18
An old photo album: and each picture is a tomb where a dead heart lies buried.
MORE THAN HALF A DOZEN WARSHIPS, countless airplanes, and thousands of naval and Coast Guard officers were involved in an effort to locate the missing aviatrix. Wireless operators were ordered to stand by. There were news reports that the search for Earhart was costing $250,000 a day. Franklin Roosevelt defended the cost of the mission, and joined the nation in prayer. The Coast Guard cutter Itasca radioed back to my grandfather that they thought they saw flares from the downed plane, but that slim ray of hope vanished with the news that the flash was only lightning.
For the next two weeks, radio messages spawned countless rumors about possible sightings, and my grandfather, exhausted and emotionally spent, moved with David into the home of close friends. Back in Fort Pierce, my mother’s dream of Amelia kept her awake at night. She desperately wanted a better ending than the one that haunted her sleep.
On July 18, the U.S. Navy abandoned its search, having covered 360,000 square miles of sea and coral islands.
My grandfather’s private search was just beginning.
George was aware of Amelia’s interest in the supernatural, and he was not surprised to receive a letter immediately after news of her disappearance from a medium saying that the famous flyer “knew her end was inevitable that the fall was the worst part owing to fear. She then floated for hours…clung to a wing…until the last moment a big wave…swept her into a new life. She describes it as a last breath being the first for a baby it was so swift.”
There is a second typewritten, unsigned letter. For years I wondered who might have written it. At first, I thought it was from some unknown psychic, but now I believe it may have been written by the flyer Jackie Cochran, and that my grandfather—in order to protect her identity—may have destroyed her original notes and retyped them. Cochran had requested that he “keep her name out of it.” At that time, “channeling” was considered bizarre, and my grandfather himself did not want anyone to know that he too had resorted to such unorthodox measures to aid his desperate search. In this letter, the author claimed to have connected with Amelia’s spirit.
I want you to tell Mr. Putnam there are no regrets and none should feel that way a bit about this. He must go on and live as he always has to try and know in his soul that I am alive and will now do a greater work than I ever dreamed was possible to do.… Not for one moment did I lose consciousness. I know that we were hit by lightning. We were heading north again and I believe that I might have made it, but when the ship was struck I slowly went into the water.… I felt that I had fallen asleep—just dreaming—dreaming that I was flying, going higher than I had ever gone before.… If Mr. Putnam would sit in our room alone, I shall try and make my presence felt and try to impress him with my thoughts. May all the good things of this earth come to you, my dear friend.
How this letter must have torn him apart, sitting alone for hours. Waiting.
Notes and papers from Amelia mailed after her departure from Lae continued to arrive at George Putnam’s office. Among them was a silver cigarette case etched with a map. It was a gift for David—engraved “D.B.P. from A.E.” (My father later gave this to me when I made my first solo flight.)
A month after Amelia’s disappearance, George still refused to give up hope that his wife was alive, and continued his search, following any leads. He was contacted by another psychic, J. Lacey, who advised him of the downed plane’s position, and invited Putnam to a séance. In his reply, my grandfather informed the psychic that the detailed position given matched exactly the location of an uncharted island on the eastern fringe of the Gilbert Islands.
Lacey also told my grandfather that telepathic messages were being received and that
the plane was damaged in the forced landing as undership caught on reef. High winds and rough seas later released plane which floated out to sea and sank in deep water. It has been definitely given to us that only hope of rescue will come from help of natives in surrounding islands and Japanese fisherman now in those waters. Some of these natives who are very psychic know of the plight of the castaways and by some means of telegraphy have broadcast the news throughout the islands. Noonan was badly crippled in landing and little hope is held for him. Rescue must come long before your expedition could reach those waters or the worst can be feared.
Yours very sincerely and in full sympathy,
J. Lacey.
George frantically wired Undersecretary of State Sumner Welles, who sent a telegram to the American Embassy in London asking that the British join in the search, concentrating specifically on the Gilbert Islands. “It is of course a forlorn hope,” my grandfather wrote Welles, “but one which, you will understand, is of utmost concern to me.”
