REMEMBERING FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT

Delivering Sad Tidings

On April 12, 1945, I was 11 years old. On that Thursday, when I got home from school, both my mom and Nana were crying. Dad had called from his store downtown and told them to turn on the radio. The president was dead. I wanted to be by myself and went out onto our front porch. We lived on the corner of Fifth and Oneida NW.

It was late afternoon, and some people were coming home from work and getting off the bus across the street. Soon I was calling out to them, yelling that Roosevelt had just died. To this day I remember the shocked looks. Some started to cry. Others turned to hurry home, a few running. None said a word back to me, this kid on a front porch. But, somehow, they knew I wasn't fooling. Maybe it was because I was crying, too.

Robert J. Beard

Temple Hills

Banking on Memories

A former CCC boy, I came to Washington in 1939, worked days as a clerk at Coast Guard headquarters and attended law school at night. My daily walk took me through Lafayette Square and along a short street that once existed between the White House and the Treasury Building. On several occasions, I saw Roosevelt emerge at the wheel of his open touring car, jaunty hat and long cigarette holder at that familiar angle. I was thrilled when he waved at me and flashed that wonderful smile.

I have bored captive friends with that story many times. But a few weeks ago at my local bank, a bright young assistant cashier noticed my cap with its CCC logo and asked what it was. I began telling him that the Civilian Conservation Corps was one of the great social experiments of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

"Who was Franklin Delano Roosevelt?" he asked.

I didn't cry. After all, my modest bank account does seem to be in good hands.

Earl R. Smith

Alexandria

Inspiration and Pain

I have come full cycle from an American nationality to full-fledged citizenship. From my perch as a Maryland state delegate, I am now "as American as apple pie," albeit of a different dye.

Although invisible, Roosevelt touched virtually every life in the far-flung Philippines. At age 7, I remember coming home from school jumping with joy because classes were canceled. The family huddled around a clandestine short-wave radio listening to Roosevelt as he declared war on Japan after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The Philippines fell to Japan soon after, but Roosevelt remained the dominant figure in our lives.

My father, a staunch American ally and national, continued to invoke Roosevelt's supremacy over the Japanese emperor's authority -- and paid dearly for it. A high-ranking commonwealth official, he vehemently declined when called to serve in the "puppet government." Shortly before the American liberation of the Philippines, the ruthless Japanese Kempeitai arrested my father on unspecified charges of subversive activities and had him summarily and brutally executed.

David M. Valderrama

Fort Washington

Tooting the President's Horn

When I was a secretary at WPA, I took a short cut from Pennsylvania Avenue to the old State Department building and the White House.

One day I was coming back from lunch and began reading a letter. I heard the slight beep of a horn. I glanced up and here was the president and his Secret Service men in a big open car -- all laughing at my unexpected look of "city anger." Now I tell my grandchildren I once stopped the president's car and the president was FDR.

Virginia Scott Schafer

Orange, Va.

They Wore Out Their Welcome

In 1940-41, I was a reporter at the White House for The Washington Post. One summer evening, I was invited to Roosevelt's annual party for the press. Eleanor Roosevelt led a conga line through the East Room, with great enthusiasm from dozens of dancing couples. FDR watched for a while from the doorway. Long after his bedtime, the party continued. At about 1 a.m., my date, Janet (now my wife), saw that ice cream was being served in the main hallway. As we approached, Mrs. Roosevelt, who was standing behind the table, said in her inimitable high-pitched voice, polite but firm, "Don't you think it's a little late for ice cream?" We took the hint and went home.

George Bookman

Lakeville, Conn.

A Cloud on the Horizon

My grandparents lost quite a bit of money when Roosevelt closed the banks; they hated him with a passion. Grandma used to take me to the movies on Saturdays. She always carried a big umbrella to ward off sun and rain. In those days, the feature film was preceded by newsreels that invariably carried bits of FDR. When his picture flashed on screen, the audience would applaud. That was my grandmother's cue to stand and hit anyone applauding near her with her umbrella. It was very embarrassing; we were frequently asked to leave the theater.

Nancy Hornstein

Vienna

The Darkest Nights

In 1942, I was a 12-year-old and lived in a row house with my mother in upper Georgetown. Every kid in the neighborhood loved Roosevelt. He was like a bold and regal grandfather that none of us scrappy, lower-middle-class kids had. The kids from Fillmore Elementary on 35th Street used to knock on doors collecting old newspapers and magazines for the war. To give us credit, the school gave out cloth stripes that our mothers sewed on the shoulders of our best shirts. I wore my adorned shirt until its elbows were frayed.

Perhaps my fondest memories were of walking the streets during air raid drills. Each street had an air raid warden. On Whitehaven Parkway, it was Daniel Finnegan. After dark, the siren blared and residents were supposed to dim their lights, close their blinds and remain indoors. Mr. Finnegan let me go with him on the weekly drills. Of course, everyone complied. The Carricos. The Wrights. The Showalters. Their houses were blotted out in the night. Up and down the block, there was thick silence and darkness.

James M. McCarthy

Fairfax

Articles appear as they were originally printed in The Washington Post and may not include subsequent corrections.