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