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P. JAMES ROOSEVELT (August 22, 1928 - November 27, 1998)
A Memorial Service was held Saturday, Dec. 5th at Christ Church, Oyster Bay, NY |
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P. Roosevelt, Teddy's Cousin, Dies By John Giuffo. NEWSDAY STAFF WRITER
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Written and delivered
by Philip J. Roosevelt, II It is my privilege to speak with you about Jim Roosevelt, my father and friend. Philippa has asked that I share some family stories about Jim -- some reminiscences -- and that is what I'm going to do. I'm going to tell some of his stories, some of my stories and some of the entire family's stories. I can think of no tribute more fitting, for storytelling was one of Pop's great passions. He seemed to have a story for every occasion -- or a poem, or a song. The words would come in deep, rich, dramatic tones, and his face would register all the emotions of his characters --their joy, their misery, their steely determination. When the endings came. we would only want more. Pop told amazing stories right until the end. In fact. he kept doing everything until the end, even though he was greatly weakened. His colleagues tell us that he was talking about stocks the day before he died- His nurses report that he was cracking wise only hours before his death. And I can tell you first-hand that when it came to telling stories, he remained at the top of his game. During the past two months, he told us, at our request. his life story -- and we recorded it on tape. Some of the episodes were familiar -- we had heard them many times before -- but he enthralled us once again. He told of sailing in a dinghy with his father 60 years ago, of youthful antics at St. Marks and Harvard, of the ups and downs of his early career on Wall Street. He told of racing to Bermuda on Winnie of Bourne, of exploring the wilds of Indonesia on missionary work. One of the best parts of this storytelling came after his eldest grandson -- Max, age 10 -- asked what life had been like at Dalton, the elementary school in Manhattan. Pop paused for a moment, cleared his throat, cocked his head upward and began to softly sing a song. It was the Dalton School Song, and he sang not just the first line or first verse but the entire song. He did this with all the cheer and pride one might expect of a Dalton student -- until the end, when he added a line that was apparently favored by all wise acres at Dalton. After the actual final line -- "We're happy in the Dalton School" -- he added: "Like Fish." Of course, not all of Pop's stories were about himself. He read aloud, as no one else could, from Kipling and Poe, from Dickens, Washington Irving and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. My own favorite was his reading of Winnie the Pooh -- he completely BECAME Eeyore, the doleful donkey. Then there were the Robert Service poems. Incredibly vivid and dramatic things about the Yukon -- "the arctic trolls and their secret tales." One of the nicest things I've heard this week was a story from Mike and Jean about Robert Service poems. Every morning our father would walk them down the long driveway to the school bus -- and on wind-whipped, snowy mornings, he would recite arctic verse as they made their way to the end. I like that image vely much -- the three of them huddled together, alone with the stark winter landscape and that deep, rich voice. Pop was at his very best when there was cause for patriotism, which was always. One Cove Neck Road --the long. ancient house he inhabited for 40 years -- was often filled with the stirring rhythms of marching-band music. And on every April 18th, he gave a reading of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere -- "Listen my children and you shall hear." At least one of his children -- me -- was taught to sing the Battle Hymn of the Republic from the baby carriage. Imagine what this father might have been like an the Fourth of July. I will tell you. He would begin the day by reaching for his Fourth of July finest-- a combination of red, white and blue clothing. On some years. the outfit was subtle -- a red sock here, a blue shirt there. But more often, it was shockingly bold -- broad stripes and bright stars that would have put Captain America to shame. So dressed, he would proceed with his business -- some marching around the house, perhaps, or a trip to the village to watch the parade. We cheered like mad when Oyster Bay's prizewinning firefighters come into view -- the Rough Riders and their gleaming