National Affairs: Out among the People

At the end of last week the President looked tired. He looked forward to getting out of Washington and out among the people.

First he had a promise to keep to an old Missouri friend, portly, bald Bennett Champ Clark, his appointee to the District of Columbia Court of Appeals and a former Senate colleague. In a century-old Episcopal church at Berryville, Va., the President stood as best man as Widower Clark and British-born Actress Violet Heming were married. Best Man Truman, the only participant not in formal rig, seemed to be the calmest person in the church. He delivered the ring at the right moment, stood through the ceremony, then stepped back into a pew with Mrs. Truman and daughter Mary Margaret, both in street dress. The President did not kiss the 50-year-old, misty-eyed bride.

After a reception and a 90-minute drive back to Washington, the President was off on a five-day holiday. It looked for a time as if rainy, foggy weather would hold him back, but at 7 p.m. his “Sacred Cow” transport plane put him down 795 miles away, in front of a cheering crowd at Blytheville, Ark. (pop. 10,652).

There the President made a tour of the town, dropped in to visit relatives of Reconversion Boss John W. Snyder, who was with him. Then there was a 25-mile drive through the swampy cotton lands to Caruthersville (pop. 6,612), in the southeast “boot” of Missouri. When the President arrived at the Majestic Hotel’s packed lobby, his face showed deep lines of weariness.

And Pie à la Mode. The ladies of the Methodist Church had cooked up a typical country dinner—baked chicken and dressing, candied sweet potatoes, cranberry jelly, salad, apple pie and ice cream. The 42-room hotel’s “banquet room” was hung with pennants. Against the printed wallpaper were a Kiwanis Club shield, a Junior Chamber of Commerce emblem, a War Bond campaign thermometer.

Harry Truman began to have fun. He yelled gibes at newsmen and others at the horseshoe-shaped table. He joshed with Neal Helm, an old Caruthersville friend who sat to his right. He was completely at home, and everybody in the room was at home with the President. Just before the pie à la mode, a grey-haired woman announced that the President “has consented to play Paderewski’s Minuet.”

Harry Truman arose, motioned to the others to keep their seats. At the piano he turned to remark: “When Stalin heard me play this he signed the protocol at Potsdam.” The piano was not in good tune and Harry Truman was not in his best musical form. He confessed that he had finished the Minuet with a few bars of a Mozart sonata. Then there were autographs to sign—from a toy bear to a WAVE’s leave papers.

Early to Rise. At 7:15 next morning—45 minutes before breakfast—the President strolled out of the hotel. The lines of fatigue had vanished from his face. He was chewing gum. He did what most visitors to a small town do when there is nothing else to do: he walked down to the railroad station. Then he went on down to the Mississippi River bank and performed the local rite of spitting in it. He dropped in at the telegraph office. He met a friend, the postmaster, and talked crops and swapped gossip with him.

After breakfast the first planned activity, church, was almost three hours away. Harry Truman was happier without a plan. He held an informal reception on the hotel porch, accepted a “Jack Garner” grey hat (7⅜) and plunked it on a reporter’s head. He pinned an Eagle badge on a Boy Scout, shook hands with everybody who offered his. In the packed hotel lobby, he moved about, chatting with the easy informality of a veteran convention-goer. No one was awed by the U.S. President. He was still chewing gum.

Chicken Again. At the First Baptist Church he listened attentively to the sermon, dropped a $1 bill into the collection plate. Lunch (by the Presbyterian ladies) was Missouri ham. The schedule called for a nap after lunch. But a bunch of “40-and-8” Legionnaires were whooping it up on the street around a mock locomotive, and calling for Harry Truman. He mounted the contraption, posed for many pictures. Then someone yelled: “Ring the bell.” Harry Truman yanked the rope, clanged the bell hard and long. The crowd was delighted. So was the President.

Then he was off to the American Legion County Fair— his 12th in twelve years. He rode to it on the folded top of a roadster, waving his new hat. At the fair his chair was on a raised platform. He leaned over its railing to grasp hands.

One man held out a three-foot-long sweet potato, and Harry Truman gravely inspected it. He laughed at the brash jokes of a midget master of ceremonies, watched a team of husky girl dancers in pink scanties, closely followed three horse races, presented a cup to the winning jockey of “The President Truman Derby.”

By supper time (fried chicken by the Baptist ladies) everybody else in his party was worn and weary. The President again played the piano, busily signed more mementos, beamed his happiness. Caruthersville’s big day was over. To a man it agreed: Harry Truman had had more fun than anybody.

Next day he was off to Reelfoot Lake, across the Mississippi in Tennessee, for bass and crappies fishing. There he told the world again that the U.S. does not intend to give away the “know-how” of the atomic bomb. Then he had a dam to dedicate at Gilbertsville, Ky., before he got back to the White House.