Travels with Eleanor, Part 4 - Chautauqua "When did you die?" – by Nan Brooks

Previously:  In 1986, synchronicity led us to Carbondale and Muddy, Illinois, where Eleanor was part of an old-fashioned Chautauqua.

Eleanor could always find a way. (Story below)

The Illinois Humanities Council was producing the Chautauqua in two communities: Carbondale and Muddy. We would perform in tents in rotation. I would alternate with two other artists so that the three of us would rotate from a performance night, a day of community outreach, and a day off. We were to start in Muddy and after two rotations, move to Carbondale.

A few weeks before the  Chautauqua began, we gathered for publicity photos and interviews and I met my compatriots: Mark Twain and Abraham Lincoln. We were a striking trio with Mr. Lincoln all in black, Mr. Clemmons (as we called him in private) in his bright white suit, and Eleanor in black and white. To our mutual delight, we discovered that we were each using our characters to teach history and to speak for social justice and peace. It was a treat to meet other actors who were doing the same work and who had stories “from the road.”  I was too new at the enterprise to have stories, but I would gather a few at the Chautauqua.

In Muddy, my first tent show did not go particularly well. There were the usual outdoor performance challenges: noise from a nearby road, bugs who loved the stage lights, and lighting that was hung so low that it hit me square in the eyes so that I could see very little. The huge Purina sign on the  red and white checkerboard “backdrop” added a certain odd ambience to Eleanor’s fictional sitting room. I couldn’t control a bit of it. But I could fix the biggest problem: the audience was restless and not particularly happy or engaged. I suspected they either didn’t seem to believe the invisible reporter to whom Eleanor talked all the way through or they felt left out of the conversation. I came offstage and said to Jane Winslow, “Well, that didn’t work!” So we rewrote the script over the next two days. The reporter disappeared and I addressed the audience directly. I pretended they were a group of women who had come for a visit and that the president of their organization had written to Eleanor with a question. I think of that question – and ER’s answer – often these days. The letter asked:

"How can one get out of bed in the morning knowing what is happening in the world?  That is our question for you, Mrs. Roosevelt.  When the television and newspapers bring us such horrific news, how do we face the problems without giving in to despair? I realize this is not an easy question to answer and feel that we are displaying a certain nerve in even asking you to talk to us about it. You have been through dark times -- the great depression and two world wars.  So perhaps, if you could simply tell us about your own life, we will draw what we need to know from the telling."

Reading the letter to the audience worked to launch my Eleanor into her life story and engaged the audience somewhat. But there was a trick I learned from an IU sociology professor that worked even better. The professor taught a sociology  course to large lecture hall full of young undergraduates. To my surprise, class discussions were lively; most of the 150 students spoke up with questions and ideas despite the fact that we were in rows, which is not conducive to conversation. I asked the professor to tell me his secret and explained I wanted to engage audiences in a controlled conversation to keep them interested. He said, “Oh it’s simple. If you get them to talk to you in the first minute, preferably within 30 seconds, they will talk to you from then on.”  It worked like a charm.

               

That is, it worked until I visited an elementary school in Muddy. The community was excited to see Eleanor. A local classic car enthusiast picked me up in a restored 1940s Chevrolet and there were many parents in the audience. The students ranged from ages 9 to about 12, and had been prepared by their teachers, so they knew who Eleanor Roosevelt was and some of what she had accomplished. But how to engage them and keep them interested? It was a hot June day near the end of the school year, and we were all roasting in the auditorium. The wooden seats and floors creaked with every move a child made. I had my doubts about how it was all going to go.  I must have begun with a question and waited for them to answer. When they didn’t, I reminded them that “I” was partly deaf, and they needed to speak up to help me hear them. (A quote from E.R.)  Eventually, the permission to speak encouraged them and they asked why I married a president, what my wedding was like (the girls, of course), and then one boy stood and said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Roosevelt, but when did you die?”  

Aha! The first time-bending question of many I would encounter over the next 20 years. A teacher moved to the aisle near him, which I suspected was intended to make him “behave.” I rushed to answer lest he be shut down. So, Eleanor explained matter of factly that perhaps her friend, Nan, should answer that question. I took off my hat and moved a few steps to my right to mark the transition out of character, answered in my own voice, and talked about all the U.S. presidents who attended her funeral. Then I moved back to center stage, put ER’s hat back on, and resumed talking as  Eleanor. The students went along with the changes without squirming or giggling and the adult seemed to sigh with relief. It was one of the many lessons from the Chautauqua that would serve me for a long time.

