March is an in-between month in Dutchess County.  I was visiting Aunt Eleanor at Val-Kill Cottage in March of 1942 and was glad to be having tea by the open fire.  Patches of leafy earth were showing through the snow that lay in the woods.  Trees stood tall, waiting for better weather before letting their leaves out to decorate their branches.
    Aunt Eleanor took up the knitting that stood in a basket by the wing chair that was her acknowledged place by the fire.  From there she could look at the family photos that surrounded the fireplace and hung above the mantle.  She also had a good view of the alcove beyond, filled with books from floor ceiling.  The walls were wood paneling finished in the soft pine polish that was developed by the craftsman at the Val-Kill Furniture Factory.  It was a cozy room in which to sit on an overcast, early spring afternoon.
    Aunt Eleanor told me she looked forward to spending more time in her home someday.  She dreamed of being a private person but acknowledged that part of her effectiveness as an advocate for the causes in which she believed was her status as the first lady.
    As we sat together quietly that day, she received a call from her husband.  It was St. Patrick's Day, their thirty-seventh wedding anniversary.  Uncle Franklin wished his wife a happy day and asked about the dogwood along the trails in their woods; trails that they had walked when they were first engaged.
    He hadn't been able to walk those trails since contracting polio twenty years before, but he could drive.  The Ford Motor Company had remodeled one of their touring cars for him so that he was able to control it using only his hands.  He loved to drive on the dirt roads through his estate, watching over the woods, determining which trees should be cut to make firewood for the following winter. 
    I found myself continuing to listen as my aunt and uncle touched on the past together.
    My mother and others had spoken to me about Uncle Franklin's long-term relationship with Lucy Mercer, whom they euphemistically called his "best" friend.  Tommy always said that my aunt harbored an adolescent fantasy, born of adoring her father, that you married and lived happily ever after.  Eventually, I agreed with Tommy that my aunt never forgave her husband for the affair, so she never had the profound growth that real forgiveness entails--nor did she have the companionship that is born of trust.  When she first learned of the affair, before he was president, she offered him his "freedom," a divorce, but he chose not to accept it.  I suspect that, in part, he knew how important she was to his career.  Also, his mother would never approve of divorce.
    Aunt Eleanor remained Uncle Franklin's loyal partner, but they never developed an easy, affectionate relationship.  She seemed to protect herself from the hurt of infidelity by building a wall around herself and concentrating on work.
    But on this occasion, I sensed in their exchange a brief sadness in my aunt for never having forgiven Uncle Franklin and, perhaps, for not having the kind of relationship that might have been.