And he was there in London, settling in for a visit soon after our family moved to the imposing Embassy Residence at 14 Prince’s Gate, just off Hyde Park. Each afternoon he would retire to his bedroom for a rest. But after a few days, word came down from the fourth floor that he was not resting at all. Rather, Grandpa was composing letter after letter to his friends back in Boston, urging them to set sail for London, too.
“Come visit! Rose and Joe have plenty of room,” he wrote on the official embassy stationery, beneath the engraved gold seal of the United States.
We were never sure if he actually mailed them, but no one ever showed up!
Grandpa was a character of the first order. He could not help but laugh at his own jokes. In fact, he often had trouble getting through a joke because he was laughing so hard that he had to stop telling it. We children would get frustrated because we would forever hear the set up but we rarely heard the punch line. It seems the only person who never seemed the slightest bit bothered by Grandpa’s endless gaiety was Grandma. She understood him so well, and always enjoyed his show.
Later on in our grandparents’ life, Mother and Dad purchased a small cottage for them up the road in Hyannis Port, just before the turn into town. True to her reserved nature, Grandma spent most summer days in the quiet of the cottage, alone with her thoughts and prayers.
On summer afternoons, at around 4:00 or 5:00 p.m., in those slow hours in the day between swimming and supper, I would ride my bike down to visit Grandma at the cottage. She greeted me with a soft kiss at the door, dressed in a simple cotton shift, her hair swept up from her face as always. Tea and sugar cookies might be waiting on a china plate on the table, in anticipation of my arrival.
Together we would move to her small sitting room, where we would settle into comfortable chairs and I would read to her, from the newspaper or from a novel we had chosen. I read the gospel from that morning’s Mass or a story from the Lives of the Saints. I read from the plays of Shakespeare or a poem by Yeats:
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light . . .
And Grandma would say, “That’s lovely dear, simply lovely.”
The afternoon passed. And my quiet grandmother, who started her life riding to school on a horse, who sustained and supported the most powerful man in Boston, who lived to see her grandchildren chart their own course in history, who was the peaceful presence in our family swirl, would remove her glasses, close her eyes, nod her head softly, and listen.
7
The Ocean in Our Veins
Teddy, if you leave with the boat, you come back with the boat.
—JOSEPH P. KENNEDY
In our family, we found common ground on the sea. It did not matter what age you were, and it did not matter if you were a boy or a girl. One of the great advantages of sailing is that everyone on the crew is responsible, everyone has a role to play.
The sea was where we spent most summer days. Even the youngest of us was put to work. As we heaved the ropes, as we tacked into the wind, we learned how to compete and how to cooperate.
All my brothers were serious sailors, and they did not suffer fools on the water. They loved to compete in boat races, and they loved to win. It seemed as if there were endless regattas to join on those bright summer days. The boys raced in the senior division, most often in Jack’s twenty-five-foot senior sailboat, Victura, which Mother and Dad gave him when he was fifteen.
Eunice raced as well, and matched the boys skill for skill. While Pat and I were more casual sailors, Eunice had a steely focus and determination. Our brothers greatly admired her skills and welcomed her as part of the crew.
An unsuspecting sailor on another boat might have looked over to Victura at the start of a race, spied Eunice’s young, wiry frame at the tiller, and thought they had a chance. But they would have been sadly mistaken. At the starting gun’s report, Eunice would spring into action. In full command, she issued orders left and right as those on the crew scurried to keep up.
“Now! Ready about!” The boat would surge forward, propelled by her will. Eunice did not like second place.
“We received alot [sic] of prizes for sailing . . . mostly due to Eunice,” Bobby reported in a letter to Dad after one particularly successful summer on the sea.
I often hoped that one lucky day, I would join the boys and Eunice at the helm, maybe even as captain. From that position of power, I would have full permission to order my brothers and sisters around. But that day did not come. Sailing was too important a business in our family to put it in the hands of a daydreamer.
Bobby and me (Hyannis Port, 1931)
Richard Sears. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Instead, I was given the job of ballast. It was not a job for the faint of heart. In retrospect it was great fun, but at the time it could be terrifying, especially when the mast swinging toward your head was intent on decapitation. Yet there I was, in sunshine or storms, crouched down in position on the bow of the boat.
As the ballast, my role was to balance out the boat with the weight of my body so she would stay steady and not tip too far. I would lurch back and forth across the deck, sucking in saltwater, clothes drenched, ducking the heavy mast that heaved overhead. If I raised my head even an inch, the mast would have taken it right off.
“Jean, move!” my brother would yell, demanding that I scurry faster and faster.
“Starboard!” came the command, and I would fling my body to the right. “Port!” and I would fling to the left.
“Coming about!” I would fall to the deck just as the mast bore down on me.
A quiet day at sea it was not. Yet I wanted to be with my siblings regardless of the circumstances. I suspect that sometimes they wanted to throw me overboard. And they probably would have, if it did not mean having to turn around and pick me back up. The rules of the race required that you go out to sea and return with the same people and items on your boat. Fortunately that rule saved me a number of times—but it did not save Teddy.