red trucks. Fourth of July afternoons, like many summer afternoons, were spent on the water. Long ago, Lenore, Pop and I would rig one of the small sailboats -- the Snark or the Penguin -- and sail from his beach at the base of the cove, around the neck to Cold Spring Harbor and the beach of his mother, Jean -- better known as Gaga. In the company of our father, these excursions were nothing less than transatlantic passages. We fearlessly battled heat, thirst and unexpected blasts of wind. The best part was rounding Cooper's Bluff, at the end of Cove Neck. Cooper's Bluff, though not huge, remains for me one of the most majestic and storied land masses anywhere. If you arrived by sail, you would immediately stop moving, because Cooper's Bluff blocked the prevailing Southerly breeze, and tides converged in a swirl. Your boat would toss about aimlessly, sails empty, in doldrums worthy of Coleridge. If you were with our father, you might hear stories of how, at the turn of the century, Theodore Roosevelt's children would run from Sagamore Hill to Cooper's Bluff and gleefully tumble down its face. Or you might hear of Cooper, a large and friendly underwater monster that Pap dreamed up. Cooper, he said, liked to grab small boats from underneath and play with them a bit before letting them go. Eventually, and triumphantly, our vessel would reach its destination, coming to rest on the pebbles of Gaga's beach at the foot of the hill leading to Dolonor. And there on the beach would be the larger family -- the clan, as Pop called it -- preparing for a picnic. The clan's picnics -- for the Fourth of July or for the August birthdays of Jim and his bother. John -- were a truly grand tradition. Uncle John and Aunt Offie were there, with Robert, Andrew and Cordelia; Aunt Peeps and Uncle Ben were there, with Stephen and David. There was Cousin Liz and Cousin Frances, with Sandy. Anna and Susu. Cousin Dooley was there, with Fifi and Fay. There were guests from Centre Island, guests from Connecticut and guests from overseas. And, of course, there was Gaga. seated on the porch of the beach house with her friend Margaret Bacon, beaming in the twilight. Many of those dear men and women are no longer with us. In fact. that was the great sorrow of Pop's later years. He loved the clan and it saddened him deeply to see time thin its ranks. But on those old Fourth of Julys. as fireworks exploded over Lloyd Neck, Pop was in his element. He had his family, he had America and he had the unsurpassed beauty of Oyster Bay. I would like to close by telling a sailing story. Sailing was what I most liked to do with my father, and he taught me how to do it. He showed me how to tie a bowline and clear a spinnaker. how to varnish a spar and furl a mainsail, how to box a compass and chart a course. He also taught me how to beat the competition, as he himself had done so many times. He had beat the fleet sailing single-handed in his first boat. a Seawanhaka Seabird, and he had won three national championships in Old Crow, the awesome gray Raven. Well, in the fall of 1978, exactly 20 years ago, he invited Robert Copp and myself – two of his many loyal crew members over the years -- to join him for a final big time regatta, a Soling event over in Greenwich. "Well men," he said, "this is it. I've had a good run in this sport, but I'm getting too old. I'm going to get a cruising boat and I'm going to cruise." The cruising boat, of course, became a wondertul story itself. Unbeknownst to the other cruising boats in Oyster Bay Harbor, Pop and the crew of Glory -- Phillippa, Mike and Jean were always racing any boat that came near, going just a little faster, pointing just a shade higher. But this event in Greenwich did turn out to be the last national-level competition. It blew hard for the regatta -- crackling Norwesters with cloudless skies and cold autumn water and we got a real workout. We didn't finish especially well, but we were nonetheless pleased. We had had some great moments -- beautiful starts, tight mark roundings, fast spinnaker sets, Moreover, we had tried and the triumphs were always in the trying. After the last race, Pop luffed up alongside the committee boat and let Robert and I off, to pick up our cars ashore. He, meanwhile, let out his sails and headed downwind, East Southeast. for Oyster Bay. He turned to salute us, and then settled in for the long voyage home -- alone with his memories under the Gothic arches of the sky, on the great expanse of Long Island Sound. Today, I salute him. And I thank him for the memories he has left for all of us here. |