studio at one point or another, since there was so little else to see. Usually, they were in Midland City to lecture or sing or play some instrument, or whatever, at the YMCA. That was how I got to meet Nicholas Murray Butler, the president of Columbia University, when I was a boy—and AlexanderWoollcott, the wit and writer and broadcaster, and Cornelia Otis Skinner, the monologist, and Gregor Piatigor-sky, the cellist, and on and on.
They all said what Mrs. Roosevelt was about to say: “It’s hard to believe I’m in Midland City, Ohio.”
Father used to sprinkle a few drops of turpentine and linseed oil on the hot-air registers, so the place would smell like an active studio. When a guest walked in, there was always some classical record on the phonograph, but never German music after Father decided that being a Nazi wasn’t such a good idea after all. There was always imported wine, even during the war. There was always Liederkranz cheese, and Father would tell the story of its invention.
And the food was excellent, even when war came and there was strict rationing of meat, since Mary Hoobler was so resourceful with catfish and crayfish from Sugar Creek, and with unrationed parts of animals which other people didn’t consider edible.
• • •
Mary Hoobler’s chitlins: Take the small intestine of a pig, cut it up into two-inch sections, and wash and wash them, changing the water often, until no fatty particles remain.
Boil them for three or four hours with onions, herbs, and garlic. Serve with greens and grits.
• • •
That is what we served Eleanor Roosevelt for lunch on Mother’s Day in 1944—Mary Hoobler’s chitlins. She was most appreciative, and she was very democratic, too. She went out into the kitchen and talked to Mary and the other servants there. She had Secret Service agents along, of course, and one of them said to Father, I remember, “I hear you have quite a collection of guns.”
So the Secret Service had checked us out. They surely knew, too, that Father had been an admirer of Hitler, but was now reformed, supposedly.
The same man asked what music was playing on the phonograph.
“Chopin,” said Father. And then, when the agent appeared to have another question, Father guessed it and answered it: “A Pole,” he said. “A Pole, a Pole, a Pole.”
And Felix and I, comparing notes here in Haiti, now realize that all our distinguished visitors from out of town had been tipped off that Father was a phony as a painter. Not one of them ever asked to see examples of Father’s work.
• • •
If somebody had been ignorant enough or rude enough to ask, he would have shown them, I suppose, a small canvas clamped into the rugged framework of his easel. His easel was capable of holding a canvas eight feet high and twelve feet wide, I would guess. As I have already said, and particularly in view of the room’s other decorations, it was easily mistaken for a guillotine.
The small canvas, whose back was turned toward visitors, was where a guillotine’s fallen blade might be. It was the only picture I ever saw on the easel, as long as Father and I were on the same planet together, and some of our guests must have gone to the trouble of looking at its face. I think Mrs. Roosevelt did. I am sure the Secret Service agents did. They wanted to see everything.
And what they saw on that canvas were brushstrokes laid down exuberantly and confidently, and promisingly, too, in prewar Vienna, when Father was only twenty years old. It was only a sketch so far—of a nude model in the studio he rented after he moved out of the home of our relatives over there. There was a skylight. There was wine and cheese and bread on a checkered tablecloth.
Was Mother jealous of that naked model? No. How could she be? When that picture was begun, Mother was only eleven years old.
• • •
That rough sketch was the only respectable piece of artwork by my father that
They all said what Mrs. Roosevelt was about to say: “It’s hard to believe I’m in Midland City, Ohio.”
Father used to sprinkle a few drops of turpentine and linseed oil on the hot-air registers, so the place would smell like an active studio. When a guest walked in, there was always some classical record on the phonograph, but never German music after Father decided that being a Nazi wasn’t such a good idea after all. There was always imported wine, even during the war. There was always Liederkranz cheese, and Father would tell the story of its invention.
And the food was excellent, even when war came and there was strict rationing of meat, since Mary Hoobler was so resourceful with catfish and crayfish from Sugar Creek, and with unrationed parts of animals which other people didn’t consider edible.
• • •
Mary Hoobler’s chitlins: Take the small intestine of a pig, cut it up into two-inch sections, and wash and wash them, changing the water often, until no fatty particles remain.
Boil them for three or four hours with onions, herbs, and garlic. Serve with greens and grits.
• • •
That is what we served Eleanor Roosevelt for lunch on Mother’s Day in 1944—Mary Hoobler’s chitlins. She was most appreciative, and she was very democratic, too. She went out into the kitchen and talked to Mary and the other servants there. She had Secret Service agents along, of course, and one of them said to Father, I remember, “I hear you have quite a collection of guns.”
So the Secret Service had checked us out. They surely knew, too, that Father had been an admirer of Hitler, but was now reformed, supposedly.
The same man asked what music was playing on the phonograph.
“Chopin,” said Father. And then, when the agent appeared to have another question, Father guessed it and answered it: “A Pole,” he said. “A Pole, a Pole, a Pole.”
And Felix and I, comparing notes here in Haiti, now realize that all our distinguished visitors from out of town had been tipped off that Father was a phony as a painter. Not one of them ever asked to see examples of Father’s work.
• • •
If somebody had been ignorant enough or rude enough to ask, he would have shown them, I suppose, a small canvas clamped into the rugged framework of his easel. His easel was capable of holding a canvas eight feet high and twelve feet wide, I would guess. As I have already said, and particularly in view of the room’s other decorations, it was easily mistaken for a guillotine.
The small canvas, whose back was turned toward visitors, was where a guillotine’s fallen blade might be. It was the only picture I ever saw on the easel, as long as Father and I were on the same planet together, and some of our guests must have gone to the trouble of looking at its face. I think Mrs. Roosevelt did. I am sure the Secret Service agents did. They wanted to see everything.
And what they saw on that canvas were brushstrokes laid down exuberantly and confidently, and promisingly, too, in prewar Vienna, when Father was only twenty years old. It was only a sketch so far—of a nude model in the studio he rented after he moved out of the home of our relatives over there. There was a skylight. There was wine and cheese and bread on a checkered tablecloth.
Was Mother jealous of that naked model? No. How could she be? When that picture was begun, Mother was only eleven years old.
• • •
That rough sketch was the only respectable piece of artwork by my father that
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