Three days later, he wired Welles again. “Forgive me for being a nuisance,” he wrote, “I expect to leave for Coast Tuesday.… Is there any possibility of getting definite word from British…?”
On August 24, Welles replied that “all Gilbert Islands” had been searched, but that another cutter had been dispatched to the position recommended by the psychic. “I am sorry that this whole matter has caused so much trouble to you” my grandfather responded; “…it was impossible for me to rest until this specific matter had been run to earth, remote as is any hope that it could produce results.”
But the British were unsuccessful in their search.
Growing more desperate, he offered a cash reward of $2,000 to anyone who could provide information on Amelia’s whereabouts. This naturally resulted in a succession of false leads and my grandfather—vulnerable and willing to stake everything on getting his wife back—became the victim of several cruel hoaxes. In one, a Bronx janitor sent him a note at the Hotel Barclay in Manhattan where he was staying, claiming to be a crew member of a gun-running ship that had rescued Amelia and Fred Noonan in Pacific waters. My grandfather met the man at two in the morning. The next day, accompanied by an FBI agent, he met the man again: He produced a brown and white scarf that Amelia’s secretary (Margo de Carrie) later recognized as belonging to Amelia. He said he was holding Amelia—ill and malnourished—on his ship, and would release her for $2,000.
Investigators determined that the man had not been to sea in twenty-two years. He was later arrested and charged with extortion. In his confession, he admitted that the scarf was one Amelia had lost during takeoff several years earlier and that he had found it on the dirt runway and kept it as a souvenir. Desperate for any connection to his wife, George nonetheless paid him $50 for the scarf, against the advice of the authorities.
My grandfather could not bring himself to return to Rocknoll, and decided to sell the rambling estate. He never returned there after Amelia’s disappearance. The house simply held too many memories—a wall of one room papered with aviation maps, the trophies and her mementos, the gardens where they walked together planning their next adventure. (Some of their treasures had been destroyed in a 1934 fire, including autographed pictures, first editions, and a collection of Rockwell Kent paintings. My father’s room was also badly damaged, and he lost many of his souvenirs from his Arctic trips, as well as a model of Amelia’s plane.) What was left in the house was packed into storage boxes and sent to California, where George would remain for the rest of his life.
During the construction of Immokolee in 1930, Don Blanding had visited Fort Pierce. Dorothy had hired her friend to paint a colored version of his trademark Hawaiian fish mural on two paneled doors in one of the guest rooms. “Don’s undersea panels (really on guest room doors) for the new house are colorful and original. They work out very well. He’s going to do one Florida one, a silhouette of live oak, air plants and Spanish moss. On the specially fine fir doors with their beautiful grain in the wood.”
In the summer of 1937, Dorothy took Junie and returned to the Hawaiian Islands to visit Don. She had long admired his work from the time they both lived in Bend, Oregon, and it was during her first trip to Hawaii, when Junie was recuperating from a long illness, that Dorothy realized the depth of affection Don felt for her. As she wrote now: “Mt. Haleakala. A strange talk with Don last night, as tho’ we’d stayed exactly as we were 14 years ago. He swears I’ve influenced him more than any human being and that things now he knows he took from me. He’s been very unhappy and is just finding himself again.”
His book of poetry, Vagabond’s House, was published in 1928. In a subsequent printing (1943), he dedicated the book to Dorothy: “The Lady of Vagabond’s House Who Was the Inspiration for the Dream That Made Itself Come True.”
Blanding was a dapper, highly sophisticated man with a courtly, gentle bearing. After the ambitious George Putnam and the abusive Frank Upton, his sensitivity appealed to Dorothy’s creative side. He had been dubbed the Poet Laureate of Hawaii, and once described himself as “a painter, poet, vagabond, and lusty liver of the physical and a tireless aviator among the higher, luminous clouds of idealism.” Extremely handsome, he still possessed an athletic physique and his year-round tan lent him a certain exotic masculinity. Dorothy, acting as a sort of benevolent patron, once again found herself falling in love. The fact that they were simply good friends should have affected her judgment, but she was facing middle age alone and longing for companionship.
