The First Ladies (10 page)

FIRST LADY: 1921–23

Duchess

Florence Kling was the daughter of the wealthiest—and nastiest—man in Marion, Ohio. He ruled his family with an iron fist, and his headstrong daughter, more like him than she perhaps cared to admit, rebelled. At eighteen, she took up with Henry DeWolfe, the town bad boy, who even then had a reputation for hard drinking. They eloped once she found herself pregnant. Within three years, he deserted her and their baby, leaving them penniless. She crept back to Marion with her head high, took a cheap room at a cheap boardinghouse, and tried to support herself and the child
by giving piano lessons. They barely made ends meet. Her father then made a devil’s bargain with her: he would raise the boy as his own, provided Florence relinquish all parental rights. If she suffered over the decision, it is unrecorded. Her maternal instinct was never that strong, and now she was able to live her own life.

Not long after she divorced DeWolfe (who subsequently died), she met Warren Harding. Five years her junior, he had purchased a small interest in the
Marion Star,
a floundering weekly newspaper, and came to town to drum up business. Good looking, good natured with a born “hail fellow well met” personality, Warren quickly made friends in town. He eventually met Florence, who was immediately smitten. She was undeniably the pursuer in the relationship, and for whatever reasons (pregnancy not being one of them), he married her. He was twenty-five, she thirty.

Within the first ten years of their marriage, three important events occurred. First, Florence developed a serious and chronic kidney condition that would keep her bedridden for weeks and sometimes months at a time. More than once, her death was expected. Second, and as a direct result of her illness, the marital side of their marriage was curtailed. They would share a room but not a bed, and they would have no children together. Still young, handsome, and virile, Warren would find his pleasures elsewhere. There would be
many
elsewheres, usually with the “sporting” kind of women who were not averse to publicizing the liaison for their own gain. Florence invariably would find out, and there would be
mega-rows. The marriage was far from happy, yet there is no record that either of them ever pressed for a divorce.

Third, the
Marion Star
began to thrive. Once when Warren was sick at home, he asked Florence to go to the office and fetch some paperwork. She discovered the place in a shambles and set about putting it in order. Having no children, few friends, a good business head, and time on her hands, she stayed for fourteen years, carving a place for herself in the circulation department. With his wife capably handling much of the newspaper’s business, Harding continued his pleasurable “elsewheres.” He was also free to pursue his growing interest in civic affairs and politics. He became a frequent guest speaker at various organizations and discovered a knack for the florid oratory of the time, “bloviating” as he called it, about the traditional platitudes: mom, apple pie, home, country, and Republican issues. Florence, who he had begun to call “Duchess” for her imperious and bossy manner, gravitated to politics like a cat to cream. She had shrewd instincts and a sensitive finger on the public pulse. The political wannabes who had begun to cling to Harding because “he looked like a man who should be president” put up with the Duchess at first. Then the Ohio Gang, as they were later called, began to respect her opinions. Eventually they realized that she was absolutely essential to any plans they might have for Warren Harding. He had only mild ambition for political advancement. It would always fall to the Duchess to swing for the bleachers.

In 1914, Warren was elected to the U.S. Senate, where
once again he slipped effortlessly into that good old boys club of like-minded congressmen who enjoyed whiskey, cards, and floozies. The Duchess, however, who had hoped to have a fresh start in Washington, was lonelier than ever. Now in her midfifties, she was considered old, dowdy, and socially outré. Her calls went unreturned; she was seldom invited anywhere. On top of everything, she had another severe bout of kidney trouble. Finally she received a great gift. She met Evalyn Walsh McLean, a wealthy, cosmopolitan socialite twenty years her junior who had married a man even wealthier than she. Ned McLean owned the
Washington Post
and the Hope Diamond. Their friendship was instantaneous and sincere. Under Evalyn’s guidance, Florence bought fashionable clothes, went to fashionable parties, participated in fashionable causes, and had a second home at the McLeans’ opulent and fashionable estate. Since Ned McLean’s personal predilections were as raunchy as Harding’s, the friendship was cemented all the way around. It was Evalyn who introduced the Duchess to Madame Marcia, a fashionable Washington fortune-teller who predicted that Warren Harding would be president but would not survive his term.

