Sagamore Hill

Sherry and I spent the weekend on Long Island. This trip represented a somewhat delayed delivery of a Christmas gift: two nights away so we could visit another presidential home: Theodore Roosevelt's at Sagamore Hill.

The President's Home

Certainly it wasn't our most efficient trip. We traversed Long Island twice on Saturday. We visited Roosevelt's birthplace in Lower Manhattan on the way home this morning. One considerable victory: for the first time ever I parked in Manhattan for FREE.

Our two-day odyssey. 

I'm not sure Sagamore Hill beats FDR's Hyde Park as my favorite presidential home, but, wow, it's close. The house is inseparable from the character of the man who owned it. The interior (which I couldn't photograph) is filled with the trophies he won in the wilderness and in diplomacy. It was a space that was both dark and alive, given the menagerie of artifacts and the heavy wood trim. It's almost as if this home has an unfair advantage over the other presidential homes: an effervescent tenant and family.

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.

Quentin's gravestone. 

One of the great surprises in my marriage has been my wife's recent fascination with presidents' homes. This is the twelfth we have visited together. I'm appreciative of how her keenness for doing these trips is giving me a chance to re-engage with some of my favorite stories in history. Sadly, we have now visited the last of the nearby homes. We're going to have to strike out further and to homes with more obscure owners.

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.

Fire Island.

#12

The Girl Over My Shoulder

Did you hear that selfies make one's nose appear bigger?

No? Then maybe you want to read this recent article.

I've noticed the effect myself. Don't worry, faithful readers: no chance I'll pursue rhinoplasty. I'm too busy figuring out what to do with eye wear now that my favorite glasses of all time broke AND I decided to experiment with contact lenses. Just as some have faces made for radio, some of us have faces made for, well, wearing glasses.

Anyway, there's a funny side effect to this whole nose appears bigger thing, and Sherry figured it out. Take a look at these two recent selfies . . .

At Lincoln Center, early March. 

At Roosevelt Birthplace, two weeks later (but I'm still wearing the same shirt). 

See what Sherry figured out? If one gets behind the selfie-taker, the large schnazz of the selfie subject complements the cuteness of the one who lurks behind said subject.

These might be two of my favorite photos of her.

10

My daughter turns ten today.

Caroline and I have a relationship in which teasing plays a big part. A canon of dumb tales will indicate why she's permitted 242 guests at her wedding, why she always gets served a butter knife at dinner, and why I can use the number 6 as a threat that will stop her in her tracks.

There are also some reasons why I cannot ever brush her hair, why I wear purple on Thursdays, and why, today, I didn't wear purple (or the contacts I'm trying to get used to).

The teasing has led to a long roster of nicknames over the years: Kabiddle (Biddler), Tulip, HRH, Emmeline Pankhurst.

As a gift though, I've decided to get her something money cannot buy. I'm going to tease her older brother, an individual who could use some help in learning how to be teased.

Here's the setup.

On the night of the Eagles' Superbowl vicotry I got a really good selfie with Caroline. I love it. Her smile can light up a room, and I love how this photo catches it in all its crookedness (Did you know we've started orthodonture?). So I gave this photo the ultimate compliment: I made it the lock screen on my phone!

It didn't take too long for the oldest child to notice this and, as the oldest child is wont to do, to demand justice.

Sam: How come Caroline is on your lockscreen? 

Me: It's a great photo? 

Sam: Why am I not on the lockscreen? 

Me: You want me to kick her off? 

Sam: No, no. I'm not saying that. 

*pause

Sam: But you should put me on the homescreen. 

Hmmm.

I think I found a solution.

See, there he is. On the left. And there she is, with her great smile. Like she snuck into the photograph. I wonder when Sam will notice.

Happy birthday, Caroline.