My grandfather declared Amelia legally dead in 1939, two years after her disappearance. That year, he published Soaring Wings, which sold well and received good reviews as well as bringing in much-needed income (he had received an advance of $1,000 from Harcourt Brace). * The income helped restore his financial security, but the book did not earn as much as he expected.
With a nearly depleted bank account as a result of his ongoing search for his wife, G.P. accepted a job from Paramount Pictures as a story editor. I was saddened to find among his papers a 1938 letter of resignation from the Explorers Club in New York.
Gentlemen:
Inasmuch as I have moved permanently to the coast, and due to recent events it is necessary for me to economize pretty drastically. I am regretfully obliged to discontinue my membership in The Explorers Club. This is my resignation, effective immediately.
Very Truly Yours,
G. P. Putnam
Severing ties with his fellow members must have been painful for my grandfather. I know how deeply he valued his association with the club and its purpose. In 1926 he carried the Explorers Club flag on board the Morrissey to Greenland. On March 22, 1997, at their annual dinner, it was my privilege to return this flag to the club.
At fifty-one, my grandfather was lonely and in need of companionship.
In 1938, he had met Jean Marie Consigny, a petite blonde with blue eyes and finely chiseled features. The twenty-three-year-old Hollywood socialite told my grandfather that she wanted to write a book on small gardens, and he offered to publish it. They were soon seen together at Hollywood parties, but both denied any romance, apparently because Jean Marie was still married to her first husband. Her mother objected to the relationship because of their age difference, but in May 1939 newspapers reported an engagement. Three weeks later, the couple were married at the Boulder Dam Hotel, eluding reporters who were led to believe by my grandfather that the ceremony would take place in Las Vegas.
It was during his marriage to Jean Marie that my grandfather wrote his autobiography, Wide Margins. In recalling Amelia, he did not disguise his feelings for her, saying “In life she denounced the difference between men and women. She wanted an equal chance in the air, the right to fly wing to wing with other pilots, to go where they went, take the risk that they took, and, if necessary, to die as they died”
The book was dedicated “For Jeannie.”
Although my grandfather rarely spoke of Amelia, Jean Marie felt her presence. She once said that she lived in fear the famous aviatrix would walk in the door any day. It must have been an impossible position for any woman, let alone one so young and rather shy. How could she compete with a ghost?
George was much in demand on speaking tours, and the couple needed the income to finance their lifestyle, which included talked-about dinner parties with my grandfather’s coterie of famous friends. Several years later, Jean Marie announced to George she wanted a divorce. In an interview with Mary Lowell in 1988, published in The Sound of Wings, she said, “I always loved him… I’ve never stopped loving him. I should never have divorced him!” The divorce, after only five years of marriage, came as a complete surprise to George. Acquaintances had noted their opposite personalities, however, and were not so surprised by the breakup.
Dorothy’s life as a single woman was anything but dull. In 1939 she penned her own lyrics for the song “Thanks For the Memories.” My grandmother did not identify the poem’s recipient, but knowing the name behind the verse would do little to enhance the clever joy found in her words.
Thanks for the memory of candlelight and wine
Of roads and jasmine vine
Of starlit nights together, your cigarettes and mine
How lovely it was!
Thanks for the memory of sunny afternoons
And singing theme song tunes
And motor trips and burning lips
And your morning toast and prunes
How lovely it was!
Many’s the time we feasted
When we really should have fasted
Gee it was swell while it lasted
We did have fun, and no harm done
And thanks for the memory of that connecting door And lovemaking galore
You might have had a headache
Thank God you never snore
So thank you so much!
Thanks for the memory of a cathedral’s moldy wall
And an early morning call
That weekend on Long Island
When colors screamed of Fall
How lovely it was!