How and why Harding became president in the election of 1920 is a long and complicated story. He was personally ambivalent, content to be reelected to the Senate, and considered a shoo-in. He was also acutely aware of his lack of qualifications. Always superstitious, Florence had faith in Madame Marcia. She pressed hard to keep him in the race. The election of 1920 was the first in which women could vote,
and handsome Warren, who truly looked presidential, won in a walk. First Lady Duchess, now past sixty, with years of chronic illness coupled with a genetic disposition to wrinkle despite every effort to remain youthful, looked like his mother.

More than anything, Harding wanted to be a beloved president. He assumed that if he appointed good men to key positions, he could successfully be the face of the presidency, greeting, glad-handing, and exuding official charm, all of which he did splendidly. For her part, the Duchess wanted to be accessible, privately scorning the pretentious and supercilious manners of the last two decades of her predecessors. One of her first acts was to host an enormous garden party for wounded veterans. VA hospitals around the capital were
emptied, and hundreds of soldiers came for sandwiches, cake, and lemonade. It was a beautiful spring day, perhaps the happiest day she would ever know. She also continued to be politically active behind the scenes, reading every speech before her husband made them and putting her two cents in. Warren usually listened. His wife was a shrewd woman.

Harding’s appointments turned out to be a mixed bag. Some were very, very good, but like the little girl with a curl, some were horrid. It would take more than two years before there were undercurrents that all was not right in his official family. While Harding was inadequate in many ways, he was basically an honest man, but he was a dreadful judge of character when it came to his buddies. For all her political savvy, Florence had the same naiveté. Both Hardings were loyal by nature, and it was a crushing blow for them to learn, gradually at first, and then in an avalanche, that their dear friends were no more than common criminals, into the public till up to their elbows—all on Harding’s watch.

His nerves shot, his stomach tormented, unable to sleep, with a heart condition that had been misdiagnosed for years, Harding had a massive coronary that killed him instantly. The Duchess would burn most of his papers and survive him by only a year.

FIRST LADY: 1923–29

Bountiful Graces

When Calvin Coolidge introduced Grace Goodhue to his family, they called her a likely gal and advised him to marry her. It was a different story for the Goodhues. The middle-class New Englanders loved their only daughter and wanted her to be happy. She was pretty, educated at the University of Vermont, and a teacher of the deaf. She was also outgoing and winsome. She could have had her pick. What could she possibly see in the mediocre, pasty cold clam who never said more than six words at a time?

But marry they did, and they were surprisingly happy. She
was twenty-six, he thirty-three. Calvin was indisputably the breadwinner and, in today’s world, undeniably sexist. Grace was the bread baker, undeniably domestic. Both would be ordinary, but they were content in their respective spheres. Grace was happy being Mrs. Coolidge, housewife. She raised two sons, cooked, cleaned, knitted and crocheted, joined the Red Cross, volunteered at their church, took long morning constitutionals for exercise, and socialized with dozens of friends. Most of the time, she was unaware of the middling political activities of her other half. In fact, when Coolidge became lieutenant governor of Massachusetts, Grace didn’t even know he had been running.

What she did know, however, was that Calvin loved her dearly in his own undemonstrative and understated way. His Yankee sense of thrift was legendary. They would live in half of a rented two-family house until after he retired from the presidency. Their silverware had a monogrammed
N
on it, bought when the Norwood Hotel closed. Since knives and forks don’t wear out, they never saw fit to buy others. His only extravagance was reserved for Grace. He insisted that his wife have a stylish and expensive wardrobe, and he personally chose most of her hats. They both had a sense of humor that complemented each other. Hers, overt and mimicking; his, wry and deadpanned. And they were both incorrigible teases.

