Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir Clint Hil (read with me .TXT) 📖

at Camp David. We had just returned from a highly successful trip to Mexico, where more than two million people had lined the streets in Mexico City to see President and Mrs. Kennedy. After one night at home—just enough time to unpack and repack my suitcase—I was back at the White House the morning of July 2.

Mrs. Kennedy and the children would fly ahead to Camp David, and the president would join them the evening of the Fourth, after some events in Philadelphia.

Maud Shaw had brought John and Caroline down to the Diplomatic Reception Room to wait for the helicopter that would be landing shortly on the South Lawn. Little John was twenty months old at this time, and boy did he love helicopters. He was bouncing around the room, so excited he could hardly contain himself. It wasn’t often that he got to ride in the chopper, so today was a special day.

“Hey, John,” I said, as I squatted down next to him. “You ready to ride in the helicopter?”

“Yeah!” he squealed in his little-boy voice, jumping up and down. Just then the unmistakable sound of the helicopter rotors could be heard overhead, and he ran toward the doors. “Copter!” he yelled. “Copter!”

It was quite a spectacular sight—to see a helicopter land in your backyard.

Watching John’s reaction as we lifted up and flew away from the White House toward the Washington Monument was a joy in itself. Sitting on his mother’s lap, his nose pressed against the window, he could barely sit still. His innocent enthusiasm was precious, and a reminder of just what a privilege this was.

I HAD SPENT considerable time at Camp David during the Eisenhower administration and for me it was like going home. All familiar territory. Mrs. Kennedy had been there only briefly the previous year, and I had come to learn that one of the reasons she hadn’t been enthusiastic about spending time at Camp David was that there were no stables for her horses. So, as was her way, she managed to have stables built at the presidential retreat. Sardar and Caroline’s pony, Macaroni, were transported by trailer and were there waiting upon our arrival.

As we were walking along one of the pathways through the woods on the property, Mrs. Kennedy said, “Oh, Mr. Hill, you were right. Camp David is wonderful. It is so secluded and private.”

“I thought you would like it here,” I said. “It’s a great place to relax and get away from the Washington scene.”

“Yes, and you know how much I need that,” she said with a laugh. “That reminds me, I have finalized the dates I’ll be in Italy. Caroline and I will leave during the first week of August, and I think we may be gone three weeks. Lee, Stash, and their children will be joining us in Ravello.”

I had been wondering if the trip was going to materialize, since I hadn’t heard anything since she’d first mentioned it to me in Middleburg.

“Three weeks in Italy. Sounds wonderful,” I said with a smile. “I better brush up on my Italian.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, is your Italian as good as your French?”

“I’m afraid not.” I laughed.

“Well, I’m not worried about that,” she said. “I have decided, however, that the only staff I’m bringing with me is Provi.”

She stopped and turned toward me to make a point. “You know, Mr. Hill, I realized that I really don’t need anyone but you—you handled everything so well on the trip to India and Pakistan. I’d much rather have you deal with the press and take care of personal things that come up. You understand how I like things done. Do you think you can handle that?”

I was somewhat surprised by this—that she wanted me to handle the kinds of details normally taken care of by her personal and social secretaries—but I also understood why. It gets tiresome having people around you all the time, and she wanted this to be a very private vacation.

“Of course, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ll do the best I can.”

She smiled and said, “I know you will, Mr. Hill. You always do. There is never any question about that.”

13

Another Summer in Hyannis Port

After the Fourth of July weekend at Camp David, Mrs. Kennedy and the children spent the rest of July 1962 in Hyannis Port, with the president joining the family every weekend. Having a separate residence in Palm Beach away from the hubbub of the ambassador’s house during the winter months had worked out so well that this summer they had rented the home of singer Morton Downey, on Squaw Island, which was just about a mile away from the Kennedy compound. Squaw Island wasn’t really an island, but was connected to Hyannis Port by a narrow beach road that was used only by the small group of residents who lived there. The Downey home was larger than President Kennedy’s own house on the compound, was much more secluded, and with little or no traffic between the two locations, it was ideal.

Lunch on the Marlin or the Honey Fitz was almost a daily routine. But frequently the president would sail the Victura, the twenty-six-foot Wianno Senior sailboat that his parents gave him on his fifteenth birthday. He loved that boat. He could maneuver it with such grace and ease that it was almost like it was an extension of himself.

One day at the end of July, the president and Chuck Spalding were sailing the Victura close to shore, just off the dock from the ambassador’s residence. It was a cool summer day, and both were dressed in chino pants and cardigan sweaters. They were in the midst of a deep conversation and didn’t realize they were coming upon some rocks. Suddenly the boat stopped dead in the water, as it got wedged in between the rocks.

I was in a jetboat nearby, watching the scene unfold, fully expecting the president to get the boat moving again with ease, but the boat wasn’t