The First Ladies (12 page)

FIRST LADY: 1945–53

Reluctant Lady

Bess Truman was a throwback to a past century. She was less than comfortable in her position as society leader, and she positively loathed the intrusive fishbowl life of the White House. She had a secret to protect.

When Bess Wallace was eighteen, her alcoholic father committed suicide. It was a huge scandal in Independence, Missouri, at the turn of the twentieth century, particularly since her mother was a Gates, one of the wealthiest and most prominent midwestern families. Madge Wallace was a difficult, demanding, and generally peculiar woman on her best day,
and after that horrible episode, she would become worse. Bess was needed at home. It would fall to her to manage the household, which included her three younger brothers. Whatever future plans she may have had fell by the wayside. They moved into the stately Gates Mansion with her elderly grandparents.

Bess had known Harry Truman since early childhood. They were classmates, but Harry was just a poor farm boy, so their social contact was superficial. He was far beneath the posh and generally snobbish Wallace family. It wasn’t until both were in their midtwenties that he began courting her. It would be a very long courtship, since Harry had his own family obligations and still had no money. In addition, Mrs. Wallace was less than enthusiastic about her daughter keeping company with a farmer from the wrong side of the tracks.

It would not be until after World War I when both were in their midthirties that they would finally marry—and then they would live with Mrs. Wallace in the old Gates Mansion. Bess refused to leave her eccentric mother by herself, and no one else could live with her. Harry reluctantly agreed and never uttered a disparaging word, not even when the old lady insisted on sitting at the head of the dining room table.

Despite having “the original mother-in-law from hell,” according to Truman’s friends, Harry and Bess had a happy and companionable marriage. They were comfortable with each other. She did girl-things, he did guy-things. Bess was content in her small world, which included a group of childhood friends who were accustomed to Madge Wallace and came to play bridge regularly. Harry made a niche for himself
as a local political administrator and found a bunch of political pals who met once or twice a week at the local hotel to play nickel poker and sip whiskey. He was never drunk, nor did he lose much money. Bess was glad to have him get out and enjoy himself. But there would never be any dinner guests invited to what was now called the Wallace Mansion.

When Harry was elected to the U.S. Senate in the 1930s, he went alone. Bess was still reluctant to leave her mother. She finally made a visit to Washington and was surprisingly delighted, so Harry rented a larger apartment during the next session, and the Trumans and their teenaged daughter, Margaret, came to the capital. So did Mrs. Wallace. But in
their
apartment, Harry could sit at the head of his own table.

Always preferring to remain in the background, Bess nevertheless made friends among the congressional wives, especially when they discovered what a crackerjack bridge player she was. She also began helping out in Harry’s Senate office, handling his personal correspondence and guiding visiting Missourians around town. Still, Bess and her mother made frequent trips back to Independence. It was home. It was where she belonged.

In April 1945, FDR died suddenly, and the Truman lives were abruptly altered. Harry had been the surprise nominee for vice president during the 1944 election, and now, barely three months later, he was president. Bess was sixty, and she was not about to change. Much was expected of her, especially after the overwhelming presence of her predecessor, who kindly offered to help the new First Lady through her first press conference.
It would be her first and last. Bess requested all questions be submitted in writing, and with the exception of listing her wedding date, everything was answered with “No comment.” She was monosyllabic and guarded. She believed the questions were either impertinent or nobody’s business and said so. She dreaded the thought that her father’s suicide some forty-odd years earlier would be dredged up by nosy reporters and cause her mother anguish all over again. The elderly woman had come to live with them in the White House, still completely unimpressed with farmer Truman, who she never called Harry and who was still totally unacceptable in her eyes.

Bess let it be known (at least to Harry) that she would be happy to undertake whatever tasks were assigned to her in the way of formal dinners and receptions, teas and receiving lines, managing the household, and the usual ribbon cutting and bouquet receiving. But that would be it. She declared that her biggest responsibility was seeing that her hat was on straight. With the crushing duties befalling Truman and keeping him perpetually occupied, their solid companionship suffered. His days seemed endless, and whether his aides planned it consciously or not, a wedge was driven between the close couple. The president had little time for his wife, so Bess and her mother escaped to Independence as often as they could. She was, by her own admission, a homebody who preferred the security of her limited surroundings and tight circle of old friends. Their daughter Margaret, now past twenty, was thrilled to fill in at social obligations in lieu of her absent mother.

The only lasting impression history retains of Bess Truman is the newsreel image of a stout, sixty-something woman, christening a new C-54 airplane, whacking away with a champagne bottle that refused to break. Initially outraged and embarrassed, she complained to the president, who immediately demanded a copy of the film. He would not have his wife, the First Lady of the land, humiliated. When Harry, Bess, and Margaret viewed the footage, tears rolled down their faces as they convulsed with laughter. No one was laughing at Bess; they were laughing at a hysterically funny situation. It is still funny. First Ladies have done far worse than giving the country a good belly laugh.

The Trumans spent most of Harry’s second term living in the Blair House across the street from the White House. Fifty years after Theodore Roosevelt’s renovations, the old mansion again needed extensive structural repair. Bess took little if any part in the planning or details. It was not her house. She was not interested. Harry was the one who loved making frequent inspection tours of the renovations. It was arguably the one part of his turbulent presidency that he truly enjoyed. Bess would do her duty and whatever Harry asked of her, no less but not one bit more. She was poor copy for the media, and they grew tired of her. Most of her photographs show her with a generally sullen expression. When Truman’s term in office ended, she breathed a huge sigh of relief. She could go home and would never leave again. When she died, she was nearly a hundred. Our longest-lived First Lady.