One day, Joe became so put out with Teddy for not pulling out the jib fast enough that he lifted him by the seat of his trousers and threw him into the water. Of course, Joe immediately dove in and pulled our little brother back onto the vessel. He would never seriously risk Teddy’s life—nor the race!
As we grew, Teddy and I began to compete in races of our own in the junior division, and it gave us no end of pride to report back to our brothers when we finally brought home the top prize: a sterling silver box. “Joe tells me you’re leading the Junior One-Design Sailing Class at Wianno,” one of his Harvard friends mentioned to me in passing during a visit home. It was a big moment of pride.
It was a tradition for our family that the moment we arrived at Hyannis Port each summer, before we even entered the house, we would run down to the breakwall to say hello to the sea. The breakwall stretched out into the water in front of the house. It buffered our yard during high waves and high winds, including the deadly hurricane of 1938, which we rode out in the basement while the older boys kept running up and down the stairs making sure the house was still in one piece.
This constant battering had taken its toll on the wall over the years, and it was shaky and precarious in spots, rocks nudged loose by the water and winds. That made scrambling up on top of it all the more exciting. Our arms extended for balance, we carefully tested each rock with the toes of our sneakers, risking a tumble with every uneven step. Finally reaching a stable place, we stopped and together waved out to the water. “We’re back!” It was our way of guaranteeing good luck for the summer.
It was all around us and within us, the sea. The Nantucket Sound was practically in our backyard, just beyond the lawn. It was our playground. Sand lingered in our shoes, on the porch, and in our hair, even after a good washing. We kept close watch on the winds and the tides and the currents. On the Fourth of July, after a long day of racing, we would gathe
r on the sand at the West Beach Club to see the water light up from the fireworks above. When night finally fell, with our windows open in the dark, the sea lulled us to sleep.
Teddy and Jack (Hyannis Port, 1946)
John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Saltwater was in our blood, in our genes.
Our Irish ancestors had great respect for the waters that encircled their island home. The sea could be the Irishman’s fickle friend. Legend tells us that in the first century AD, the sea was the only force strong enough to keep the Roman Army from invading Ireland’s shores. Yet some six hundred years later, the same waters ushered in the Vikings, who pillaged the island of Ireland and changed its landscape forever.
“Time to put off the world and go somewhere and find my health again in the sea air,” wrote Yeats.
Mother certainly inherited the Irish affinity for the sea, and never missed her daily dip during the summers in Hyannis Port. She went out each day before lunch, and we often joined in, swimming alongside her, imitating her graceful strokes. We then would gather on the porch for a lunch of tuna fish sandwiches and milk, looking out at the waves.
Other days, we would pack a picnic and sail as a family out to the islands. If we were game for a long outing, we headed toward Martha’s Vineyard or Nantucket, which, even in those days, were teeming with tourists and taffy shops. Shorter stints took us to Great Island, which was closer to our house and less populated. The sailboats did not have motors, so we went out only when the winds were right. There was nothing worse than baking in the hot sun on the deck of a boat in still, listless water, waiting for the sail to catch an elusive breeze.
We sometimes sailed together on one boat, but our convoy would grow to two or three boats if we had friends along. Each of us would take turns, hanging on to a life preserver that we attached to the back of the boat with a long rope. The sailboat would drag us along through the water. Sometimes, when we got close to Great Island, we would let go of the life preserver and swim into the beach, where we played ball or hunted for interesting rocks and shells. Those on the sailboat would drop anchor and then bring a float onto shore with a basket of food. We would spread out our picnic blankets on the island, unwrapping our boiled eggs and sandwiches and popping open our sodas. Then, after a rest, we would head back to the boat.
Even when the sun went down in Hyannis Port, the sea beckoned. “Let’s take a walk,” Mother would say after the supper dishes had been cleared. We would walk with her up the drive and down the road where the boats from the town were moored on both sides, then up onto the pier. The whisk, whisk, whisk of the water hitting the pilings was soothing to hear. Gulls drifted easily overhead.
Mother would lead us to a small shelter at the end of the pier where she would stop to sit on the bench inside. There, we ended our day, side by side, talking quietly in the lamplight, tasting and devouring the familiar salt air.
The last one out of the water each night and the first one in each morning was Teddy. Like all the boys, he was viscerally drawn to the sea, and it was a passion that lasted his entire life.
When our family moved into the house in Hyannis Port, Teddy was not born yet, so there were only ten of us: Mother, Dad, and eight children. Consequently, when Dad purchased our first sailboat, he christened her Tenovus.
A few years later, Teddy came along, and Dad purchased another boat. That boat’s name? One More.
It was probably at that moment that the die was cast for Teddy. As a boy, he had no need for a pet dog or cat. One More was his faithful companion.
Teddy learned early in life that a boat is a great responsibility. As he recounted in his memoir, True Compass, one rainy day he set out for a sailing excursion with our cousin, and his best pal, Joey Gargan in One More. They spent a miserable night on board and come morning, they anchored the boat, swam ashore, and called Dad’s chauffeur for a ride back to the house. Walking in the door, drenched and tired, Teddy passed right by Dad and headed up the stairs. I was standing at the top looking down.
