Three Stories About President Kennedy
by John Aquino on 10/27/13
As the 50th anniversary of President John F. Kennedy's assassination nears, we all remember. I have three stories I want to share. Two I heard recently, and I had never heard them before, and the other concerns me.
I saw him live once. My Dad, an eloquent lawyer, talked the good nuns of the Catholic school into letting my brother Jim and I go with our Dad to opening Day at Griffith Stadium in 1961. He convinced them it was an educational experience. Dad always got tickets on the third base side. We saw President Kennedy in his seats on the first base side through Dad's binoculars.
My sister Joan was invited to one of Kennedy's inaugural balls in 1960. It had snowed the night before. My mother insisted that Joan wear boots with her gown. And when Joan was taking off her boots, the Kennedys, who were going from ball to ball, walked through the event and Joan missed them.
I used to see President Kennedy's brother Ted when I was covering congressional hearings toward the end of his life.
I was in high school when President Kennedy was killed. We were herded into the chapel without being told why to pray for something important.
Today, we still remember President Kennedy because he brought such energy and charm to the presidency that, as a result, students joined the Peace Corps and astronauts went to the moon.
Here's the first story about Kennedy I hadn't heard before. The Kennedys were to fly into Fort Worth and stay at the Hotel Texas on the night of Nov. 21. The hotel was not the best in Fort Worth but had been selected by the Secret Service because it was easier to guard. Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, a native son, had secured the best accommodations in the Hotel Texas, the Will Rogers Suite, on the 13th floor. The Kennedys were on the 8th floor.
The wealthy of Fort Worth were upset that the nation's president would be staying in the second best suite in the second best hotel in the city. And so they decided that they would lend art from their own collections to brighten the suite where the Kennedy's were to stay: Monets, Picassos, Van Goghs.
They were told that Mrs. Kennedy would stay in the master bedroom, and so they placed Van Gogh's "Road with a Peasant Shouldering a Hoe," over the bed and the Impressionists in that room. In the smaller bedroom where President Kennedy was to stay, they placed "manly" art such as the nude men swimming in Thomas Eakin's "Swimming" and Charles M. Russell's "Lost in a Snow Storm."
The Kennedys arrived at midnight, were exhausted, and went to bed without noticing the art on the walls. For some reason, they switched suites, and Jackie Kennedy ended up in the room with the nude male swimmers and John with the Van Gogh and Monet.
In the morning, the Kennedys did see the art, found a catalog the owners had put together and left, and discovered that the art works were the originals. Kennedy called the lady who had been the prime mover to thank her. It was likely the last phone call he made before going to Dallas. John and Jackie Kennedy's last time alone together was when they were surrounded by these masterpieces of art supplied by strangers as an incredible act of kindness. The owners were taking their paintings down mid-day on Nov. 22 when news came over the radio that Kennedy had been shot.
The second story I heard recently about Kennedy was about his rosary, which will be up for sale by auction shortly. It is described as a wealthy man's rosary: the beads are made of onyx, the cross of gold, the figure of Christ on the cross stylized, and Kennedy's name engraved on the cross.
The rosary is being auctioned by the sons of Dave Powers, Kennedy's friend and special assistant to whom the president gave the rosary. It is described as not in mint condition because the beads are worn from having been fingered during prayer by Kennedy and presumably Powers.
The third story involves me. Both President Kennedy and I were fans of the Lerner and Loewe 1960 musical Camelot about King Arthur. The original cast album ends with Richard Burton as King Arthur reciting what the album notes call "Camelot (Reprise)," which ends, "Don't let it be forgot/That once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment," and the chorus sings, "That was known as Camelot."
After President Kennedy died, Jackie Kennedy told Theodore White for his Life Magazine story about her husband's love for the "Camelot Reprise," and consequently the 1,000 days of the Kennedy Administration became known as "Camelot."
It always struck me how the original cast album ends this way but the musical itself ends with King Arthur and a young boy named Tom, who will presumably grow up to be Thomas Malory who wrote of King Arthur, singing the "Camelot Reprise." Whereas the song in the show ends with a note of hope, the song in the original cast album is elegiac and mournful.
The show was heavily reworked on the road, so it is possible that it once ended the way the album does. But it was changed by opening night, and the album was recorded after opening. Why, I wondered, did they end the album with Burton doing the "Camelot Reprise" alone? Was it because he was said to have a voice that sounded like an organ?--he did--and one that was so great you would willingly listen to him read the telephone book?--you wouldn't, I heard him do this on a talk show and it wasn't much. Or was it just cheaper?--they didn't have to bring in the actor playing young Tom.
But Burton speaking alone, according to Jackie, moved Kennedy and so many others who heard him do the "Camelot Reprise" on the album and in person. I remember when Burton played in the 1980 revival of Camelot he said in an interview he could see people leaning forward waiting for him to say the word "moment."
It was not unusual for a cast album to end differently from the show. South Pacific ends with Nellie and DeBecque's children reprising "Dites Moi" and DeBecque, who was thought to be dead, entering and singing the song with them. Then DeBecque and Nellie hold hands as the orchestra swells. The cast album includes DeBecque finishing "Dites Moi" but then puts in a reprise of "Some Enchanted Evening" that actually occurs earlier in the show. It was clear they wanted to end the show with Enzio Pinza hitting that high note again rather than just have the orchestra swell.
But with Camelot, the change is from two people singing together to one and results in a completely different tone and mood. After Kennedy's death, a grieving nation attached itself to the voice image delivered by a great actor of a nation's promise tragically unfulfilled. And this song influenced the thinking of at least two generations about a presidential era.
I tried and tried to find out why this change had taken place. When Burton came to Washington in 1983 to play in Private Lives, I wrote his hotel daily, hung around the lobby until they asked me to leave, and tried, unsuccessfully, to have journalists I knew who had Kennedy Center connections arrange a meeting. But I never heard back from Burton. I also contacted his daughter Kate and others who were involved in the original cast album, most of whom have since died, but no one had an answer for me.
It would be interesting to know the cause of this one decision that created the mythos of the Kennedy's Camelot. If anyone knows the answer, let me know.
Copyright 2013 by John T. Aquino