Thanks for the memory on the City of Mexico
Tela Rancho Telva, perched up in the mountain at Taxco
Strolls of window shopping
Just happily on the go
Then peaceful the hours of musing
When adolescents would be twosing
But that’s all right: we’ll love tonight
And thanks for the memory of glaciers in the park
And trout fishing after dark and startled deer at Granite
And a wrestle with that shark
I thank you so much!
D.
As president of the Fort Pierce Garden Club, Dorothy traveled throughout the state lecturing on the use of native materials in arranging flowers. One project undertaken by her Garden Club was planting royal poincianna trees throughout the town. Among those dozens of bright orange-red beauties, only a few survive today. Ironically, three of them, though chopped off across the top, still mark the entrance to Immokolee Road.
On the society pages of the Fort Pierce News Tribune dated June 18, 1939, an article appeared announcing Dorothy Binney Putnam’s invitation to present a flower arrangement at the New York World’s Fair. (Since Dorothy’s divorce from Upton, she reverted to using the name Putnam.) Her prize-winning exhibit was made from local flowers, leaves, and other tropical vegetation. Dorothy named her arrangement “Blue Summer.” I still have a postcard of the exotic display: The blue-ribbon arrangement is perfectly balanced, and beneath the tall pottery vase it reads, “Greetings from IM-MO-KO-LEE.”
In 1940, Dorothy was the subject of another story in the Miami Daily News claiming that she was “the leading spirit of the movement to keep the roadways beautiful. To this end she led the women of the city in a raid against unsightly billboards and pulled up over 1,000 of them herself!”
During that same summer in 1940, Don Blanding came to Immokolee for what was planned as a brief visit. The inevitable occurred, and what had been a warm friendship over the years blossomed into love. On June 13, less than three weeks after Don’s arrival, he and Dorothy were married. The previous day she had written in her diary, “I’m deeply in love with Don and I know he is with me. Why don’t we marry and go the rest of the road together.”
Blanding evidently agreed. “This a.m. at 10:45 I said ‘yes’ to Don. Hurried excited lunch and then—marriage license, family—and Dr. Howard married us 6:30!”
Although they had been friends for years, the decision to marry was an impulsive one for my grandmother—still the incurable romantic. It would be impossible to estimate which of the two had the stronger ego. Both were stubborn, independent, highly critical, and sharp-tongued. Rather than mellowing with age, both seemed more set in their ways, and for Don to suddenly find himself with a wife as formidable as Dorothy must have required a considerable amount of patience. Don’s long bachelorhood had left him with an inflexibility that would threaten this newly discovered ardor. Nonetheless, Don had seized on Florida as a suitable place to inspire his next book of poetry.
The flamboyant artist was introduced to Dorothy’s longtime friend A. E. (“Beany”) Backus, another talented young painter. Dorothy had discovered Beany’s landscapes in Fort Pierce and had become one of his supporters. She arranged for him to share Don’s “Floridays” studio, and the sun-filled space was often the meeting place for an eclectic group of artists and writers. It was here Don began writing his chatty column, which appeared daily in the local newspaper.
“Don absorbed in his new studio. Its good for him and will give his ego a chance. Sally swims alone! Aged 4, 22 strokes! Whoops”
As a child, I can remember calling my grandmother’s new husband “Pappy Don.” My earliest memories of Don center on birthday parties and diving lessons, but he wasn’t at Immokolee long enough to be thought of as part of the family. Looking through his tenth book, Floridays, I am always delighted by one verse dedicated to my sister, Binney, and me.
WATER HYACINTHS
for Binney and Sally
When they’re about five years older.
…With water-bugs for pirates and pollywogs for whales, You search for high adventure, tiny pixie vagabonds…
With silken banners flying, frail bright banners yet untried, you are like the thoughts of children, innocent and young and brave.
May the kindly God of Children let his friendly power guide ’Til you find snug harbor waiting in a world that’s dark and grave.
