different time in America, when children found their amusement conspiring in closets, playing ball in the front yard, or lost in the pages of an adventure novel. This was the heyday of radio. Televisions, computers, and video games had not been invented yet, and it was beyond our imagination that anything like that would ever exist. We did not automatically learn what was going on in the next town, state, or country by turning on a screen. Instead we waited for the newspaper to arrive on the porch each morning. Telephones were firmly attached to the wall by a thick black cord, and they were treated with respect. Time on the telephone equaled
money. When it rang, you usually knew it was signaling exciting news or, hopefully not, a serious emergency. Either way, you never talked on the telephone for very long.
To get around town or to school, we walked or jumped on our bicycles. For longer trips, we rode in cars. And for even longer trips, we boarded great locomotive trains or vast steamer ships. Air travel was almost unheard of, and an enormous luxury. And no matter how we got where we were going, we always dressed up. Gloves and hats and jackets were typical attire, not just our Sunday best.
In the early decades of the twentieth century, when my brothers and sisters and I were born, the United States was still taking its shape as a nation. It was not yet the global powerhouse it would soon become. We grew up in those disquieting years between World Wars I and II, when America was in constant motion, an ambitious young nation wresting its way out of the Depression. We were aware that trouble was swelling overseas, although for us little ones in the family, it was more an abstract concept than a reality.
Central to our lives and to the people we would become were our parents, Rose and Joe Kennedy. They influenced the nine of us so profoundly, yet so subtly, that I hardly understood the impact myself until I looked back decades later through mature eyes. Mother and Dad both descended from Irish immigrants, a fact that profoundly affected their outlook on life and the choices they made for their family. They were very conscious of the tremendous oppression their ancestors had overcome and were extremely grateful to be Americans. Like other young people of their generation who were the grandsons and granddaughters of immigrants, Mother and Dad felt a duty to give back to the country that had embraced their family, and to contribute to its continued growth.
“To whom much has been given, much is expected.”
Mother repeated those words to us often, quoting the Gospel of St. Luke. She was not admonishing us. She was challenging us. Mother and Dad felt it was important for us to know how lucky we were. “On some days, your ancestors had no idea where their next meal was coming from,” Mother would remind us. In contrast, we had a roof over our heads and we had hot food on our table every night. Mother and Dad let us know that we had an obligation to give back.
Mother and Dad (Hyannis Port)
The John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
“To whom much is given . . .”
All of us understood from the earliest age that we were required to use our talents and gifts for the good of others and of our country. There was no other option. For the gift of being in this world, we had a responsibility to it. This is what motivated Mother and Dad in their daily lives, and it was what shaped how they raised us. Theirs was a constant reminder: take nothing for granted, work hard, and be grateful.
Yet despite the seriousness of this obligation to them, somehow Mother and Dad made it all seem fun and light and interesting. They did not make unrealistic or unkind demands or hold our noses to the grindstone. I do not remember them once raising their voices to us—ever. Rather, they compelled us to be our best selves.
“I definitely know you have all the goods and you will go a long way,” Dad wrote to my brother Jack in his typical, encouraging tone.
Mother and Dad’s approach was steady, yet firm. And they were purposeful. As I look back, it is clear how intentional my parents were in every decision they made. They did not rely on chance, but instead set very clear rules through their example.
Complaining was strictly forbidden. We were not allowed to sit around moaning because we could not go to the movies or had received a poor mark in geometry class. If Teddy got more cookies, if Pat borrowed my bicycle without asking, if things seemed unjust or unfair, we learned early on that the response was not to grumble or cry. Dad’s voice would clamp down on our ears: “Fix it. There’s no whining in this house.” He could not abide us feeling sorry for ourselves. Life was far too good for us to whine about small things. It was selfish, and on top of that, it was boring. Why should everyone else have to suffer through your complaints about homework?
This belief, this mantra, was so imbedded in our family ethos that even as we grew up and faced larger problems, even if we were a thousand miles away, when a whine escaped our lips, we could hear him: “There’s no whining in this house.”
Mother and Dad felt that in order for us to understand the people and events around us, we needed a strong grasp of the people and events that came before. They made sure that our Grandpa and Grandma were fixtures in our childhood so that we had an appreciation for life outside our generation and an understanding of the odds that they and their parents faced. At Thanksgiving each year, Mother and Dad told us the story of the brave Pilgrims of Plymouth, and of the equally brave Native Americans who overcame what must have been great fear and uncertainty to help the Pilgrims in their moment of need.
