Recollections of full years

by Helen Herron Taft

I determined to give my first garden party at the White House as soon as spring was sufficiently far advanced to make it possible. I issued invitations, 750 of them, for Friday, the 7th of May, planning at the same time three others to complete the season, one each Friday during the month.

In order to put possible bad weather off its guard, I made the invitations simply for an “At Home from 5 to 7 o’clock,” because all my life the elements have been unfriendly to me. Whenever I plan an outdoor fête I begin to consult the weather man with the hopeful faith of a Catherine de Medici appealing to her astrologer, but for all my humble spirit I very frequently get a downpour, or else a long drawn out and nerve-trying threat. Quite often the lowering clouds have passed and my prayers for sunshine have been rewarded, but quite often, too, I have had to move indoors with an outdoor throng for whom no indoor diversions had been arranged.

By way of preparation for my first garden party I had a large refreshment tent put up in the northwest corner of the garden where it would be handy to the kitchen and serving rooms, while under the trees here and there I had tables spread at which a corps of waiters were to serve tea during the reception. The Marine Band I stationed behind the iron railing just under the Green Room. For any kind of outdoor entertainment at the White House the band had always been placed in the middle of the lawn between the south portico and the fountain, but I thought, and correctly, that the house wall would serve as a sounding board and make the music audible throughout the grounds. I arranged to receive under one of the large trees in a beautiful vista looking south.

No sooner were my plans completed, however, than the weather man predicted rain. It was coming, sure. Of course, I knew it would, but I had had too much experience to think of coming in out of the rain before it began to come down. I always sustain my hopeful attitude until the deluge descends.

About half past three it began to rain in torrents and I saw all of my festive-looking preparations reduced to sopping wrecks before there was even time to rush them indoors. By five o’clock, when it was time for the people to begin to arrive, it had stopped raining, but the lawns were soaked and the trees were dripping dismally, so I directed the band to move into the upper corridor, as usual for afternoon affairs, had the refreshment tables spread in the state Dining Room and took my by that time accustomed position to receive the long line of guests in the East Room.

A week later I had better luck. I sent out the same kind of invitations, made the same kind of preparations, slightly elaborated, and was rewarded with a perfect mid-May day.

The guests arrived at the East Entrance, came down the Long Corridor, out through one of the special guest dressing-rooms, and down the long slope of the lawn to the tree where Mr. Taft and I stood to receive them, with Captain Archibald Butt to make the presentations. At the next garden party I requested the gentlemen to come in white clothes, in thin summer suits, or in anything they chose to wear, instead of in frock coats. Some young people played tennis on the courts throughout the reception; it was warm enough for bright-coloured parasols and white gowns; the fountain made rainbows and diamond showers in the sun, and altogether it was a most pleasing picture of informal outdoor enjoyment. Each year after that the four May garden parties were among the most popular entertainments of our social season.

The question of a “Summer Capital,” as the President’s summer home is called, was quite a serious one for us to settle. We had been going to Murray Bay for so many years that we had few affiliations with any other place, and we were most uncertain as to what we might be able to do.

We finally selected a number of likely places and made our choice by the process of elimination. One location was too hot, another had a reputation for mosquitoes, another was too far away, another hadn’t first-class railway, postal and telegraph facilities, and another, worst drawback of all, had no good golf links. It wouldn’t have been a livable place for Mr. Taft without golf links because golf was his principal form of exercise and recreation. Also the whole family agreed that we must be near the sea, so our search finally narrowed to the Massachusetts coast. I decided on the North Shore, as the coast from Beverly to Gloucester is called, because it had every qualification for which we were seeking, including excellent golf at the Myopia and Essex County clubs. Then, too, it had a further attraction in that the summer homes of a number of our friends were located there, or in the near vicinity.