FIRST LADY: 1953–61

The Grandma Next Door

Mamie Doud was one of those spoiled little rich girls. She grew up in the most fashionable section of Denver, Colorado, one of four daughters. A childhood bout of rheumatic fever left her vigilant about her health, and she would always be inclined to pamper herself and take to her bed at the slightest sniffle.

She was barely eighteen when she met Lt. Dwight Eisenhower, recently graduated from West Point, but the attraction was immediate and powerful. They married a year later. The Douds adored the handsome officer, but they had
concerns about Mamie’s ability, or inability, to adapt to the hardships of army life. It would not be an easy adjustment. The Eisenhowers would move twenty times in twenty years and wouldn’t even own a house until shortly before Ike became president—when he was past sixty! While housekeeping would never be high on Mamie’s list of preferences or talents, once Ike rose high enough in the ranks to have domestic help, she surprised herself on what a fine supervisor she could become.

The life of a junior officer, and a farm boy at that, is far from affluent, and Mamie had to learn early on how to tighten their belts and make do, grateful for an occasional check from home. She developed a legendary thrift (some called it stingy), shopped sales, clipped coupons, and was proud to announce that she bought her dresses off the rack. With a small house to manage and time on her hands, Mamie fell in with a group of officers’ wives for card parties and luncheons. Ike and Mamie were definitely sociable, and they fit in easily wherever they were deployed. They entertained so often that their home (wherever it was) was nicknamed Club Eisenhower.

Between the two World Wars, military promotions were like molasses. During the Depression, no soldier in his right mind would voluntarily give up such a steady income, no matter how small, especially since there were no wars to be fought. Ike would be a major for a long time, and he reconciled himself to the fact that he would probably retire no higher than a colonel. Still he always managed to come to the attention of his superiors, who invariably recommended him
for special training or assignments. Ike did not disappoint. They kept an eye on him. Mamie was perfectly happy just being Mrs. Ike.

Once the Second World War began and stars attached themselves to Ike’s shoulders, Mamie’s biggest challenge was coping with five years of separation, anxiety, and loneliness. Ike was stationed overseas, and Mamie never knew if or when he might be in harm’s way, particularly since cities were targets rather than battlefields, and Ike had discovered
the joys of flying. Always inclined to be a worrier, Mamie was constantly on edge. She lost more than twenty pounds, which made her petite frame look emaciated. She also had to duck the invariable reporters who were eager for information (which she never had), color stories about the great general (which she never gave), or her opinions on different situations (which she seldom had and never offered). She led a secluded life, playing interminable games of canasta and mahjongg and pooling ration cards with other officers’ wives for their regular hen parties. Then the rumors started. First came talk that Ike was romantically involved with his pretty driver. Then it was reported that Mrs. Ike had a drinking problem. All evidence points to the contrary in both cases, and they both chose to ignore the gossip as beneath their dignity. But Americans have an insatiable lust for dirt about their icons, so the rumors persist even today.

By the end of the War, Ike had five stars and was a leading political candidate, an offer he steadfastly refused to consider for more than five years. For the first time in their lives, they were financially comfortable, thanks in part to the huge success of Ike’s wartime memoirs,
Crusade in Europe.
They bought a farm in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, which they loved fixing up. They were also middle-aged grandparents. But what a picture they presented! They were
America’s
grandparents. Mamie in her midfifties was cute as a button, even glamorous, with her trademark bangs that became all the rage. She didn’t need to buy off the rack anymore, but she still did occasionally. Whatever she wore looked good on her
and was copied. She loved pink, and pink became the in-color of the 1950s.

Finally Ike relented and announced his candidacy. Surprising everyone, including herself, Mamie proved to be a great campaigner. She seldom complained of being tired. She loved waving to the crowds, grinning ear to ear—just like Ike. After all those years of wartime separation, she was thrilled to be at her husband’s side, and she was not about to let any aides push her into the background. Nor was she about to be separated from her husband for any length of time again. Politicians quickly realized what an asset she was by “just being Mamie.” The crowds ate it up and everybody loved her.

Ike was elected to the presidency twice—both times by huge landslides. All the great people of the world came to call at the White House, but by now most of them were longtime personal friends. It was like Club Eisenhower again, only more formal, located at a better address. Ike the President and Mamie the First Lady were exactly what the country wanted and needed in the nervous postwar 1950s: a return to whatever they may have thought was normal and, for certain, a leap of faith into the hope of a better world. Mamie was adorable, the antithesis of grande dame Lou Hoover, do-gooder Eleanor Roosevelt, and scowling Bess Truman. Mamie still had a waistline. It did not matter if she never wore an apron or baked cookies. She looked like someone who did and would. If Ike the Hero had become the grandpa-patriarch of the American family, then Mamie was obviously the grandma.

But other than her family, which she dearly loved, it would
be their one and only house in Gettysburg that filled Mamie’s heart. All the furniture that had been collected bit by bit over forty years could finally and permanently come out of storage. All their collections and gifts accumulated from worldwide travel could find a home. They could be Ma and Pa Kettle and entertain the people they truly liked without needing to play the role. Since they liked practically everybody, it wasn’t hard. They could even play cards or watch television on their sunporch, eating TV dinners on snack trays. They were as American as apple pie and would be forever beloved.

They did not know it then, but an era was passing. Presidents and First Ladies would no longer command regard and respect in the same way. Television, jet travel, modern conveniences, and instant communication would speed up life itself, trading true leadership for the sound bites of what makes media headlines. Mamie brought no special achievements to be recorded in the annals of American life. She was just the epitome of America itself.