Aside from his newspaper duties, Don devoted his days to painting black and white silhouettes and writing poetry. The whimsically illustrated Floridays is a result of his love for Immokolee, and Don dedicated it
TO DOROTHY
“Thy People Shall Be My People”
I said I’d love this land because of you. I love it for itself… for it has brought haven and peace to you when your heart sought surcease in beauty from the pain you knew.
The very early days of their marriage were blissful, at least according to my grandmother’s diaries. “Sabal palm in bloom and loveliness everywhere. Each day a little sweeter and happier than its predecessor” On one of her regular trips to New York, where she loved to walk and attend the theater, Dorothy was delighted to see her husband’s new book displayed: “New York. Errands at Wanamaker’s. Don’s ‘Floridays’ out today. Fun to see it in the shops”
But while Don’s literary accomplishments appealed to my grandmother, his presence at Immokolee was to become more and more of a strain. He simply was not the outdoor type, and there were quarrels over the most innocent housekeeping and gardening decisions. My grandmother tried to appease him by building a studio at Immokolee, and she organized a grand party for its opening, attended by three hundred friends and supporters.
Don resented his lack of authority in Dorothy’s world and, increasingly frustrated, resorted to penning her a witty but stinging evaluation of their lopsided arrangement:
Dear Gal,
Let me draw you an amusing, but serious little picture, and don’t look for hidden barbs because there are none. But I believe this little picture will help you to see us in clearer perspective and clear the way to a better understanding of problems we have to meet Immokolee is a charming little kingdom by itself or rather it is a charming little Queendom owned, ruled to The last inch and operated by that charming, generous and lovable benevolent dictator, Queen Dorothy (that’s not politically correct language, but you know what I mean). I am nothing but The Queen’s consort… It’s a gracious job and my Queen is generous, lovable, passionate, everything a Queen should be, and also everything that a Queen is…Imperious, accustomed to giving absolute orders, which it is her right to give, while she’s a Queen alone. But when she takes a consort she has problems. The Queen’s consort is and always has been a faintly ridiculous figure in The eyes of The rest of The world. And in his own eyes because he is given a little scepter to play with (but mustn’t make any serious gestures with it). He can even have his small toy army, but he must just parade it and blow little trumpets to scare The guinea hens. He mustn’t be a serious threat to The absolute power of The Queen.
Now, if he was raised for that kind of job he is content with his little toy army and his little toy scepter, but you see, I’ve been King Don in my own little kingdoms, and I think I’ve done a damned good imitation of The ideal Queen’s consort, seldom stamping in public or in any way appearing to usurp The Queen’s powers.… In the whole of Immokolee there’s just one small space, about The size of a grave, where I by God have authority and that’s The studio… I’m just not The material for Queen’s consort, and if I were, you’d be very disappointed because you do not like spiritless men.… You’ve made quick decisions (had to make them) so long in running your life and The homes, etc., so that action and reaction are almost simultaneous.… Just something to think over.
With love and kisses,
Don
Dorothy hastily scribbled her reply to the letter on the outside of the envelope: “Very excellent and tastefully said. I agree, but it was a shock as I had not realized it.” Predictably, she assumes responsibility for his criticism.
This missive was enough for my grandmother to admit that while he was a solution to her loneliness, an enduring union required more. “Blue—disheartened: Things go wrong. Two Egocentrics! Vanity and personal conceits clash. You hurt my pride!”
Few of Dorothy’s intimates were surprised the marriage didn’t last. “Don Blanding was a man who wore Hawaiian shirts and wrote poetry, none of which endeared him to George [Putnam], who saw him as ridiculous,” Cap Palmer later recalled. “We were together once speaking on a panel and I thought George was going to take off on the guy.”
By now my grandmother was considered one of the most influential grove owners in St. Lucie County, despite the fact that her acreage was small in comparison to the larger commercial ones. Managing her grove was the only job in her life that gave her such a feeling of accomplishment. Even now, as I survey the clean, straight rows of trees surrounding our home, I can imagine her overseeing the picking crews. In a letter written to a friend she boasted. “Have run and managed a citrus grove at Fort Pierce (Indian River Fruit!)” Don was right; Immokolee was her Queendom.