By the mid-nineteen-teens, social politics were beginning to emerge from stag-only affairs. Wives frequently were included. Coolidge had a pretty, stylish, personable wife with a wall-to-wall smile. She mixed easily into society, offsetting
her obviously uncomfortable and uncommunicative husband. She could chat happily about the latest vaudeville acts or movies or novels—and baseball, which she loved. Everybody remembered the delightful Mrs. Coolidge. Former President Taft commented that marrying Grace was the best political decision Coolidge ever made.

Being governor of Massachusetts had been the pinnacle of Coolidge’s ambition, but during a police strike at the end of World War I, he announced that “there is no right to strike against the public safety by anybody, anywhere, any time.”
That one statement catapulted him into national prominence. He was seriously touted as presidential material. Grace, as usual, was still in the dark. When he told her he was being nominated as the Republican vice presidential candidate in 1920, she was stunned. “But you aren’t going to accept, are you?” she asked. He replied, “I think I have to.”

No two people enjoyed the vice presidency more than the Coolidges. They were content with living in a Washington hotel suite. Presiding over the Senate was easy, particularly for a man who weathered boredom well. The rest of the job was devoted to ceremony: ribbon cutting, ground breaking, handshaking, and dining out. “Gotta eat somewhere,” the frugal Coolidge said, and they accepted all invitations that came their way. With Grace’s good looks and appealing personality coupled with the agonizingly dry wit that would make Silent Cal legendary, the Second Family were immensely popular. They were everybody’s guests of honor, and since they were not required to return invitations very often, it kept their grocery budget to a minimum.

When Coolidge became president after the sudden death of Warren Harding, it coincided with two important events. First, Coolidge was the first president to benefit from a separate budget for entertaining. Previous presidents had to pay those expenses out of their own pocket. Second, the Roaring Twenties were in full swing, flooding the country with a spate of pop culture. With the inundation of movies, radio, vaudeville, sports teams, and flagpole sitters came an army of famous personalities—all of whom wanted to shake hands
and be photographed with the president. It was a curious juxtaposition, since Calvin and Grace were the antithesis of that era. They neither roared nor flapped. But the celebrities came in droves. Calvin was happy to shake hands, accept their token gifts, and take a photo wearing a sombrero or Indian headdress, believing it humanized him. Grace was happy to invite them to stay to lunch or dinner. It was she who kept the conversation going at the table. She read their books and magazine stories, saw their movies and shows, listened to their radio programs, and checked the scorecards. She would ask pertinent questions and make suitable comments. Knowing her husband’s communication skills were nil, it would be her sole responsibility to make the White House table talk appealing. This she did time and again, and for that she was widely admired and well liked. So, for that matter, was he.

“Don’t try anything new, Grace,” Coolidge had said at the start of his presidency, so she didn’t. She made no speeches nor held any press conferences. She was forbidden to wear trousers or smoke cigarettes. She was content to host tea parties and ladies’ luncheons and do whatever Calvin told her to do. When she had the temerity to ask for a copy of his daily schedule, he was shocked. “We don’t give that information out indiscriminately, Grace,” he said. It never occurred to him that it might be disrespectful to his wife, but she never seemed to consider his attitude demeaning. She kept her hat and purse handy in order to be ready at a moment’s notice whenever she was needed. And he took her everywhere. Her photograph, usually holding a ubiquitous bouquet, was seen
everywhere. Only in her midforties, she presented a good-looking image for the newsreels.

But popular or not, once retired from the White House, Grace was promptly forgotten. She would outlive her husband by a quarter century, and now she tried new things. She wrote some magazine articles of her own. During World War II she volunteered with the Red Cross and raised funds for refugee children. She flew in a plane and went to Europe. She became an active trustee for the School for the Deaf where she had once taught. She even kissed a Democrat. A youthful Jack Kennedy campaigned in her area, and the peck on the cheek made headlines.