Uncle Franklin's Funeral

    At 5:30 in the morning, as Mackenzie King's private railway car steamed down the east side of the Hudson River, I woke up in my little bedroom.  I lifted the blind and watched the river go by.  Soon we would be at the Roosevelt siding in Hyde Park.  There the locomotive would stop, and the private car would be uncoupled from the train and shunted onto the siding, where it would be out of the way of the funeral train that was bearing Uncle Franklin's body from Washington to hi home.  I had breakfast with the prime minister, and he showed be the bouquet of early flowers he had picked from his garden to lay on his friend's grave.
    It was eight o'clock when we walked up the woods road from the siding to the rose garden near the big house, and the earth was blinking on a new, spring day.  Tiny leaves were testing the weather, wild flowers too, as we quietly walked up the long hill, Mr. King with his bouquet in hand.  We took our places in the rose garden.  Aunt Eleanor was there with her daughter, Anna, and her sons with their wives.  A few dignitaries who had missed the formal service in Washington stood in the group along with friends and neighbors from Hyde Park.  The sun was gradually touching the tops of tall trees, and a lone robin sang its song of renewal from the top limb of a tall elm tree.
    Then we heard drums, beating a slow, sad beat up the woods road.  We turned and saw marines, their drums draped in black, marching at the head of the funeral procession.  Following them was a handsome, rider less horse with boots hanging backwards from its saddle, symbol of a fallen leader.  Finally came the flag-covered casket on a caisson drawn by four horses.  The procession stopped at the rose garden, and the burial service began.
    Wreaths were laid solemnly on the fresh grave, and Mr. King placed his bouquet among them.
    After the service, as we approached the big house from the garden, I saw Aunt Eleanor standing alone at the door.  I was not surprised as I watched her welcome every guest and offer them all the help she could, now that the president was gone.  She always though of others before thinking of herself.
    Later that day, Tommy said to me, "Your aunt needs you now.  She needs friends who don't just want something.  Visit her often, and keep your happy smile with you."
    I never forgot Tommy's words, and I acted on them from that moment until my aunt's death in 1962.  Before, I had always been drawn to what I felt was her interest in me, but I had also felt hesitant to assume it.  Because of Tommy's encouragement, I felt free to act as my instinct led me and tell her that I wanted to be with her.  I liked driving her to lectures when I could; I enjoyed accompanying her to have lunch with friends or cousins.  I began to visit her often and regularly.  I learned from what she said and valued all my time with her.  And I especially appreciated that my four children were able to know their grandfather's sister.