|The President's Home|
|Our two-day odyssey.|
The warts, though, were visible. I was struck by how so many of TR's children struggled later in life. Alice was about as successful as a ne'er-do-well could ever be. Two of the boys struggled with alcoholism (and one of them took his life). Edith saw three of her sons die before she passed on herself. Engaged and loving, to his brood at Sagamore Hill, TR could also be domineering. And I imagine the anxiety of his children trying to live up to his example.
I came across the grave marker for Quentin there. Quentin was killed in World War I when the plane he was flying was felled by German fire. Originally, Quentin was buried near the site of the crash. Eventually, he was re-interred next to his brother in Normandy Cemetery. The original tombstone, however, is now at Sagamore Hill.
So, I actually find myself a bit sad tonight. In some ways I wish I could forget I took this trip and do it over again. For 36 hours I got to travel with my best companion to see a site riddled with wonderful stories, and it might be a while until I get to take that kind of a small adventure again. And I am afraid that my second trip to see this home will miss the magic of seeing it for the first time.
|Sunday, at TR's birthplace.|