Our second community event was a visit to a nursing home. I dreaded it, but Jane reminded me that our mission was to bring Eleanor’s spirit to the present and that my personal life mission is to bring healing and peace wherever I can. This was an opportunity to do just that, Jane insisted. As usual, she was right. My memories of nursing homes were those of gloom, the smells of human incontinence or, at best, boiled brussels sprouts, and the coldness from staff who closed themselves off from tenderness with their patients. When we walked into the facility in Muddy, I was struck by the spirit of the place.  The staff were smiling as they conversed even before they saw us. It smelled good, no antiseptic or the odors of incontinence. There was love in the air and I could feel it.

Most of the residents were gathered in a big circle in the large activities room, but the staff said they would have to cancel my visit because the sound system wasn’t working. Knowing that most of the residents had difficulty hearing and almost everyone was using a wheelchair, I proposed that I go around the room and say hello to each person and then have a conversation with two or three people at a time. This seemed to startle the activities director; she figured I would just leave. 

As I approached one woman and said, “Hello, I’m Eleanor Roosevelt. What’s your name?” she looked quite alarmed. “Are you really Eleanor Roosevelt?” she said. I suddenly realized that she was afraid she was either hallucinating or had died and was meeting Eleanor in heaven. I had no idea where my understanding came from, but just leaned over and said, “Let’s just say I like to think I am.” She grinned, her shoulders dropped in relief, and she responded, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Roosevelt! Where is your husband?”

As I went around the circle the staff stood in the doorway and watched. Some folks responded in conversation, some just stared at me, as was to be expected. Not everyone could comprehend what was going on around them.  I couldn’t get all the way around a long table to be face-to-face with the last resident, a woman in a wheelchair.  I squeezed in to talk over her shoulder, my face next to hers. The man with her was dressed in immaculate overalls, a white tee shirt and dirty, well-used work boots – a farm in from the fields to see his wife at lunchtime. He smiled at me, but his eyes held a deep sadness. As I leaned over the woman’s shoulder, I said my usual, “How do you do? I’m Eleanor Roosevelt. How are you today?” She reached up suddenly and patted my cheek, then said, “Bless your heart.” 

I continued to talk with her, but she said nothing more, though she did chuckle now and then. When I looked up, her husband was staring at me, his mouth agape and the staff in the doorway were all crying. Someone came to move the table and turn her chair around so that we could see each other. I lingered for a while, chatting away, and watched her eyes sparkle as she became more and more alert. Later, I learned that Mary had had a stroke and had not spoken since she arrived at the nursing home. Eleanor had drawn her out. I realized that my work in portraying Mrs. Roosevelt had bigger and deeper effects that I could have anticipated. It was my turn to be weepy, but I wanted to check on something.

I’d heard a staff member mention that a couple of men would be so sorry they couldn’t come to meet Eleanor. So I asked to visit the residents who were unable to come. As I entered one room, a man rose from the guest’s chair and saluted, “Mrs. Roosevelt,” he said as he snapped to attention. The man in the bed attempted to get up. “Oh no,” I said, “please don’t get up. I like to visit soldiers in hospitals and sit by their beds.” I admired the field cap he was wearing, and he said, “My old uniform doesn’t fit, or I would have worn it today.” Sure enough, his field jacket lay across the foot of his bed. I said, “I still have my Red Cross uniform from visiting the troops during the war. I’m sure it doesn’t fit either.” We had a good laugh and they told me where they had served and shared some war memories.

Eleanor had insisted on visiting the field hospitals in the South Pacific during World War II, despite the reluctance of her husband and the firm resistance of the military, who complained that they could not spare the manpower and other resources for her travels. The trip would require planes, boats, fuel, servicemen and women, and would distract hospital staff. Determined to let the wounded know their government cared about them, Eleanor found a way. Red Cross workers were authorized in the area, so she pulled out her Red Cross uniform, which had probably been given to her in some ceremony or other, and insisted on going. 

Mrs. Roosevelt visiting wounded troops in the South Pacific

By the end of the trip she had traveled 10,000 miles and gained the admiration of the military leaders, doctors and nurses, and of course, of the wounded men and women. It took at least three escorts a day just to keep up with her and she said she felt like she had walked those 10,000 miles. She promised the wounded men and women she would get in touch with their families and gathered up addresses to write to when she got back to the U.S. For years afterward, veterans would come to meet her, eager to see her again and tell her how they were doing. 

With Eleanor as my role model, I often asked veterans about their service and they poured out their stories. All I could do then was stand with my hand over my heart.

Over the years I would be reminded many times that, as Eleanor said, “Everyone I meet is my teacher.” Veterans from the war and civilians from the home front taught me about heroism, about how many men and women had endured so much physical and emotional pain, so much loss. I learned that Eleanor could be a comfort. What I didn’t realize was that I was beginning a 20-year journey, rich with discoveries, stumbles, and a few triumphs.

Next time:  “I can’t hear you.”

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