DECEMBER 7, 1941 At dawn Japs bombed Hawaii. Terrible excitement. Radio all day. 16 to curry supper and Special Game here in p.m. Everyone talked war.
Don left Fort Pierce immediately to enlist in the service. Like most women at the time, Dorothy was proud that her husband and two sons had joined the military. “Dave accepted as Ferry Pilot for Pan Amer. Co.!! Sad for me, but what he wants. June and Rene [his wife] late last p.m. June goes to Navy tomorrow! Both my sons at once. And a snotty letter from Don—all in one day!”
At the age of fifty-five, my grandfather also enlisted in the army air forces. The old warrior who had reupped was the quintessential patriot whom Dorothy had so admired thirty-six years before. Major Putnam—an intelligence officer—was assigned to the task of planning attacks and briefing combat crews in a Superfortress operation headquartered in India. In a strange twist of fate, both my grandfather and G.W.—a major in the same Air Transport Command—were involved in ferrying planes between Taspor, India, and China (“over the Hump,” as the dangerous mission across the Himalayan Mountains between China and India was called).
“George was the type of guy who could never stand something exciting going on and not be in it.… His job was to debrief the crews when they came back, and then translate the stuff” recalled Cap Palmer. “He flew one mission. A rather hazardous one in fact. But they got back all right.”
As the war raged on, my grandmother waited for news of her loved ones. The Fort Pierce beaches were closed to civilians, having been taken over as the new U.S. Naval Amphibian Training Base. But Dorothy could still wander through her groves and along the shores of the Indian River.
One spring night as the moon cast its light across the river’s surface, she was reminded of G.W. Standing at the water’s edge in the dark of the town’s shadow, Dorothy had driven in from the country and had tried to leave the burden of the world’s warring behind. Fifteen years before, she and G.W. had created an anniversary she obviously would never forget:
MAY 19, 1942 This day or all days to me and yet its now more than 10 years ago! A brown thrush!
Dorothy would become a grandmother again when her youngest son, George Junior, and his wife welcomed the third George Palmer Putnam. “I drove to Valdosta! A baby son and June there!! To see Rene at hospital then drove home all day with June. Grand visit with him” Three years earlier Junie had given his mother a namesake, Dorothy. During these trying war years, Dorothy lent her growing family a sense of strength and comfort. In October 1942 my father, David, left Pan American’s ferrying service and enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Force. A few months later, on February 19, 1943, my mother gave birth to my brother David, Jr. “Nilla has a six pound baby son born 5 a.m. today! Champagne toast to David Binney Putnam, Jr.! Binney and Sally overnight with me. Ten of us to supper.…
“More war news and I know both June and Dave are en route to North Africa. June by tanker, Dave in his plane. Waffle supper at Ruth’s”
With the opening of the Naval Amphibian Training Base, Fort Pierce—a town of less than eight thousand residents— was invaded by hordes of servicemen. My grandmother knew how the parents of these young sailors must have felt, and she opened up her private pool, preparing home-cooked meals for hundreds of navy men at a time: “Served at U.S.O. after working at Red Cross. Sundays are invariably full-up with boys, A mob to cook for, etc. But it means much to them and I’ll do it if it kills me.”
The wounded servicemen were all heroes to Dorothy and she ached as they were brought to shore from ships attacked by German U-boats off the Florida coast. Her admiration for their courage was boundless: “Wounded men being brought home to U.S.A. and many heroes decorated, we have several in Fort Pierce. Fine records of merit.”
In 1944, when her last two grandsons, Douglas and Richard, were born, both their fathers were still overseas. Fatherhood afforded them a brief leave of absence from their duties, and my grandfather, who was stationed in India, arranged to meet his two sons in Miami. “G.P.’s 57th birthday and he is with B-29s superbombers in Burma. A major in Air Corp., more power to him.” Dorothy clearly admired George for his courage, but it was G.W. who was now returning to her thoughts. “Gorgeous moon these nights. I will always remember The ‘October Full Moon.’ Oh, please, won’t this war ever end!”
