MR PRESIDENT

Grey River Argus, 29 July 1940, Page 10

MR PRESIDENT

THE MAN AT WORK. The President of the United States is a big man, huge-shouldered and long-armed, with sausage-size firigei s on his freckled, hairy hands. His S re y" ing hair is thin little hollows dwell on his massive temples, brown shadows sit under his deep, narrowset eyes, and two big seams hook down from his clear-cut nose to e crim parentheses around his mouth. Last week (says the news zine. Time, of June 10) he looked ti - ed. But weariness sat on him lightPresident was working fi incredibly hard —at the job which has broken so many men. Daily he averaged 15 callers (on Thursday he saw 40 men, besides a special press conference), as always, he did most of th talking To handsome Marguerite (Missy) LeHand his private secretary, he dictated 15 to 20 letters a day Constantly reports, documents, bta a papers, cables, digests, correspondence streamed over his desk. There were speeches to write messages to plan, policies to determine. Above all there was a world to watch. Daily he scanned maps For three weeks he has discussed battlefield contours in military detail with United States experts; again a.nd again they have whistled respectfully at his apparent knowledge of Flanders--hills, creeks, towns, bridges. The President s particular forte is islands; he is said to know every one in the world, its peoples, habits, population, geography, economic like. When a ship sank off Scotland several months ago. experts argued: Had the ship hit a rock or had it been torpedoed? The President pondered lattitude and longitude, said; “It hit a rock. They ought to have seen that rock.” Naval Aide Daniel J. Callaghan recalled the rock, disagreed: At high tide, Mr President, that rock is submerged.” No such thing, said the President, even at high tide that is 20 feet out of the water The family life of the Nation’s First Familyman was in abeyance. For the last three weeks he has missed the evening “movies” in the big, secondfloor corridor in the White House. But he averaged three swims a week in the pool set between the Mansion and the Executive Offices. His appetite was good, his taste for games still as keen as when ,Mrs Roosevelt said he liked any food ‘‘that flies through the kitchen.” His day begins around 8.30 a.m.. with a leisurely breakfast in bed, a review of news and the day’s work with Secretary Stephen T. Early, a careful check through New York. Washington, Philadelphia and Baltimore newspapers; a look at overnight cables. Often, these days, ther e are also quick conferences with State Department chiefs. Languid, shrewd Secretary of Commerce Harry Hopkins also s its in. listening more than talking, unmindful of smoke curling into his eyes from a forgotten cigarette. When the grand-children arc on a visit, one is usually climbing around the bed. ‘Dressed, he sits on a little wheelchair that looks like a typewriter table —no arms or back —and an attendant places his hand on the President’s broad shoulders, pushes him to the elevator, down the pillared outside passage (if the day is fair) and into the Oval Room to his desk. Walking is still a difficult, lurching task to him, only possible with a cane and an aide’s arm. At 10 or 10.30 appointments begin. Lunch is a conference over desk trays. The President is not skilful’ with his hands; they fumble with papers, with spectacles;' the wood matches he uses often break under his heavy fingers. When he appears casual, easy, charming, his hands are still. He likes to laugh, even these days—a delightful roar that shakes him up and down —and still in the hoarded minutes of his day finds time to write lusty wisecracks in memos to his aides; to think up little gags to spring on his press conferences. , In more than seven years in the White House he has not spent 30 days in bed. Dr. Ross Mclntire vows his ward could pass his 1930 life insurance examinations (560,000 dollars) at his 1930 ratings.

He has one priceless attribute—a knack of locking up his and the world’s worries in some secret mental compartment, and then enjoying himself to the top of his bent. This quality of survival, of physical toughness, of champagne ebullience,. Is one key to the big man. Another key is this: No one has ever heard him admit that he cannot walk. TWO THEORIES. Yet (the writer continues) al though the President has lived fot seven years under intense publicity, there is no agreement as to his chtiractJr. “Those men who have worked with him at close range, who know that a deep, almost bottomless patience control's his every action, have two theories about him: (1) That, serenely sure of his own judgment, he meets any given situation with impulsively quick action, does all that can be done, and then relaxes with a clear conscience. (2) That in his heart of hearts h e is a sad man having seen through the illusions and futilities of his time. Nevertheless, he has th e courage to be cheerful and do good in the sight of God This theory, endows Mr Roosevelt with the humility of true greatness.’ ”

“A man who is as close to the Presidential enigma as anybody answered thus last week; ‘Franklin Roosevelt is the toughest guy in the country, perhaps in the whole world. Above alL> he is utterly supremely eonfidnt. Youand I and th e man in the street might bend or break or get frightened under the terrific load, the terrific pressure of responsibility he carries. Not he. I know that the President, alone at night in his bedroom, thinking the whole scene over, does not even have a palm-tingling in his hands. He is ready. H e may not have been born for this time, but he is trained, hardened, forged, groomed and polished for thii job.’ ”