Our trips to Boston and elsewhere in the state were history lessons in disguise as Mother spun fascinating accounts of the founding of our nation: the Old North Church, the Battle of Bunker Hill, Lexington and Concord. A born teacher, Mother peppered us with questions: How long do you think it took to ride to Concord, children? Who do you think fired the first shot? Why do you think Thomas Jefferson felt the pursuit of happiness was a fundamental right?
In the mornings over breakfast, Mother served up the news of the day along with our cereal and toast. The image of her still makes me laugh, arriving at the table with newspaper articles that she found interesting pinned to her dress. Jack’s boyhood friends later marveled that he was the only fourteen-year-old they knew who had the New York Times delivered to him at boarding school each day. Mother had made current events so interesting at home that we would not think of missing out when we were away at school.
Mother and Dad taught us how to take care of one another without telling us to. They taught us how to love one another without forcing us to. Their example was most apparent when it came to our sister Rosemary. Rosemary was born with intellectual disabilities that we did not completely comprehend until years later. As a young child, I simply understood that she had greater trouble doing certain things than the rest of us did. But I also understood from my parents, as we all did, that Rosemary was an integral part of our lives. Mother and Dad did not have to tell us directly. We just knew how to act by how they acted. When doctors suggested placing Rosemary in an institution, Dad’s reply was immediate: “What can they do in an institution that we can’t do better for her at home, here with her family?” So she stayed with us. It would never have occurred to us to leave Rosemary behind or leave her out—because she was fun and we loved her.
When I was grown, with a family of my own, I asked Mother what job she might have pursued had she been born at a time when women had more opportunity in the workforce.
“Mother, I could see you being a college president,” I said, thinking of her thirst for teaching and learning.
“Oh no, Jean, dear,” she replied, shaking her head. “I have no regrets whatsoever. A college president is a wonderful profession. But for me, raising a child is the most challenging and rewarding profession of all.”
How grateful I am—how grateful we all were—that Mother and Dad took that singular point of view. They knew how to cure our hurts, bind our wounds, listen to our woes, and help us enjoy life. We were lucky children indeed.
Seated from left: Pat, Bobby, Mother, Jack, and Dad, with Teddy on his lap Standing from left: Joe, Kick, Rosemary, Eunice, and me (Hyannis Port, 1930s)
Bachrach/Getty Images
2
The Nine of Us
In our family, in sickness and in health, we were all involved with one another, all in the same life, a continuum, a seamless fabric, a flow of time.
—ROSE FITZGERALD KENNEDY
At any time, in any generation, nine children is a lot. Today, it is rarely heard of. Yet it seemed that, from the start, Mother and Dad were destined to have a gaggle of children. They loved having children around them, and they worked well together as parents and partners.
We would not have been complete if they had stopped at two or four or even six. Nine of us we had to be. And each of us had our singular spot in line.
Mother kept track of all our vital statistics on index cards that became an absolute necessity as our number began to grow. She said she got the idea while walking past a stationery store one day, early in her marriage. Her head must have been full of all the facts she had to remember for each of her children back at home. She purchased her supplies and, from that point on, when a new baby arrived, a new card went into the box, marked first with simply birth date, weight, and length. But soon our distinctive lists of statistics began to grow, updated each week without fail: date of baptism, names of godparents, vaccinations, dental appointments, First Holy Communion, and any illnesses or broken bones that might befall us.
The inaugural card in Mother’s box belonged to Joe—handsome, bold, brilliant Joe, who, first in the world, became first at everything. Named after Dad, he was dogged, loyal, and keenly intuitive like his namesake. He had an insatiable love of life and threw his heart and soul into everything he touched, bringing home both a broken nose and the championship trophy in football, landing on the dean’s list at Harvard and heading up every activity he could think to join, from Debate Club to Class Day Committee. He was exceptionally intelligent, gallant on a horse, and strikingly handsome. And he made everything seem so effortless and interesting. We all wanted to follow in his footsteps. Joe was a magnet, for his friends and for us.
Joe (1936)
John F. Kennedy Library Foundation. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Joe seemed to know that we were looking up to him from our successive spots in the family, and he took very seriously the responsibility that Mother and Dad placed on him to lead us in the right direction. His college friend Timothy J. Reardon once recalled Joe telling him, “You know, T.J., I’m the oldest of my family and I’ve got to be the example for a lot of brothers and sisters.”
The Nine of Us Page 1