On April 12, 1945, Dorothy heard the stunning news that Franklin D. Roosevelt had died: “President Roosevelt died at 4:30 p.m. and nation is shocked! We heard it at dairy, 5:30 en route home. The whole world is shocked and mourns the loss of great allied leader. All ‘commercials’ off radio and beautiful tributes from everywhere.”
Servicemen returning home were moving slowly across the country, and Dorothy’s own prayers were answered when at last she received word from her sons. They had both survived the ordeal and were coming home. “A wonderful heavenly month. The war over and our men returning, and safe—Praise God.”
* MAY 7, 1945 * Peace in Europe! 8:45 a.m. radio report. Rheims, France. Unconditional surrender to Allies! V-E. Great news. Thank God.
In a radio broadcast delivered in Fort Pierce at the end of the war, Dorothy spoke of hope for the future, and a desire for a better city to raise children in:
We have just passed through four bitter years of work and worry. Our sons and husbands have come home from war (thank God) and once again we can bend our efforts not to destruction but to construction and civilian achievement. Now is the time to show our returning men that we want them to come back to a better world and city. We want a better state and a better city for our families, for our children and our grandchildren to grow up in.
It was the last weekend in June 1945, and Dorothy had made plans to travel to New York, leaving Immokolee at dawn on the first train north. The ride that morning seemed interminably slow, but Dorothy’s heart was racing and a secret rendezvous had called her back.
July was stifling and Grand Central Station was teeming with sailors and soldiers returning from duty. There was only one soldier Dorothy wanted to welcome and she worried if he would be there, as the train was three hours late. Spotting him across the terminal, she caught her breath. He walked slowly at first, then began to run; they embraced and were together at last. The tall man and woman left the station arm-in-arm, oblivious to the hectic rush of traffic and crowded sidewalks.
In my grandmother’s diaries, she does not recount details of the postwar rendezvous, nor does she identify the person by name. This is the only time she ever deliberately omitted naming the person with whom she was staying. I can only surmise from her cryptic notes and the small hints she gives that it was G.W. It had been sixteen years since their first days in love, and the reunion must have been glorious. “Sunday. New York. Nice cozy breakfast late, and a visit to The Museum of Natural History. Chinese food later. I refuse to think!” By 1945, the Museum of Natural History housed a permanent Arctic exhibit from the Putnam Baffin Land Expedition of 1928.
Though Dorothy wrote the following words in 1928, she could just as easily have written them at the end of her stay in New York: “Why should one need to apologize for loving people; why this ‘guilty’ passion. And why do one’s knees feel empty. Is our morality kept there that they shake and give way so?”
Their friendship had stood the test of time and war.
An extraordinary man, George Weymouth lived his life fully. He became a founding partner in a prestigious investment firm, and took his greatest pleasure in his children and grandchildren. George Weymouth, Jr., G.W.’s namesake, once said of his father, “George told his children that a polar bear chewed his thumb off, when in fact, it became infected on the expedition when he cut it on a can.” And in another story, “They were playing parlor games… my dad walked down the stairs on his hands and put his feet right through the chandelier. He could walk on his hands up until he was in his fifties or sixties.… None of us could do it.”
George Weymouth’s first wife, Deo duPont, died in 1961 after thirty years of marriage. In 1963 he married Kathy duPont, a distant relative of Deo’s.
In one piece of writing toward the end of his life, G.W.’s sentiments seemed to mirror Dorothy’s own outlook:“…If age and experience have taught me anything, it is that money doesn’t buy the most important and best things…a sense of humor, the desire to do something to leave your mark in the world, and above all, to be loved and love”
On a scrap of paper I discovered my grandmother’s sentiments. “Probably the best portion of a good man’s life; his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.”