“Teddy, I thought you were going for your cruise,” Dad said.
“But it was cold! It rained,” Teddy replied.
He was halfway up the stairs when Dad’s voice stopped him short.
“Teddy, where is the boat?”
There was a pause. I waited to hear what Teddy would say.
“It’s anchored. We’ll go back and get it later.”
“Teddy,” Dad said firmly. “If you leave with the boat, you come back with the boat.”
The words hit their intended target. Teddy understood what Dad was saying, and he could not believe it. I could not either. But Teddy knew better than to argue. Dad had made his statement, and there was no challenging him, especially when Teddy knew he was right. Soggy and sagging, Teddy did an about-face on the stairs, and he and Joey walked out the door back out into the rain, toward the waiting sea and their abandoned boat.
I’ve never seen a face look more miserable. But as Teddy later told the story, a blazing, brilliant sun came out just as he and Joey reached the boat, and they had a marvelous sail home.
8
Our Jewel
He was determined, dedicated, loving, and compassionate. He was a thoughtful and considerate person. He always had the capacity, and the desire, to make difficult decisions. Those who loved him saw this in him, and understood.
—ROSE FITZGERALD KENNEDY, ON BOBBY KENNEDY
I do not have a favorite.”
That is how Mother answered us every time we asked which one of us was her favorite child.
“No, children. Stop asking me. I do not have a favorite. Every one of you brings your own unique quality to this family, and I love you all the same.”
Bobby and Mother at the Embassy Residence (London, 1938)
Illustrated London News, Ltd. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
We knew she was telling us the truth—almost. There was no question that we were equally loved. But we also believed that, deep down, in a small corner of her expansive heart, Mother had a soft spot for Bobby. She would never say it, but we just knew it. Dad felt the same way. And why wouldn’t they?
Bobby held a special place for each of us. The seventh child, Bobby was surrounded by girls: Pat, Eunice, Kick, and Rosemary to the north, me to the south. He longed to explore the world with Dad and to engage in debate with Joe and Jack. But when he was a toddler, the older boys were already headed into their teenage years and toward college. And Teddy did not come along until Bobby was eight years old, so he could not be his playmate for quite a while.
Instead, Bobby’s daily companions were his sisters. Girls. We were headstrong, fun-loving girls, for sure. We were not overly enamored of dresses and were not afraid of getting dirty. We could stand up to anyone on a tennis court or in a touch football match. But in Bobby’s young eyes, we were girls nonetheless. And for a boy, that was tough to take. Mother and Dad understood that and empathized with him.
Perhaps being encircled by females made Bobby a more sensitive, intuitive, intentional soul. Or perhaps he was simply born that way. Whatever the case, from his earliest years, Bobby was a person who could not be pinned down or easily described. In so many ways, he was a regular boy, an adventurer who was always up for a dare, who loved to find treasures in the street and secret hiding places in the yard. For a time he was a paper boy, pedaling away on his bicycle in the foggy predawn hours to deliver papers in the neighborhood. Mother was delighted by his entrepreneurial spirit, until she discovered one day that, tired of his early-morning exertion, he had convinced Dad’s chauffeur to drive him along the route. Mother put a stop to that. It was not a good day for Bobby.
Bobby with baby bunny (1934)
John F. Kennedy Library Foundation. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Bobby was purposeful, but he also had an absentminded way about him. You could not keep him out of
a good climbing tree. And if the day was a little slow and there was not much to do on the ground, look up and you would find Bobby on the roof. His knees seemed permanently skinned and bruised. He tracked grass and mud into the house, only to be turned back outside by the ever-active broom of our nurse, Kikoo. Bobby was completely of this earth.
Bobby (Bronxville, 1934)
John F. Kennedy Library Foundation. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Yet he was also somehow removed from it. Like Mother, Bobby had a strong faith, even as a boy. Sometimes he would join Mother on summer mornings for her ride to daily 6:00 a.m. Mass, where he served as an altar boy. He had a particular connection to St. Francis of Assisi, the thirteenth-century saint who gave all his worldly goods away, embraced the poor, and loved even the smallest of animals. When he received the Catholic sacrament of Confirmation, Bobby chose Francis as his middle name: Robert Francis Kennedy.
Like St. Francis, Bobby loved all animals: dogs, cats, chickens, rabbits, exotic turtles, foul-looking reptiles. The ones on four legs seemed to follow him everywhere. He doted on a large pink-and-black spotted pig named Porky. I do not recall how Porky came into Bobby’s life, but for a while he was a permanent fixture. Porky even rode with Bobby to school one day, sitting up tall in the backseat of the car and looking out the window at the sights around him as they motored down the road. Imagine the people along the way, stepping onto their front porches in the crisp morning and reaching down for their newspapers, only to spy Porky and Bobby zooming by.
Bobby also gave away rabbits one year to his Bronxville friends. These children would come to our house simply to play but would leave carrying a new floppy-eared pet. No doubt the parents of the neighborhood were not thrilled when their sons and daughters arrived home with a wild rabbit thumping away in a cardboard box. “But Bobby Kennedy made me do it!”
The Nine of Us Page 6